My friends and other animals.

The mosquitos come at me with a fanatical zeal usually set aside for the opening of a TV chefs new restaurant. My O positive blood group is all the rage in fashionable culicidae circles. But Gods help them if they haven't made a reservation well in advance because let me assure you there is scarce an inch of this pelt that hasn't been claimed by the little vampires as their own. I have done my bit to stem the tide by glazing myself in a mixture of Aerogard and Bushman’s remedies. Either one on their own is a heady toxic brew of evil smelling, nostril stripping death. But, my friends, combine the two and you have something you could confidently sell to the Russians. I crackle when I walk.

When this concoction fails to snuff their ardour, and somehow it occasionally does, there is always Stingoes or Itcheeze which will temporarily soothe the imperative to scratch my skin away until there is nothing but bone to gaze upon. You'd think that would be an end to it wouldn't you? You'd be wrong. They have evidently held some kind of crisis meeting, so delicious is the nectar I have to offer, and created a hybrid version of themselves that causes the areas they can access to swell to the size of a small marble, become entirely solid and emit an infernal heat. I show Dave.

'Yeahhhhh,' he says, taking a measured step back. 'Pop some stingoes on it and take some of these.' He throws a pack of anti histamine into my quarantined area and goes back to smoking his cigar. I limp away.

I think initially Kate thought I was being a bit over dramatic about the whole thing. Us Poms making a fuss over a little nibble. But she has certainly changed her stance in the last few weeks:

'Huh. They really do seem to head straight for you don't they,' she observes as I stand in the middle of the bush performing some hellish interpretation of the YMCA dance whilst screaming FUCK YOUUUUUUUU.

Yesterday she observed that even in the pool they will take their lives into their hands and try to alight upon any part of me not submerged. I tread water as night falls.

In a very sweet gesture of complicity she announced yesterday that I'd be glad to know a mosquito had bitten her arse. I was not glad. I won't be glad until they have eaten her face.

Adrian and I, after a two month separation, are back to our usual form:

'Switch the mac off Thea, enjoy the moment.'

'I am enjoying the moment.'

'You're not living life. Appreciate what's around you. If you ask me -'

'Adrian if I want your opinion be assured that I will have asked everyone else first.'

'See you just take it too far. That hurts my soul.'

'You don't have a soul.'

Dave looks on in horror.

'She's never once spoken to me like that,' he says.

'Aw its a brother and sister thing,' Adrian reassures him before continuing on his never ending quest to distract me from whatever I am doing and give him my full undiluted attention until the end of time.

As a quick aside: Just as I had finished typing that last sentence Adrian crawled from his bed, stuck his head around the door behind me and screamed 'BOO!'

As I clutched my chest he sank in to the chair next to me and lit a cigarette.

'Pass me the lighter would you Adie.'

He inches it across the table with his finger stopping some two millimetres away from where I can reach it. This is how our day together begins. Is it any wonder that come 9pm this evening I will be verbally cuffing him at any given opportunity? And I'm supposed to be getting in a helicopter with him this afternoon. But more of that later.

That aside, we are all having a marvellous time in Broome! Except for possibly Keir who at the exact moment we arrived and were presented with a veritable treasure chest of never ending luxury and pleasure, promptly fell ill and has been steadily worsening as each fun filled day passes. Where initially he appeared to have a mild case of the sniffles he is now shuffling around, hunched of back emitting a low and constant groan. Only wine seems to alleviate it. And then only temporarily. Even in his death throes Keir manages to remain hilariously funny and delightful to be around. One never ending source of joy is when Keir starts laughing hysterically and can't stop. I wish I could bottle it.

I have become worryingly accustomed to the luxury of our surroundings. For all of 24 hours I was amazed and grateful to find my bed freshly made, delicious chocolate covered strawberries secreted in the fridge, champagne upon arrival, the spa bath with delicious unguents for my personal use. A mere two days in and I'm calling reception demanding to know why the nespresso machine hasn't been filled and questioning the hospital tuck that Chang has deployed upon my king sized bed.

Christ. As I attempt to write this Adrian is STILL sat next to me clipping his toenails and trying to convince me to go to a wet t-shirt competition this evening.

'I really think you should come to the wet tits comp this evening.'

'Stop calling it that! Its a wet t-shirt competition.'

'Its a wet tits competition to me and I refuse to conform to the Broome stereotypical naming of-'

'You are conforming to the stereotype by attending Adrian.'

'If you come, I'll drink.'

'If you can convince Keir to go (there is no way in hell he will surely?) then I'll come too.'

'I think it'd be really good for you. For your blog. And you can meet a man.'

'What good would that do now? And what kind of man!? Oh. You mean for sex.'

'For whatever. It could be the beginning of something incred-'

'Stop speaking. Please please stop speaking.'

As I continue to type he is talking about what a dick Francis Drake was, the different languages used in the film he watched last night, my preference for honey and yoghurt with fruit in the morning, my pronunciation of the word 'yoghurt', George Clooney, Nespresso machines, why I only find tall men attractive and his current bid on ebay for something I've never heard of and have no desire to understand........ I'm going to have to play with him for ten minutes and hopefully tire him out enough to return to writing soon.

Hi. I made him a coffee like the ones they do in shops, I even heated the milk. Its bought me about fifteen minutes of peace I hazard.

So.We have a Butler. Well, a Personal Valet, which is much the same thing. Admittedly I would have preferred something more in keeping with Jeeves but I'm certainly not turning my nose up at Richie Hutchings and his board shorts, shades and one button on the phone aways presence. Its stunning how quickly you can adapt from pissing in a bush to round the clock service.

That, and a book Kate has been reading prompted a discussion in the pool about whether money can in fact buy you happiness. Kate says absolutely not. I'm disinclined to agree. Having said that, after spending most of my adult life working in one service industry or another I find it impossible not to be aware of how hard others are working to maintain our lap of luxury. I find myself stacking plates, straightening out the bed, tidying up as I go along, thanking everyone profusely and asking after their families. I think that's probably a good thing. You can't un-know the experience you have and if I were handed this lifestyle twenty years ago I'd be even more of an insufferable prick than I am now.

In addition to the endless drinks, food, pool, sunsets and siestas, Kate yesterday treated me and herself to a long massage. When we arrived two women bathed our feet in large copper bowls before submitting us to an hour of complete bliss which ended with fancy tea and a book of inspirational quotes concerning joy.

I'm basically ruined for real life now. If you sense any cynicism in this blog please be assured that its all brazen and quite fake. I feel as though I must exercise my sarcasm before returning to the UK or I'll be completely sunk.

Whilst bobbing in the sea yesterday Kate said:

'So, what's the plan when you get back to England?'

'Get a shit job I guess. Save some money.'

'And what about writing the book? Or that one woman show Keir suggested. Or any one of the other projects...'

'Yeahhh, well there's no guarantee even if I did write something that anything would ever come of it.'

'You know that's a flawed logic don't you. It seems like you have a lot of opportunities to do the things you want to do....if only you did them. Sorry if I sound like I'm lecturing.'

'Not at all. And I know what you mean. Its just (I have no real excuse) I'm not very good at making plans.'

'Okay. So. Well, when do you suppose you might start planning to make a plan?'

Neil Gaiman said that listening to Kate sing is like being fucked by butterflies. Kate taking an interest in and care for your well being and happiness is not dissimilar. She's gentle and kind and kind of relentless. She has a clarity and vision about certain things that you feel helpless to defend yourself against because you know on some level that she's right. Even if you can't quite harness the will to take action, the advice she gives hooks a tiny anchor inside you.

In the last three months of being with her I have probably done at least seven things I would otherwise never have bothered to do. Not least was coming to Australia in the first place. I'm going to miss her so much.

That brings us neatly to the matter of imminent helicopter rides. I remember overhearing some vague talk about a complimentary helicopter ride whilst in Broome. And now that we're here it does seem to be an actual thing. It turns out the promoter has a 'mate' who has a helicopter. Hmmm. Keir is absolutely refusing to partake and I wish I'd taken that stance before he got in there. He suggested at dinner last night that the 'mate' probably bought the fucking thing on ebay. Adrian of course is wildly enthusiastic about the whole affair which only makes it more concerning.

'He reckons its a proper state of the art thing and we can do stunt stuff.' He is practically bouncing in his seat as he picks every single piece of vegetable or salad from his meal and places it disdainfully to one side.

'Stunt stuff?' I flag the waiter for the wine list. Again.

'Yeah!' he enthuses. 'Back flips. Zero Gravity drops. We can even have the doors open.'

Keir looks at me. 'If he starts going over the top you tell him to stop,' he says deadly serious. He knows Kate will only scream 'Faster! Higher!' And I am the one chance he has of keeping his wife alive in his absence.

'We're living the dream!' Adrian asserts.

'Just think of it like this,' Kate says to me grinning. 'If it crashes I'll die too.'

'And what? That'll show you?! I'll have won??'

'I'll have wunnnnn.' Kate has taken to imitating my accent. She's getting really good at it.

So that's happening in about three hours. This is my life now. Apparently we're going to 'vibe' it. See how we feel when we get there. Check the pilot is sober etc. But as Keir pointed out, even if the thing was held together by rubber bands I'd probably go along with it just to be courteous.

'At least she died doing something she loved....being polite.'

I'll let you know how it goes. Or at least, I really fucking hope I do.

In other news Kate and I have been attending early morning yoga classes. I hate it and it leaves me feeling murderously angry. I'm still spoiling for a fight after yesterdays 90 minutes of unrelenting stretches and bullshit Ommms.

Disclaimer: Eight mosquitos were killed during the writing of this blog.