Email from Australia

My first group email… a sign that I am turning into one of those young Contiki trippers with stories of Mcdonalds and beer on foreign shores or am I just simply lazy… ?

Australia was a whirlwind, on the ground for only eight days. This time I noticed more than usual how distanced I felt from my fellow compatriots. Why does everyone move so slow? Why are they so happy? Do I *know* the girl behind the check out counter and if not, why is she talking to me? Why am I the only person that jay walks? I took my confusion as a sign that I should get out of London as soon as my contract ends.

As I get very little time with my parents when I’m home, I accompanied my mum to the weekend flea markets despite landing only hours prior. It’s a tradition that goes back to when I was a baby, and it allows all the old time stall holders to pinch me on the cheek and ask if we’re sisters while they talk to my mum about the flowering of gerberas and where to get good pirate cds. I love it because I can immerse myself in suburban Australian junk – the very things that made up my youth. Remember Choose Your Own Adventure books; ice cream containers; the Sale of the Century board game; Dolly, Cleo and surfing magazines; kanga cricket sets…?

The rally was fine – what can you say about something that everyone else thinks is super exciting but for me has become a regular occurrence?! Yes, I had breakfast opposite Francois Delecour and his stunning girlfriend the day after his horrific accident; and yes I got a free meal by hobnobbing with the Mitsubishi drivers, flanked by Marlboro girls. But it’s all in a days (or four days) work. Unfortunately missed my ride with Australian star Ed Ordynski because the format of the event is concentrated so that the press day is now the same day as the start of the event, and I was busy climbing under tables in a pair of “you can’t afford me high heels” trying to network a bunch of PCs, rather than squealing into an intercom and lauing my legs over roll cages.

The rally was a bit of a walkover for the winner but my work was cut out on the last day when every other position turned on its head, communications went down (again) and I was understaffed. All good stuff to pave the way for a post event drinking session. The event organizers have now realized that volunteer, media, driver or groupie – everyone just wants to get pissed in a big tent full of booze and soft grass – so it was arranged. With my YCAM heels sinking into the turf and the free battery acid wine sinking into my stomach lining, it was set for a big night. Simone – fellow field media and groupie disliker – was unable to walk before we completed the first bog lap of the venue which saved me the embarrassment of walking into poles and falling into the hands of lesbians (but that’s last year’s story!).

The party moved onto the Sheraton for some bad dancing to Kylie and Shakira and some shameless winking at old, bald Peugeot mechanics who couldn’t even afford my shoes, let alone me… The field media girls taught me to be a toilet bitch (though I still don’t know why girls go in pairs – in my case it was for first aid as someone had danced on my feet) and I convinced a poor little Subaru boy to take me to Fast Eddys in search of a burger at 6am.

The recovery of these combined activities took days.

From Perth, loaded with wine, bundaberg rum, explorer socks and twisties I bid a teary farewell and stopped over at Singapore. My mother had lined up a local friend to take me around so I could avoid the more expensive shops at Orchard Road and head for local malls instead. It took a great deal of restraint to ensure that I didn’t bring back loads of summer dresses and scrappy red high heels all at the price of less than a burger! In the evening, we toured the Muslim area – Geylang - that comes alive at the break of fast (my visit there coincided with the first day of Ramadan). Geylang was a spectacle; the streets were illuminated with strings of light, and roundels of flashing colour. The air was rich with the smell of all my favorite foods, young boys called out the price of satay, curry puffs, fried chicken… I was in heaven (the food not the young boys).

Being part Asian, it’s not just possible for me to simply visit Singapore for I am in some way related to every Malaysian in the country. I know this because a representative from each family came to the airport to wave me off, press cookies into my hand and wipe away tears as the “pretty girl” departed (I love this country as I am tall and well endowed compared to the locals which lands me some sort of undeserved supermodel tag!)

So here I am back in London, nursing a dislocated knee (occurred somewhere in the sixth and seventh paragraphs), dodging rain drops and being stuck in traffic. Call me soon, we’ll have a bundy and cookies.