Everyone always wonders why I don’t go back to Australia, since I was born in Brisbane, have a passport and still get hopelessly excited about Violet Crumbles when I come across them in Covent Garden. It is one of the most beautiful places on earth, and nothing replaces the clear heat, and the light of the sun on a South Australian summer evening. When I left in 1991, I started sticking every trivial memento in my diary, in a totally tragic way: random receipts from Myers, Hungry Jacks, the local Franklins,  and all the leaving cards from my friends. I lived there until I was nearly 14, but as that was some time ago, I now consider myself largely a tourist there – although I don’t get quite as excited about kangaroos and Alice Springs as everyone else does.

Since I left I have been back twice on holidays. The first time was a cricket tour – the 2006 Ashes series –  which from an English point of view was rather depressing.  In 2010 I went for Christmas, and was entirely being a tourist, as evidenced by the fact I did what no Australian does, and went out into the bush. I picked Western Australia as I’ve never been there.

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