Australian Adventure

Episode 7

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...in which our intrepid hero gets kultured-up (twice), samples life on the high seas 18th century style, and mis-identifies two airborne beasties.

Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la, and hark, is that a herald angel singing from my car radio? Nope its Babs Streisand, but it does remind me of an (unresolved) dispute about the gender of angels. If anyone has ever met one, let me know.

It's been a busy, busy week since the last installment. Apologies to all you automobophobiacs who found the Automobile Rant less than stimulating, but a chap has to get this kind of thing off his chest. I surreptitiously slid in a bit of news at the end which caused the e-waves to buzz a bit. Thanks (from both of us) for all your congratulations. I also had a selection of "dumbstrucks", a spattering of "amazement" and two people who thought I was joking and required a confirmation before the truth hit home.

A fax has just arrived from my sister, which opens "another six weeks and you'll be a husband" - I can take some comfort from replying "another six weeks and you'll be a mother". Or "another 13 years and he/she will be entering puberty"...

So this week has been a veritable kulture-fest. Saturday Eve and I met up with Karl and Adrian (always pronounced "Hadrian", but with a Greek accent, for no reason that anyone has been able to divine), and sauntered off to the Opera House Sydney Opera House to see Handel's Messiah. A neat bit of warbling from the soprano and the mezzo, some bass with attitude, and more choristers than you could shake a Deutsche Gramophon at. The Opera House is as interesting inside as it is outside - mostly made of shaped concrete and wood, but someone really thought about it. Like being inside one of those optical illusion drawings that makes you're eyes go screwy. Not a right angle anywhere.

Back to the Opera House steps the next day where some other Opera-ists were doing a free outdoor concert. News must have got out that we were there cos 30000 other people came to see us, but we were a bit late, so it was handy that the music was there for them to watch.

Tuesday was the office Xmas party. Given that we'd had a restaurant style party for something else only the week before we went for something different. Cast your minds back to the Mutiny on the Bounty film that Mel Gibson was in a few years ago. The Bounty that they used was a replica of the real ship, built specially for the film, and now earns its living transporting partying Sidneysiders around the harbour, and generally doing what 18th century square riggers do best: bob.

There are one or two differences between this shp and the original. For a start, despite having sails like the first Bounty, this one also has an engine. And a large bar on the main deck. And a barbeque. And toilets. But otherwise it was the real thing, complete with 15km of rigging. It was crewed by 5 or 6 chaps and lady chaps in 18th century costume, and very much playing the part - the original had 80 people on board, complete with provisions and live animals, which must have been damn crowded - and believe me, the idea of sailing around the world in a boat this small is frankly alarming. Big it ain't...

The Christmassy feeling was somewhat absent (too much daylight, too few clothes), despite a valiant attempt at Xmas carols - we made fine use of the wandering minstrel who, despite being Australian, appeared only able to sing in an Irish accent. Karl the Kanadian captivated the entire boat with renditions ranging from "Daylight come an' me wanna go home" to a Phantom of the Opera medley, to rapturous applause. I have an enduring memory of Karl soloing "Frosty the Snowman" to some partygoers in Santa hats. He and I concluded the trip with some fairly dire two-part harmonies from Les Miserables as we pulled back into the dock, and they continued right up to the door of the Observer Hotel, where a young lady was doing some rather fine covers of Alanis Morrissette. We stayed for music and Guinness.

I have made an error. Those parrotty things I've been calling Rainbow Lorikeets for the last few weeks are in fact Crimson Rosellas. I am appalled by my own inadequacy and expect to be lobbed smartly out of the Young Ornithologists Club.

And last night, while wandering with my lurve 'neath the stars I heard some squawking coming from a tree, and thinking that they might be a bunch of nesting Rosellas (q.v.) peered up into the tree. Some large crows were wheeling in a rather un-crow-like manner, which I pointed out to Eve. "Them there b'ain't crows" she said (accent added by myself for no good reason). "Them be fruit bats". Big bats. Bats like small dogs with wings. Once or twice I found a bat flying around my bedroom on Dartmoor, but with one of these guys you might need more than a small tea-towel with which to subdue it.

I've yet to see a possum.

I could do with a weekend just about now. Just as well there's one coming right up. See y'all next time.