Commence disseminating the data

July has definitely been an eventful month, that much cannot be denied. Warming carbon taxes and icy cold gales have provided the backdrop to a life of incessant busyness suffusing into late nights in bed with the French Alps and a hot water bottle. It’s been a long old ride but I’m glad the month has now come to an end and it’s time to descend freestyle into August and beyond. In a few days the cool winter will become a distant memory as I cross to the north side of the equator and chase the setting sun into the west.

You probably read this thinking yeah whatever Neil, you’re in Australia...it doesn’t get cold you big wuss. Perhaps you’re right. I mean, my T-shirt threshold is a good five degrees higher than it used to be. On that calculation it goes up by one degree for each year in Australia. Goodness knows what will happen to it if I am here at the age of 50. Still, if I keep eating at current rates I’ll have plenty of insulation.

Such insulation was genuinely needed though on a little trip down to Namadgi National Park earlier in the month. Remnants of snow visible all round, dusting the hilltops and meeting the blue skies that seem to be at their very deepest in this icy cold air.

The walk through the woods was a remedy designed for chronic sinusitis, each step through the shady snow splattered trail infused with fresh eucalyptus and perforated with speckled sunlight. A breather indeed most welcome on the slug up to the top of the hill, where the minty emptiness spread out far and wide into the distance.

Now, while we may occasionally bemoan such frigidity and rightly so (see white stuff above), the people of Sydney clearly need to harden right up. Brrrr, they say, it’s down to 8 degrees tonight, brrr, get a snuggie and three hot water bottles, and an electric blanket, plus I might need to wear a balaclava to bed. Bless them. I am however somewhat jealous of their eight degree lows, and they do have a rather fine harbour, and some good beaches, and a fair few good places to eat, which is always a bonus. July included a little trip there, tied in with work, but with enough non-work to not work and play instead. This mostly involves hanging around the Eastern suburbs, eating and strolling, but for once I ventured to the north side, where I ate and strolled and took more pictures of my friend Jill’s behind. It’s not intentional it just seems to happen, me lurking at the back fiddling with my instruments as she forges ahead, both on a typically random pursuit for coffee and cake. For once, we actually found coffee and cake, down at Chowder Bay, and very nice it was too. Not so good for the behind, but very enjoyable.

Sydney was also a good opportunity to spend some time with some very enjoyable people connected to my not so very enjoyable work. A chance to lunch by the water and spend someone else’s money before departing to the north of the world. This lunching and dining theme seems to have continued apace in the last couple of weeks here, and I would like to thank those people that have both made and shared their warmth and nourishment.

In fact, as in the past it is not uncommon to feed upon a fair few good meals prior to going away for a while, taking the chance to eat some of those favourite things and sharing last suppers and the like. It’s really not the smartest move, given the amount of lard that greets me in Europe. Still, the other great tonic that the pre-trip countdown typically encompasses is a little exercise, soaking up the many fantastic bushland hills and lakeside trails of Canberra. That little wander around the English trees and glassy lake at Weston Park, the climb up among the roos and galahs of Red Hill, and, the granddaddy of Canberra institutions, the summit of Mount Ainslie. A classic place for a classic photo (again!).

The very final sign that I am due to leave is the flowering wattle and the final of Masterchef approaching, events which always seem to herald a trip. It has been historically proven that I will always miss the final of Masterchef due to going overseas, and subsequently return to find the winner has disappeared into obscurity. It’s as much a given as Alan Jones being angry with absolutely everything and everyone in his hateful life. As inevitable as the fact that I will have a cream tea and I will take an explicit photo of it. As undeniable as, er, climate change science. As unquestionable as the supremacy of the French Boulanger. The signs are most definitely there, and it’s clearly time to go.