Duck and cover

Hello, your idling correspondent here again, idling. I have dragged myself sufficiently far from what my Dad would call the seething pit (i.e. bed: he doesn't consider me a victim of diabolical possession) to be able to see Sydney a few more times, which has been nice. Just to reiterate what I was saying before, it's almost eerie: EVERYTHING is brand-spanking new, even the old stuff (the best building restorations I've seen). Not a derelict building in sight (literally, not one). Everything works. Everything looks scrubbed and/or polished. It's a city you can see your face in. And an urban planner's wet dream (mmm, there's a thought). So perfect it almost puts Orpington in the shade.
That said, I did have an enraged bird attack me yesterday in the Botanical Gardens (not a Benny Hill sketch: I mean of the feathered variety). Just dropped out of the air onto the unsuspecting bonce of yours truly, eliciting a (manly) wail of discomfort and a brief but pithy diatribe against its species. I suspect now that this was punishment for failing to exude sufficient bronzed health and confidence within city limits. I need to get rugby shoulders and a shriekingly loud necktie, instanter.
Re. the cricket, thank god I'm living with the only family in Australia who couldn't give a toss. As it is, well, I'd take the piss - let's just hope that by the time I need to get work, which will probably be in a pom-bashing-themed sports bar serving pissed-up pom-bashing Australians, they'll have forgotten all about it. I mean it's not like we went on about it last time is it? Oh.