Wow - break out the bubbles!

So I was thinking that the first post should really be a whizz bang thing; but now, of course, I can't really think of anything to say (apart from "I could do with a drink, this is stressful!").

I made it to Melbourne, which is more of an achievement than you might think, taking into account my severe myopia combined with a disconcerting ability to turn around twice and lose myself. Getting to Sydney was the easy part - I was dropped off at the airport by my parents and Mr. Pteranodon. I played hardball and deliberately didn't take tissues. The poor man at passport control looked several times at the picture; he should have been glad it wasn't the particular one of my seven university student cards in which I was a blonde. Getting from Sydney to Melbourne was more of an effort, and included losing my bottle opener (which, incidentally, I was allowed to take with me on board from Chch to Sydney - go figure). In revenge I managed to break the plane's hydraulic something-or-other (and there I had been thinking that my powers were on the wane because I hadn't broken anything for ages). This turned out to be rather inconvenient, because it delayed the flight for a couple of hours.

In Melbourne I heard a couple of Kiwi chicks talking about Robe Street and prostitutes while we were queing for the shuttle, so I pricked my ears up and asked if I could tag along with them on the tram. (Posterboy lives just off Robe St.) I am a tram convert. They totally rock, apart from the fact that they don't run after 1am on Saturday nights, and half eleven on Sundays. Lugging my suitcase on and off vehicles and down the footpath I cursed my inability to keep my luggage to 15kg, despite taking only one jacket and half my pairs (no, I don't mean literally, but I think I have an even number) of socks.

Number four on the list of Things I Must Do in Belfast: buy more socks.