Around the traps in Sydney.

Odd contradictions abound here, and just as you think you're getting on top of things, something happens that throws out your perspective again. let me give you a few examples.

Imagine a cute, sandy bay, lined with gum trees, palms and very plush houses. The sun is bright, people are on the rocks having picnics, children are paddling in the gentle waves. It's just a mite too cold to swim, but , gosh, you really want to. There's a very prominent sign on the beach that says the waters are polluted after heavy rain and you should wait for 24 hours before bathing; there hasn't been heavy rain for ages, though, and the water is crystal clear. You think, just a quick dip, it would be chilly, but fun. Then you see, out of the corner of your eye, the net that's enclosing a portion of the beach. No-one seems to be paying much attention to it. "What's the net?" you ask. "It keeps the sharks out." WHAT? THERE ARE SHARKS? Nowhere is there a sign saying, "There may be a little pollution sometimes but, hey, never mind, you could get eaten!"

It's winter here (equivalent to January in UK), but the weather is mild, and the skies often bright blue, and there are swallows. However, it gets dark by 5:00 pm and people shuffle about on their way home from work in the dusk wearing scarves and woolly hats while multi-coloured parrots fly around and the greenery is alive with chirping frogs and tropical vegetation. Yet, the posties all stride around wearing VERY short shorts. Is it to ensure that they move briskly and deliver the mail with sufficient Australian vim and vigour?

The Ranch is a very popular restaurant near where we're staying. It gets full and you have to be prepared to wait for a table. Can you book? NO! The Ranch is an aircraft hangar or the biggest school canteen you've ever seen. tables of huge surface area are laid out in awesome banks, with fixed benches alongside. The way it works is this: stake a claim on a table (or a portion of a table if you have to); leave a scent marker or some other token of your occupation; join the queue of people laughing and joking as they shuffle past the food displays and order your meal (note, order your food, not collect it); collect a number on a stick and return to your table (if you can find your way back through the crowded hall); now go to the bar and buy your drinks, you can carry these back through the melee yourself, slopping foam and bestowing blessings of wine upon your fellow diners as you go; wait for your food to arrive (by which time you've finished your drinks and have to scrum your way back to the bar again). But here's the ting; it's really enjoyable. There are all sorts here - families, people on their way home from work, gangs in cocktail dresses and smart evening wear because they're eating here before going clubbing - and the whole thing sound likes a penguin colony. Fair dinkum, though, it's bonzer tucker, my steak was the ridgy-didge!

Finally, being in the suburbs, things look a lot like home. Three-lane traffic in both directions, driving on the correct (ie British) side of the road, regular buses, people looking glum and carrying plastic bags of shopping home, kids on school holiday jumping all over everything. And then, "What's that thing lying in the roadside ahead, is it some poor cat that's been run over?"
NO, it's a bloody huge fruit bat that's the size of a hang-gliding bedlington terrier. And they're not just road-kill either, they're in the trees - heavy, leathery, chirping bundles of bat, like little pterodactyls, waiting for dusk so that they can fly off and feast on someone's peach trees.

It's going to take a while to acclimatise!