For those who haven’t already guessed it, I won’t be touching down in the sunny UK in August as planned. Something about this enormous red island has drawn me in and it won’t let me go. I have a face tan for the first time in my life, which on its own is a huge point on the pro-Australia list.

One of the main reasons we’re staying put for longer is a lack of forward planning – we kind of accidentally forgot to save a single cent for travelling (which is what we were here for in the first place). Instead, we set up a home with our fluffy cat and delicious housemate, we observed the erection of an outdoor entertainment centre, I lived my usual rum-fuelled weekend lifestyle while Sean filled our home with gadgets and furnishings. Sydney is an awesome city, full of tiny bars and kind people and parks. After shuttling between houses spread across England for the last eight years, staying in one place and putting my suitcase into retirement is appealing, and Sydney seems like the ideal place to do so.

My mind was pretty much made up – amazing job, lovely home, great weather (sometimes) – but Sean was ready to pack up and get back to his old lifestyle. He knows he could pick up work in pretty much any city and carry on where he left off, which is something I’m massively jealous of. I know that once I’m back I’ll be straight into post-graduation-what-do-I-do-now no man’s land. After hearing the struggles of finding a decent job in the UK, I’m in no rush to leave my beloved position here, where my boss is one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met and all the other employees are twelve-foot tall models.

So how did we decide where to spend the next year of our lives? Easy. Which option made me cry the least? I don’t mean to be such an emotional blackmailer, but the thought of abandoning our travel plans and heading back to England made me burst into big salty face-squishy tears. I’m a brat, and I got my own way. Whoops.

Australia doesn’t make it easy to stay though – unless you can get a company to sponsor you (which is costly, lengthy, and complicated), you have to go and complete three months of “Agricultural labour”. 88 days of weeding, fruit picking, cattle herding, digging, building, or whatever you feel like doing. One thing that’s for certain – it will be poorly paid (or voluntary), it will be rural, and you will get dirty.

The cows on our farm are beautiful – jet black with neat schoolgirl fringes which tickle their long lashes. They are also bold and not too bright. Most mornings we open the door of our small self-contained bungalow to find at least one of these cows has escaped and is investigating the flower beds. I think there is a ringleader with these guys, and I’ve named him Clive. He seems to be the cow who is nominated to test whether or not the electric fence is switched on, and is always first over causing havoc.

The farm dog does NOT like cows, and will quite quickly alert you to their presence with her hysterical barking. She was advertised as a puppy… when we arrived we discovered a ten-month-old pile of fur, muscle and boundless energy who spends 23 hours a day running in frantic circles. Clover steals shoes, carries mice around like trophies and will punch her way through solid wooden doors in order to sit on your lap (she weighs about four stone)

I’m not saying I don’t miss things back home, hell no. I miss my mum’s cooking and the smell of her fresh laundry and playing with her beautiful red hair. I miss my dad’s random hugs and our attempts to cook roast dinners and forcing him to watch my terrible television (which he secretly loves). I miss getting extortionately tipsy and falling down stairs with the girls from uni, baking extravagant cakes for no reason with Helena, and finishing Bryony’s sentences for her on shopping trips. There are a lot of people I miss, but things are better here.

So, one month down and just 8 ½ weeks left to go on this enormous farm with panoramic views over the Coffs Coast.  I won’t promise to write another post while we’re here, because unless you have a particular interest in weeding, there isn’t much more to say.

Note – This is the amalgamation of a dozen other half-blogs/rambles, which is why it’s long. And poor.