So i get back to Sydney, right, and i catch the bus to Kingsford, right, and i walk up the hill to my dad's place, right, and there's some bunch of bastards tearing the place down.

Discovering that some yuppie wanker in a bmw convertible has bought the whole block and will be "renovating" it for the duration of my stay was not what i had hoped for when coming back to what i now think of less and less as "home".

So, in the interests of not going barkingmadinsane I tried to spend as little time there as possible, catching up with friends, latching back on to the weekly Cancer Council soccer game, even doing a bit of casual work for my old employer helping them out with their own renovations (I hereby dub sydney "renovation capital of the world" and will accept the Golden Spirit Level on its behalf). I also managed to get out of sydney entirely for 2 days on my motorbike and head up to singleton by the back roads (some surprisingly lush valleys to sydney's nothwest, definite location possibility for that low-budget 'nam film you've always wanted to make...) and then back down by the front roads.

Nothing really incredibly exciting happened, and i had a good time, then as ever, i fucked off to somewhere else, in this case, back to germany with a positively ridiculous amount of car parts in my bag, which attracted zero attention from anyone, and a water pump in my backpack, which drew worried glances from everyone, except, paradoxically, the security staff at Heafrow. "Nah mate, 'at's a Bosch waua' pump, we see five of 'em a week, g'won 'en..." Is what i imagine one might have said to the other, though for all I know they could just be sitting behind the x-ray machine going "gun. bomb. bomb. handgenade. bomb. dildo. exotic parrot. bomb. water pump. bomb..."

British airways did manage to forget my snowboard in London though, which worried me ever so slightly for about 6 hours until it was hand delivered to my door, having been sent on the very next flight...