As it slowly begins to dawn that rumours of my imminent demise were greatly exaggerated, my thoughts are starting to turn to the future, and I’m pathetically grateful for the merest whisper of a glimpse of the slight possibility that we may be allowed to fly between Australia and New Zealand later this year. First World Problems, I know, but this was to be my year of international travel. The French cycling trip you know of, but in June I was supposed to be at a fabulous gay wedding in Germany (currently provisionally postponed until 2021 – fingers crossed, Joe and Chris! ), and there was a stroke conference in France I was planning to go to in October, which we were hoping to combine with some sightseeing. Not in France, because my husband is not a fan of the French and their supercilious ways, but possibly Spain or Morocco. I know it seems a lot of trips but I have hundreds of hours of leave owing to me at work, which makes management very twitchy, so they were just about forcing me onto those airplanes, believe me. It’s excessiveness is immaterial now, anyway, as all of that planned travel is now off. Australia isn’t a perfect country – a religious extremist climate denying leader in ScoMo – hundreds of toxic creatures: snakes; spiders; crocodiles; sexist, racist and homophobic Australians – but it’s weather is definitely balmier. In summer this may present as scorching heatwaves and extensive bushfires, but in winter it’s a lovely break from the horizontal icy rain which characterises our coldest season. So, I’d pop over for a fortnight in a heartbeat if I could. I’m just waiting for Jacinda’s go ahead, and then I’m booking.
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