This is what 11 degrees feels like. I’m not a one for the cold. It is one of the prime reasons we left the UK. Re-entering climes of less than 30 degrees sent my body into the type of violent shock usually witnessed in car crash victims. My teeth almost shattered. The muscles in my shoulders locked from all the spasming. Luckily the house we are staying in, apart from being on the nicest street in the nicest part of Perth, has a bed with two quilts and an electric blanket. I feel like a hunk of cheddar lying under a grill when I sleep.

John’s response was to say ‘yeah, the cold. So over it.’

Lula’s acclimitisation has been somewhat different. For starters she tried to climb into the car through the front seat (after two months of jeep living). Then she stared at the child seat like it was an alien. When prodded to sit on it she freaked out at the seatbelt. In Bali we are not used to such safety measures. There are only two safety rules to the road there – own a four wheel drive and wear a bra.

Another big difference – the silence. At night. It’s silent. I miss the roar of cicadas and the howling of cockerels and the incessant barking of rabid dogs.

We are all however acclimitising nicely to the food. Yesterday I went shopping and ended up having a Breakfast at Tiffany’s moment outside the butchers. Then later a Harry met Sally moment over the wine. The wine. The wine. How I have missed you. An emotional reunion that began over the pacific (I almost asked the Qantas cabin crew to just park the drinks trolley next to our seats to save them bother) continues indefinitely. It’s like a honeymoon with Shiraz.

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