Capitalism - can't live with it, can't live without home delivery...

I know that there is a lot to be worried about right now. London riots. Looming global recession. Stock market crash. Tony Abbott being....well Tony Abbott. But there is something that in particularly ticks me off right now. The idea that people shop on-line to avoid GST.

I am an online-shopper. Been so for while. Started in about 2001 when I purchased the re-release of Pet Sounds that has the full mono mix and the stereo mix on the same disc. With a bonus track of "Hang On To Your Ego" - because it was not available in Australia at the time-or at least it was available but only as part of one of those super geeky completest box sets of every toilet flush Brian Wilson made during the Pet Sounds sessions or something. Anyway it was over $100 Australian for the box set or US$20 to buy it on line. So I bought it on line. And I love it. Still play it. Played it every day for a year. (Ok maybe I am a geek....).

Probably the reason why I also purchased the second set of Twin Peaks DVDs from Amazon. The local version was not only more expensive- it was released as two separate packages that had a combined cost of more than the complete US release. And the local version had less bonus material - only half of what was on the US release. And dammit- I wanted ALL those Log Lady intros!

So my choice- I could buy the local version and get less for more - or I could buy the overseas version - and this was when the exchange rate was about .75 cents and still get more for less. So I would like to point out - I do not buy things on line to avoid tax- In fact I can still pay the tax and be ahead of the game. And it is not only the money - it is the fact that the overseas product is better.

The typical busted-arse Australian attitude of "she'll be right" let's move the Sopranos around to any time slot we want because it is on so late it doesn't matter that one of the best TV shows ever is out of sequence and impossible to tape and on at sometime between 1.00am and 2.00am, screw the geeks who watch it as long as we get to put Mclouds friggin' Daughters on at the right time is alive and well and no damn wonder I watched the last series downloaded from the net. What was I saying?

That's right - I am not doing it to avoid tax- I will pay the tax. I can pay the tax and still come out ahead - the fact is - the stuff is better. Clothes from overseas are better. Not only better quality and cheaper, but they fit.

I can buy jeans on-line that are about one third of the price they are here, but they are the right length- I do not have to go to a tailor and pay an extra $20 to get them taken up. Shirts that have a collar size that does not assume the rest of me has the arm length of a bonobo and the desire to have a chest pocket under my rib cage.

That is what Capitalism is supposed to be I thought- the market decides - the consumer gets what the consumer wants. Choice! But listen to this self important clown says about the recent Australian Productivity Commission report that suggests that internet shopping should be subject to GST (currently it is GST free for goods worth less than $1000) although it is currently uneconomical to do so :

"Australian Retailers Association [NRA] executive director Gary Black says the report represents "some hope" in the retailers' "battle to get a level playing field"." (http://www.abc.net.au/news/2011-08-04/productivity-commission-gst-review/2824788) and he goes on further to worry about the Australian jobs lost because people are shopping on-line. "If nothing is done 80,000 jobs will be lost in the next five years and the commission needs to factor in these costs and consequences."

Level Playing Field?? Job Losses??? Gary - mate- my pocket is getting wet here and I don't think it is raining. Is he and the members of the NRA worried that much about the Australian manufacturing industry? Why can't I buy an Australian made shirt? Or shoes? Or jeans? Because they are all made OVERSEAS! And why are they made overseas? BECAUSE IT IS CHEAPER TO DO SO!!! They are all for free trade when it benefits them but not when it benefits the consumer who wants to pay $100 less for his Beatles box set. (Sorry JB Hi Fi).

So they NRA members can manufacture overseas at the direct cost of Australian jobs but when the consumer does EXACTLY the same thing FOR EXACTLY the same reason - we consumers are suddenly all tax cheats who are putting people out of work!

So the banks want a government hand out when they screw things up, and that is ok, but I am bad person for buying my books overseas- at the cost of the Australian publishing industry that threatened there will be "no more Tim Wintons" unless we keep paying exorbitant costs for books. No more Time Wintons?? Is that a threat or a promise?? If that was a guarantee I openly implore everyone in the country to go to the Book Depository and order a book.No more self important, long haired, over hyped hippies from Western Australia writing 'spiritual' soft crap? Wow- what a loss.

Or is that what Capitalism is really about? It is ok as long as the people with the money are making the money- but when we do get an actual 'level playing field' - well we can't have that! My monopoly has been threatened - my little barony of editorial power has been taken away- my children can only go skiing twice in Europe this year if you don't pay more for the jeans I am selling- that don't fit you right anyway, but you should be gratefully supporting Australian jobs - in a way that we never had because we get everything manufactured by political prisoners in PRC - who are ironically enough probably in prison because they don't like the Communist Party...who we don't like either because they dictate to people where to shop, and they don't give them access to markets or let them make their own personal decisions and they can't distribute products effectively or efficiently to where they are demanded and they want the state to bail out their failed industries... and wait a minute..isn't that just like...

I hate Cold Chisel-the truth at last...

I am not sorry and I will not apologize. I said it. I realize that I am Un-australian, but frankly - for my tastes -they are over rated. I don't care for them. Flame Trees is a good song, Forever Now is ok. Star Hotel. But really after that? What's the one about Astrid? That rocked.

That is off the mini album "You're 13, You're Beautiful and You're Mine". There you have it - a few years before Spinal Tap there was Cold Chisel having fun with pedophilia - that don't talk about that one much on the classic hits radio do they? Barnsey the molester? Nope.

Because BARNSEY'S A FUCKIN' LEGEND! Yes, yes there he was drunk, dressed up like a soldier- he never served obviously - but he loved those damned fatigues didn't he? Coming from a military family I found that rather odd, but dressing up it was - and he inspired more headbands then Bruce Springsteen on drunken suburban boys hoping to emulate their hero's fits of impassioned boozing , if not his heroic feats on the battlefield, for his country. Or Australia.

And it was odd that in 80's suburban Australia, it was regarded as terribly queer to dress up as anything - a mod, a punk, a skinhead, a culture clubber, a Duran Duran, but BARNSEY could get dressed up like a soldier no worries - you know why? Because BARNSEY'S A LEGEND! You poofta...

Now you are thinking - oh you are just bitter because the guys from Bankstown TAFE used to beat you up because you had short hair and a Midnight Oil t-shirt and you didn't like BARNSEY- LEGEND! (It was interesting to see the proliferation of Oils t-shirts around the TAFE about 18 months later when Garret had attained LEGEND status. It is also funny in retrospect how the guys in Judas Priest T-shirts liked to call other guys in not heavy metal t-shirts pooftas...look it up... but I digress)- but JUST BECAUSE I AM BITTER DOESN'T MEAN I AM WRONG (new blog title...).

I know - I saw Chisel live. At Newcastle Motordrome. 1982. And Chisel were a shambolic mess. Jimmy (Barnsey) (Legend) was drunk. They were not tight. And the sound was awful. But such was their reputation. Cold Chisel were either hot or cold - never mediocre - apparently.

I saw them on a cold day. And all I remember is BARNSEY LEGEND staggering around stage given us all a lesson in moral behavior- which has stuck with me - as I have never hit a woman. Barnsey (legend) told me not to. Probably good advice to a bunch of drunk minors in Newcastle, but now I am just being snobbish. (Divinyls were on the same bill - they too stunk up the place-always thought they were derivative - long before I knew what derivative meant- sorry Chrissy.)

And the songs- who needed Chisel when you could go and buy a Creedence record? Who needed to hear Barnsey (lgnd) screech his way through Knocking on Heavens Door when you could hear Bob Dylan screeching his own way through it? And Barnes(lg) as a soul singer?? Who in their right mind...I mean....Issac Hayes he was and is not- vocally anyway. I was lucky enough to have a big sister who liked the Supremes so I knew about Motown and was curios enough to have heard Otis Reding and Sam and Dave and some of the other artists that Bnsy (lg) named-checked as influences - why has Australia such a love affair for the mild copy version? Why would any one buy a Michael Bubbles album when you can buy Music for Young Lovers and Swing Easy by Frank Sinatra for like ten bucks from any cd shop?? How are Human Nature making a living playing a Motown Show in the USA??? C'mon!!! That is just embarrassing!!! It borders on racist!! HUMAN NATURE!! Playing MOTOWN - IN THE UNITED STATES and making a KILLING!!! It boggles the mind.If you don't know why this is embarrassing and you have any of Jimmy's soul albums and you don't listen to them for just comedic purposes - well I am surprised you can read and work a computer actually...

And you know the worst thing abut living in Australia and not caring for CHISEL?? KHE FUCKING SANH!!! I heard John Schuman do a 'new' version of the song by the same title on the ABC on Anzac Day. John Schuman has managed to point out what few Australians seem to recognize-and something that has struck me as odd for years- that the song is based on a myth, and almost a colonial myth at that, as there were no Australian personnel at Khe Sanh. A few RAAF aircraft ran support for American air-cover during the battle for Khe Sanh, but on the ground not one Australian soldier. MAYBE two truck drivers.

It always strikes me as odd that the only knowledge that a lot of Aussies in the front bar have of the Australian involvement in the Vietnam War is informed by two pop songs - Khe Sanh by Cold Chisel and I was only 19 by Redgum. Perhaps this is more an indictment of an Australian love of ignorance but the fact that Khe Sanh is historically innacurate seems only to annoy the Vietnam Veterens I know, who tend to dispise the US troops they fought with, but I digress.

And the other thing that I find funny - the propensity for the long haired fellows, arm-in-arm drunkenly singing along to Chisel, while labeling anyone not joining in as queer. The sad thing is I know every word to Khe Sahn. It has no chorus. It is a failure as a pop song- AND IT IS STUCK IN MY HEAD DAMMIT!! Maybe that is why it is such a successful pop song now I think about it....

So in conclusion, what have we learned here today? I have deep issues, BARNSEY (LEGEND) is not a good singer and Frank Sinatra CDs are cheap and plentiful.

Let's campaign to make Barnsey's birthday at KHE SANH free day when all Australian's can listen to the radio without fear of hearing Khe Sanh. Or Choir Girl- that song really sucks.

I await the hate mail....

(but before you do read this: http://www.limina.arts.uwa.edu.au/previous/volumes_15/volume_4?f=73961)

Well-four days out from Christmas 2009. All news is about the failure of the Copenhagen summit. I start to bump in movies tomorrow. Must finish Event manual today.

Dowloading A Charlie Brown Christmas. I may have to retitle this blog.

Train à Grande Vitesse avec Moi

Just came through a mountain range on the TGV in first class.

Little French towns, little French churches, big French farms. .

The last week has been very fun – Tom Waits, the Tuscan hills, the Chianti –( a revelation thank you Chris.) Then there was Paris (a day more than expected but that is another story). Best break this all down.

Rome

Where was I up too with this? The B and B with Giadhia and Jen? That is right – top notch – when in Rome get to the Castle of Colours and tell them I sent you.

Jo’s friend Ale dropped by and very helpfully sorted out a phone card and some train details for me, and took me on a sightseeing tour – the Circus Maximus – the Harold Park of its day, and the Colosseum which was the ANZ of its day – but with heaps more atmosphere. And better food. Ale took me to a lovely garden above Rome with a spectacular view, a grave yard where I sat beside Shelley’s grave and recited Coleridge because I don’t know any Shelley off by heart – (not true – there was that one thing on the back of The Jam album – arise like lions, out of Slumber...) and we had lunch at a cafe where we sat next to some Italian movie director – insert name here – that I am told is very impressive and cool. Jo has made me promise to watch Caro Diary (check this). He is very anti-Berlusconi apparently so he can’t be too bad.

Then more wandering around for me – Ale went off to work – and I went to the Vatican – have I written this down already? No? Well. All those years of Catholic school finally paid off. I was impressed. Very impressed. The afternoon sunlight breaking through the Dome of St Peter’s – over the altar- the gold – it was spectacular. And the scale is really – awe inspiring which I guess is the entire point – God it seems is really, really big. And you are not. I still felt like shushing people who were talking though – once an altar boy always etc, etc....

I did not get to see the Sistine Chapel – that closes earlier – so that is why I am tripping back to Roma. There are long lines apparently so I am planning an early start tomorrow.

They actually have carriages where it is forbidden to talk on your mobile phone – they have a little booth at the end of the carriage where people can go and talk. The most annoying man in earth is talking on his mobile right now and I can understand why they have the booths.

I just saw a man Para-gliding over a field. A blue sail over the corn and the grapes and the mountains in the distance. – Better look out for those power lines!!! There’s a reality check.

It is difficult writing this as I keep looking out the window at the beautiful lake and the impossibly story book villages and towns. People actually live like in these places?

Aix les bains ??? Town name near lake –must look this up. The station is Chambery Challes Les Eaux.

That night – dinner at eh Casa and some Italian wine – it is all more medium bodied than what I am used too – but I could get used to that! Anyway – by then it was Thursday and I was off to Milan for Tom Waits.

Tom Waits

Arrived in Milan – got the Metro to the Pop House. It is surprising how achieving the simplest goals when travelling in a non-English speaking country can be so rewarding – wow I bought a ticket and travelled three stops on the train. (not bad as the only directions I understand are sinestrea and secondi – pity if anything is the third on the right or I’s still be there wandering around).

Anyway a very nice Italian fellow who spoke impeccable English – let me into the courtyard for the PopHouse – a quick phone call to the landlord – “the key is in the black box, leave the money on the table before you leave – thank you! Ciao! – so trusting). I settled in, used the internet and the coffee machine – of which I almost took pictures I was so impressed, showered and made my way to the Teatro Arcimboldi to see my first Tome Waits show since 1982 or there abouts. That was before mobile phones and the internet kids. How on earth did we buy tickets without a credit card or a personal computer? I can’t remember.

Outside the show – Italian chaos. Licensed area/ What licensed area? People generally wandered around with beers and wine. The Italian Rock crowd are all there – a little senior, and a very cultured raggedy look. Some young people put to see the legend – he last played din Milan in 93 or so – (before camera phones, before Melbourne had a Rugby League team....)

So apart from eh gleeful hum of all these people standing on the streets drinking there was actually two very well dressed police people doing traffic control. And completely ignoring the pirate t-shirt market that has set up with tables in a small pirate precinct across from the theatre – Tom Waits pirate tour shirts printed on Pirate Fruit of the Loom t-shirts. And they were actually better than the official merchandise which was a Rorschach like blob with no tour dates on them. There is one for the obscurest. I attempted to buy a beer before show time – 9pm-andso good is my Italian I ended up with two at 5 euro each. While drowning in beer I ran inside to try and get a sandwich – which seem to be plentiful, fresh and good in this country – especially if you like cured meats – and while standing in line spotted most of REM except Stipe, Robyn Hitchcock and the other dude from Young Fresh Fellows. I was so excited that I pointed it out to the guy behind me in line without thinking that perhaps he could understanding English, let alone a sotto voiced Australian trying to discreetly mutter – “there’s REM” or Rem (one word) as they are known here. After saying pardon and working out I wasn’t a drug dealer he too was impressed by the proximity of the rock gods a mere few metre away. (Yes we have the metric system in Australia as I explained to one amazed Italian – he says –what metres and centimetres? And the other Italian says – no – they only have metres they like big things in Australia! )

Les Chambre Valley.- St John du Maurieen or something.

Mike Mills came over to the bar and I said hi but was distracted by the woman giving me a sandwhich – I was HUNGRY ok?- so I didn’t make too much of a fool of myself. I lent the Italian guy behind me my sharpie so he could get his Tom Waits ticket signed

This little station sees so much action that the luggage trolleys are all set up waiting and a very healthy looking vine with purple flowers has grown over half of them. No one it seems is willing to pay a Euro to take a trolley – or maybe they still only accept francs?

I took my seat inside and found out that when you pay extra in Europe you are sitting further back – because the sound is better and you can see the entire stage – so that was a great bit of thinking on my behalf. My Leonard Cohen tickets will probably be somewhere near the rear as well!

Won’t bore you with the set up – I sat next to a Greek sound engineer who actually wept during some segments of the show – before the show e chatted about the gear – Tom sings from a round riser form the middle of the stage and had no visible fold back. I bet he has in ear.

Tom was late but the audience clapped REM for sitting down and gave Roberto Binnini a standing ovation – could you imagine that if Geoffrey Rush came to a show at the State?- while we were waiting. And at 9.45 or such the band and the Man ambled out on stage – Tom in a bowler hat and in fine form.

I made notes in my little note book in the dark – the sound was excellent – not too loud which made me lean forward a little in the guitar solos ( I am too used to Jason Walker and Mat Galvin’s work obviously!) – But every instrument was bright and even and sat in the mix perfectly – it is a modern theatre for classical music after all. The highlight was when Tom sat at the piano and the bass player stood beside him and he did On the Nickel – a little quicker than the recorded version – but still – magic. Will check the song list I wrote down and add more later.

Experienced and a line for a taxi after the show – an Italian Taxi cue is not really a cue so to speak. It is a mob people trying to negotiate while standing in the middle of the street. And the taxi drivers slow down and wait to hear if anyone wants to go where they want to go – nothing to do with the passenger giving the orders. New moments in social anthropology for me.

The next day – on the train and off to Tuscany! Stopping now because battery is going and I may need the computer after – some trains have power points – others do not. This one does not.

Vacanza Romana

The Casacolori - at last my haven from the street! The beautiful Giada welcomed me with big kisses Italian style – I am always afraid that I will go the wrong way when this happens and head butt the person instead of doing the air kiss 3cm beside the ear. I ask for lessons about the correct protocol later on!

A big chat, a shower, some lunch with Jenaro, Giada’s boyfriend an up and coming tattoo artist. They have a wonderfully huge painting of Betty Page in one of the rooms. I had a big comfortable room, a window opening on to the street, my own bathroom and Wi-Fi. And they have cool black vespa with a zebra seat. Giada runs the bed and breakfast and is a whole bunch of fun. All in all a tip top place!

Feeling refreshed I went for a walk and stumbled across the Spanish steps and then on to Fontani Di Trevi. Now at this point I have to mention teh traffic in Rome. It is chaos, or at least looks that way to the untrained eye. The right hand hook turns from teh middle lane, three motor scooters and one BMW in one lane on a road narrow enough to jump across, as on coming traffic hurtles down. And event the man with his dog between his ankles, clutching the collar with is left hand as he guns the scooter with his right through an intersection as narrow as a dunny lane in Balmain full of Land Rovers. Nobody blinks at any of this behaviour – I stand slack jawed, itching to put on a traffic vest and step out to impart some order onto this chaos, fearing only that I will end up mushed into the cobblestone streets and become one with antiquity. . But I have managed through my great skills as an investigative reporter and with academic qualifications in behavioural science (BHS101 1984 – Grade C) to bring you this inside.- THERE ARE TRAFFIC RULES. And they are as follows:

1. If you are at any time impeded from going forward, honk your horn.
2. If you see a pretty woman on the street or on a scooter (and in Rome this is a bit like looking up and seeing the sky), honk your horn.

As long as you follow these two rules the other laws of the road are of no consequence, as neither are the laws of physics. And the Zebra crossing? I have no idea what they are for, and who put them here. They are an archaeological mystery whose meaning has been lost to the ages.

The Map Ran Out of Batteries

A man actually leaves the town at long last....this report live somewhere on a train in Italy

As I live and breathe I can’t believe that my opinion on an airline could change as quickly as mine did between two minutes after taking off from Hong Kong. But I jump ahead.

Monday Morning- Kingsford Smith airport -The Dog has dropped me off and a Cathy Pacific plane heads out to Hong Kong containing me – a happy me, a smiling me – I am off to Europe and parts beyond for nearly two months. I am on, what appears to be to me, a fairly new aircraft. I have two seats to myself. I have a small screen in front of me – actually if you count the other one I have two screens for my amusement. They have videos-they have movies-they have computer games. I watch seven episodes of the Simpsons. I get to see the David Bowie episode of Flight of the Concords. I watch Shine a Light, the Rolling Stones concert movie. (Someone once told me that meeting Keith Richards is like meeting a giant rubber chicken. I see what they mean.) I am as you can imagine fairly pleased with all this. I complete half the Sudoku in the Herald – it wasn’t right but hell, I filled it in! I watched cartoons on one screen while playing video games with the other. People bring me food. Cathy Pacific, I conclude, is the greatest airline in the history of Aviation – I wrote that on the feedback form. I am very pleased. Oh hubris!!! Oh why was I so proud?? Why did I not realise that there was cosmic pay-back to be had? No man deserves this level of comfort in economy class – IF I learnt one thing in Catholic School – I don’t deserve to be this happy!

The fall was swift, and irrevocable as the lost languor of youth – the punishment for my crime – the Hong Kong Leg. I am sure Dante mentions this as being one of the levels of Hell, but I can’t read that much Italian yet. It has to be in there though. Firstly my carefully laid plan of “grabbing a shower” at the lounge at Hong Kong were quickly spoiled – I was checked in to leave from gate one. Fine. The club lounge is at gate 35. I have one hour. I walk. I walk. I follow the signs. I descend long escalators, similar to the ones in Daffy Duck cartoons, when Daffy is on his way to damnation. I only realise this in retrospect. This journey has taken me ten minutes and the last sign – I kid you not- is at a railway station in the airport. TO get to gate 35 and the refreshing ablutions- I have to catch a train. I am not sure if this will take me to Macau. I am not sure how long it will take. I am not getting on that train with 50 minutes to go. I bravely turn back to Gate One with my fresh undies still tucked discreetly in the back pack. It is ok, I think, I’ll just sleep most of this leg and then I’ll be in Rome. Va Tuta bene. Wrong. Porka miseria.

The plane from Hong Kong is crowded. There is the Italian Volley Ball team on it. I am seated next to a woman and her son who is I guess is about eight or nine. The seat is on the aisle but it seems so small. The plane is old. The screens are old. The controls don’t work. A baby cries. The baby continues to cry. In that particular distressing way babies do. The pitch gets higher. And louder. WE are not even off the ground yet. Oh dear.

We take off. The kid next to me starts too discreetly and quietly, much to his credit and dignity, hurl into an airsick bag. For the sake of his brave effort I gamely ignore his distress, so as not to draw attention to the fact he disgusts me. Poor child. I wrap myself in a blanket, put in some ear plugs, and try and sleep.

I fall asleep, or at least into the half dream room usually only experienced by native Shaman or John Safran on peyote tea. I drift for an unspecified time. I wake suddenly with the urge to break wind. Some of the airline food from the last flight is trying to escape prematurely. It wasn’t as god as I thought. It may have been, in fact, quite bad. Really badly. In fact, it might not be wind-it might be-oh Lord- clear the aisle-and make sure there is a cubicle open, I move with a speed that may have impressed the selectors for the Italian Volley ball team as I leapt form my seat to the plane, and taking my bag with lap top with me. Unfortunately the timing isn’t as good as I had hoped. There is, to be discreet, some leakage. Oh dear.

I will spare you the details. Needless to say, I spent so long in there that they sent in a stewardess to see if I had passed out undoubtedly in their minds caused from the balloons of illicit substances they had burst inside my bowels. I explained the situations. Were there some spare tracksuits pants I could borrow? No. Nothing? I beg incredulously – apparently not. Things are so bad in the airline game that they have to take as much weight off the planes as possible- this includes the few grams for a spare shell suit in case someone shits themselves from the rotten food they serve. I have cleaned up by this stage and fortunately have the spare undies. My jeans have copped some overflow however. I wash they affected area in the basin. I ask for a hair dryer to avoid getting nappy rash when I put them back on. There are no hairdryers. The stewardess offers to take the damp pants away and hang them somewhere. I think they roll down the window at the back of the plane and let them fly in the breeze a bit. I am asked to return to my seat. I am wearing boxer shorts and a shirt. The steward – by this stage a man has become involved – offers me a blanket – the plane is dark says he, none will know. SO I wrap myself in an impromptu skirt and sauntered back to my seat, as an international jet setting transvestite. Suddenly Sick Kid next to me has a reason to feel better about himself. He may have a week stomach – but at least he isn’t wearing a dress. I reach into my handy bag of medicines- yes I am a hypochondriac and yes – I carry medications. I have, as always in my bag of tricks, Imodium. They usually work a treat. I sit there under another blanket and pray I don’t stink.

The rest of the flight happens. At a certain stage, my jeans are returned, dry as could be expected. I regain some dignity with my Levis. The kid next to me and I enter a silent pact of the oppressed and embarrassed – the living kindness that the uncool and nerds give to each other – let’s never speak of this again, we decide silently, and it will have never happened to either of us. So I apologise to him for making cheap jokes about it and publishing it on the web.

I get off the plane. I buy myself coffee. Actually – customs- there is something wonderfully Italian about Italian customs. I walk up to Immigration. I try to look happy and smiley. I have my passport ready. I have my through ticket. I have my credit cards and traveller cheque card things. I am all ready. I pray there will be no full body searches. I step forward of the yellow line, I smile, say good morning and the board customs officer takes my passport. She opens it, looks at the picture, looks at me, gives me a “well you got fat” look – actuallys he didn’t that is just my poor body imagine talking- she stamps it, and hands it back.. This takes less than 2 seconds. I have a stamp with an I on is in the middle of a circle of European stars. I have the date of the stamping on it. It says the airport name. There is no leave by date. There is no talk about how much money I have, or where I am going to stay. I then follow the line around to the nothing to declare area. I wait behind a line. The customs officers stand in a circle and talk to each other. Other recently arrived passengers walk past me, unhindered by customs. realise it is an honour system.

None looks at me, looking hesitant, darting my eyes around to see if anyone is going to search me. I walk though. I am in Rome. Well airport anyway. I buy a coffee- it is good. I buy a train ticket – I stamp it in the yellow machine. I get the train. I step out a termini – I get lost.

I have a three minute walk. I have a sat nav devise. I have written instructions. I have a bad that is bigger than the area I had to sit in on the flight from Hong Kong. It is 30 degrees Celsius. I wander in circles for an hour. No one can tell me where the street – the stupid sat nave lags behind and has an annoying habit of swinging around to realign itself every so often – like telling you that you should be going in the opposite direction to which it told you a moment ago was the correct direction to walk in. The fact that I walk around like a sniffy, pissing terrier doesn’t help. What if the diareha stopping drugs start to wear off? Where is this street

I am exacerbated. My only Italian involves please. Thank you, blasphemy and a string of foul invective. Which are pretty much all you need to get drivers,’ license in Rome but more of that later. This street – where is it??? I ask merchants. I target Indians because at least they will be able to speak English without me resorting to my embarrassing Italian phrase of “Non PArlo Italiano” which means – I am an idiot savage from Australia where the education system is so narrow and poor that I can only speak one language. Or so it seems. Take that Howard. I guess.

No-one is sure where the street is- I realise later that I was within two blocks! By this time the st nav system had gone flat. Oh for a paper map! Oh for a basic grasp of Italian. Oh for a taxi to take me what I suspected would turn out to be 50 metres!

After circling and cursing and asking a policeman with a sub-machine gun (Carboniarie or something.) where the street was- he didn’t know-he could probably strip the machine gun blind folded but he couldn’t give directions, I finally found a lady in a chemist who was prepared to give an opinion-and good it was too! I had the street-but Italy being Italy, street names and sometimes numbers are hard to come by- after three local merchants sent me in different directions – I had at last come to The Casacolori!!!

I almost commented on the weather

Well-two more sleeps. I have everything. I need a haircut. I have to pack. Tickets. Money. Passport. I know have a map of Rome on my GPS on my phone. How good is that? What a modern traveller I am. Modern travellers need sleep though.