Mr Beau Tia and the Magic Water.

I get in the car and Madame M deposits a large ginger cat in to my lap.

'What's this?' I ask with my hands up in a position of surrender.

'Mr Beau Tia is coming sailing with us, aren't you Mr Beau Tia! Yezzz you are! Yezzzz you are! He likes sailing.'

Mr Beau Tia looks at me with an unusual blend of resignation and terror.

As Madame M backs out of the driveway he shoves his head in to my armpit and remains there quietly shivering.

I don't mind a cat. As long as its got a bit of personality and doesn't sit there preening and silently judging me. But I am allergic to them and if I touch one and then accidentally touch my face I end up with welts, my eyes seal themselves shut and I am transformed in to John Merrick “I am not an animal, I am a human beinggggg.” I delicately mention this.

'Aw, me too,' Madame M nods. 'Just don't touch your face.'

That's how it is with Madame M. I frequently find myself in situations that give me pause and find that I only have two paths of recourse: Bluntly refuse and ruin everything. Accept that it is happening and broadly assume I won't die. It's working out pretty well. So far.

She has a brief conversation on her mobile;

'I'll pick you up now,' she says and disconnects.

'Who are we picking up?'

'Lawrence.'

I never really know what's going on. I'm usually told what the destination will be (though not always) and she's very bossy about my wearing the appropriate clothing;

'It'll be freezing. Here have this hat, scarf, gloves, boots, raincoat, galoshes, cape, umbrella, survival pack.'

'It won't be freezing. It never is.'

'Put them on.'

But I never know exactly what the plan is and often there are other friends involved. I wonder how she holds down a full time job and functions at this level of organisation until I spend a few days with her and see how she interacts with others. She just invites everyone to join in. Always. No matter what it is she has planned. And most of the time the person being invited will instinctively go to decline and find themselves nodding. When someone does have the audacity to express uncertainty or a very specific reason why they absolutely can't join in Madame M will just think up an immediate solution or incorporate their plans in to hers:

'I'd love to come for a drive in the mountains but I have been vomiting consistently for six hours and I'm in agony.'

'Aw well then the fresh air will do ya good. We'll stop at a chemist on the way.'

'A cigar and whiskey night sounds great but I'm a recovering alcoholic and I have a collapsed lung.'

'Aw well I'm sure they serve coffee and you still have that other lung.'

Only one of those is true.

She'll invite Methuselah and an eight year old to partake in the same activity. She throws people together that otherwise wouldn't think to tread the same piece of carpet. And it more often than not works. The thing that I like about Madame M's particular brand of bossiness is that its not about getting her own way. Its about trying to make every available opportunity as inclusive and as fun as it can possibly be. And on the occasions where I do say no, I only have to say it eight times before she shrugs and laughs and tells you she'll see you tomorrow for that other thing or wednesday for that thing you thought was just a possibility but is actually booked and written in stone.

We pick up Lawrence whom I would describe to you but he doesn't take his cap or sunglasses off for the next eight hours.

When we arrive at Madame M's parents house she calls out to her dad who comes to unlock the gate which is heavy with ripe looking passion fruit. Randall is easy to describe. Think salty sea dog. He has long white wild looking hair in a pony tail and an open friendly smiling face that looks like its been slept in. He greets me with a big tight bear hug and I like him immediately.

We enter through the garden which is full to the brim with growing vegetables, salad, herbs, coffee beans, fruit and five or six fat paranoid chickens who waddle around at great speed looking flustered and terribly busy. I don't know what kind of chickens they are but they look like pom pom balls and their legs are far too far apart making them rock from side to side as they dash about. They are the Liberace of chickens.

Randall and his wife used to own Antique shops and both the inside of the house and the garden are rammed full of interesting things to look at. A moroccan lamp shade hangs next to a glitter ball suspended above a naked male mannequin. I sit and smoke whilst Randall makes coffee, Madame M wanders around with a basket collecting fruit and salad for our lunch later and Mr Beau Tia sits imprisoned in a separate part of the garden for his own and the chickens safety.

Randall comes out with a glass of almost clear liquid.

'Taste this,' he says. 'It's a coffee liquor I've been making from those beans over there. It's very subtle.'

I take a sip and the back of my head melts on to the floor behind me.

'That is not subtle,' I rasp.

'Aw yeah, its overproof. Its what I call an 'End of the day' drink. I mix it with a bit of fresh whipped cream. Lovely. Pour some in your coffee, not all of it mind.'

I swear I go from stone cold sober to emotional in less than a thimbles worth.

He goes on to tell me that he uses a sour mash whiskey recipe and he's cultivated a way of ageing the drink quickly using a freezer. He talks about fractured particles as I blink at the vapour trails forming in front of my eyes.

The car is packed up and we head down to the harbour where Randall's magnificent sailing boat is docked. It is bright red and white and old and I am very excited. He has brought Swordfish steaks for us to BBQ and a couple of trays of oysters for later. I'm disinclined to have the oysters after the whole anaphylactic incident in Nimbin which makes me a bit sad. We also passed a place earlier called 'I got crabs Seafood Cafe'. Everywhere I turn I'm taunted by crustacea.

Five minutes out of the harbour and we see half a dozen tiny sailing boats bobbing around on the water nearby. They look like toys, their individual sails bright paintbox colours. In each boat sit two people in a stunning amount of safety gear.

'That's the rotary club members,' Randall explains. 'They take out the disadvantaged once a week.'

'Hmmm?' I ask staring at a man who is swatting flies in one of the boats.

'Aw most of them don't even know where they are,' he says.

I grit my teeth to stop myself laughing. I'm the sort of arsehole that laughs involuntarily at funerals.

'Think how lovely it must be though. To get out of the prison of a wheelchair for a few hours,' he observes, and the desire to laugh leaves as quickly as it came.

It's lovely to be on the water. We glide along. Lawrence is sat on the edge fishing. Randall is stood behind the big steery thing (sorry) drinking beer. Madame M is curled up on a bench on the deck with Mr Beau Tia in her lap reading a book. I crane around to see the title; The Power Of Now. I want to take it out of her hand and frisbee it overboard. Just look up, my friend, that's where the thing you're searching for lives. Easy for me to say though eh. I'm on the holiday of a lifetime, I don't have to work and I can fill every day with the things I want to do (turns out I really like lying on my back staring at the sky and doing nothing much at all). We'll call it Faux Enlightenment.

Randall shows me how to light the stove using a blend of white spirit and his own concoction which has a skull and cross bones drawn on it and I make a pot of coffee which I drink on deck watching the water and the sky and never getting bored. Randall points out Peel Island which used to be a Leper Colony.

'I don't like going on the island,' he confides. 'Its too sad. And I always think of that old wives tale that leperosy can be caught through the feet.'

We dock on an island somewhere round the corner from Moreton bay and ask to use the public BBQ. Randall buys us scooners of beer and he and Lawrence go about cooking the fish whilst Madame M and I prepare the grandest of salads.

As we eat the most delicious swordfish I have ever tasted I tell Randall about my reaction to the bad Mussels and how my throat still feels swollen and scratchy. He tells me to drink some of his magic water. Madame M rolls her eyes but as he explains she starts chipping in and it seems that this is something they believe in. Randall only drinks rain water. He filters it through, I think glass or porcelain, then leaves it to rest with pieces of silver and gold sat in it. And then he adds lemon from his garden.

'Water is where it all begins,' he says. 'Get control of your water and the rest will follow.'

I call him a wizard and he laughs. I drink the water and my throat is fine within minutes. Maybe because I really like Randall and want to believe him.

We get back on the boat around four pm because Randall wants to collect the crab baskets he dropped in the ocean on our way out and he wants to do it before it gets too dark.

We're all a lot quieter on the way back, tired from the sea air and the good food. I sit on deck and watch the colours change as the sun sets. There's a moment when the sea and the sky are indistinguishable and everything is washed in a pale blue grey. I miss my dad very much. He would have loved this. Maybe because Randall is such a good father, or maybe because he's such an old sea dog but I have the most childish irrational want for him to be back in life, sat here, drinking his rum, his pale blue eyes squinting out to sea, the smell of his cigar wafting around. He would have told me something about the sea that I don't know and I would have remembered it.

Before long it is pitch black and I go below deck and lie on the long cushioned bench which has been heated by the engine. It is the most comfortable thing and I fall asleep on my back and dream that I am lying on a magic carpet staring up at the night sky.

When I wake we are docking and once everything is secured we sit around the little wooden table with its lamp light at one end and I eat cheese from Tasmania and passion fruit from Randall's garden whilst the others gorge on oysters and we all yawn and agree that a thoroughly good time was had by all.
Mr Beau Tia says nothing.

The Mussel and The Ark.

It's early saturday morning and Madame M and I are having breakfast with her friend Tim before heading off on the long drive to Nimbim.

Madame M goes to the counter to order. Tim and I have been introduced mere moments before.

'So Tim, do you go down to Nimbin often?'

'No. I don't do much of anything really. I have this recurring nightmare that I'm trapped in a mine shaft and all the lights go out and I go to switch my head lamp on and its not there and I wake up in a blind panic and don't know where I am. I thought about wearing a headlamp to bed for a while but in the end I just put a backlit sign next to my bed that says 'Home.''

'I see. Do you think the weather will hold out?'

We head off in separate cars and for the first hour or so I read to Madame M from a book of David Sedaris essays I found on Kate and Keir's book shelf. One of the essays describes an old house in great detail and prompts Madame M to tell me about the home she lived in when she was growing up.

'We had Possums living in the roof. It's not that unusual. They were right above my bedroom and I'd listen to them scratching about, running up and down. The thing is there was also a snake up there.'

'Jesus.'

'A python.'

'Jaheesus.'

'Aw we didn't mind too much cos Dad said it kept the water rats away.'

I think about 'Boshog' the crocodile I met at the Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. He lay in his man made pool utterly still watching us with ancient calculating eyes. Its strange knowing that something is looking at you as a potential meal. Unsettling no matter how much fencing is between you. The guide was explaining how Boshog came to live in the sanctuary after he attacked a farmers bull and ate it. He went on to mention that this kind of croc can be found in Broome. We are going to Broome.

'Excuse me,' I squeak. 'What should you do, y'know, for safety if you were to stumble across a crocodile whilst on a two week drive through the outback that your friends have arranged and you are now having severe second thoughts about?'

'Aw well, stay the fuck away. And don't go within 25 metres of the waters edge. And y'know, just stay the fuck away. Don't give it a reason to eat you and make its reputation worse than it already is.' He is almost accusatory as though I am planning to throw myself at one in order to muddy its name.

The others wander off and Keir and I remain staring uneasily at Boshog who stares back, confident that it is only a matter of time.

'I really don't want to get eaten by a crocodile,' Keir whispers.

'Me either. It would be so embarrassing.'

Its amazing to me that Australia has thrived as much as it has when there are so many things here that want to kill you.

'Anyway,' Madame M continues. 'I used to hear the Python hissing. And every so often it would slither across the floor and there would be the sound of a scuffle and then this awful screaming which seemed to go on forever. It would be squeezing a Possum to death, these terrible screams would go on and on until the Possum eventually died. Sometimes blood would trickle through the ceiling.'

I'm about to call the airport and change my flight when Madame M suddenly swerves off to the left, leaves the motorway, ascends a grassy knoll, bumps across to the other side and joins the adjacent motorway.

'What just happened?' I ask with one hand on the ceiling and the other covering my face.

'Aw, I just nearly missed our exit.' She smiles and turns the music up.

We stop in a small town called Murwillumbah for coffees. I want to remember the name of the place and repeat over and over again “Muriel and William have a Lumbaaaah puncture.” It's a trick my brother taught me and if I've spelt the town correctly then he has succeeded.

We continue on and pass through 'Uke.' A few days previously whilst driving up to the Glasshouse Mountains I noticed a place called 'Terror Creek'. What kind of country names a place Terror anything? The kind of country that is 58 times larger than your own and probably ran out of ideas pretty swiftly. 'Yeah sure its a lovely lake Greg but we already have 123 Lovely Lakes, just call it Certain Death, it'll shit the tourists up. 'Nother beer?'

On tour we passed by a place called Mount Disappointment and Kate twittered about it. Someone responded saying his family had planned a day out there but they couldn't find it.

About an hour outside of Nimbin Madame M pulls over.

'Are we there already?' I ask. 'Its only been three and half hours.' She ignores the sarcasm.

'No, I'm just going to see where he's headed.'

I look around and see a serial killer stood by the side of the road with his thumb out.

'Noooooooo!' I cry but she's already out of the car.

In the UK women do not pick up hitchhikers. Not never. I learn later that they don't over here either, unless you're around Nimbin in which case its perfectly normal and pretty much obligatory. Bloody hippies.

There's a brief discussion and moments later Terry has joined us. Terry was born in France, brought up in Senegal and has lived in Italy, Spain and for the last twenty five years, Australia. Which he believes to be paradise. Terry's parents are both living and have visited twice. Terry is a handy man and speaks four languages and enjoys moroccan spiced food. I know all of this because Madame M holds a forty five minute interrogation of Terry which only lets up when he begs to be let out of the car and can be seen in the wing mirror running back in the direction we've come from leaving a small cloud of dust behind him.

Nothing prepares me for the sheer unadulterated beauty of the rainforest surrounding Nimbin. It is both vast, and high and drips with colour. We drive in silence soaking up the lusciousness until we arrive in Nimbin town centre.

There's a sign. The sign says: WELCOME TO THE AGE OF AQUARIUS!!!

They are not fucking kidding.

When people describe a notable place to you in advance they often over bake it and you're left a little deflated. Its always more touristy than you'd expected. Or less scary. Not Nimbin. Its like time stopped in 1966. We get out of the car and I take three steps before a man with entirely red eyes and Satan on his heels asks me if I'd like some weed or acid. I demur politely.

The central drag is full of shops with handwritten signs. There's Peace and Love graffiti everywhere. Children run up and down the street barefoot and muddy all full of grins and chatter. The smell of weed and patchouli oil is overpowering and I notice at least a dozen people of pensionable age wandering about with long dreads, tattoos, harem pants. An elderly lady is sitting on a bench as we pass. She wouldn't look out of place in the W.I. (C.W.A for you Aussies), she smiles at me:

'Would you like to buy some cookies dear?'

'Oh how lovely, you're selling...oh. No, I'm fine thanks.'

Madame M takes me in to the Nimbin Museum. The entire interior (one tiny room) puts me in mind of an 'A' level Art project. There's half a VW Van with plastic dinosaurs glued to it, a painting of an Aboriginal man looking a bit cross and a CND sticker. Its a testament to the fact that marijuana is a gateway drug and what resides on the other side of that gate is acrylic paint and a glue gun.

As we continue down the street looking for somewhere to eat I casually glance at a rail of hemp tie dyed clothing and am immediately pounced upon by a woman in her late forties.

'Everything's cheap. I make my own jewellery too. I was at a party all night. Four hours sleep. Not drugs. Natural stuff. Its all cheap.'

We run away. We eventually settle upon the Rainbow (of course) Cafe. The menu reads like a stoners manna from heaven munchies list. I am in no mood for anything that spells 'Vege' as 'Vegiiiiiiiiii' and we decide to order the Beany Yummie Guaco Nachos. They are excellent. We sit in the sun watching these beautiful little birds hop from table to table. Madame M tells me they are called Rainbow Lorikeet. They really are every imaginable colour and it is impossible to get a good photograph of one.

As we stroll back to the car I overhear an elderly man saying to some very excitable children:

'Hey, chill out man. Just chill. Peace.' Really. I'm not making it up.

I may sound like I didn't approve of this place or the overwhelming number of completely caned people wandering about with nowhere to be, but actually I found it charming and funny. And very nostalgic.

We hop back in the car and make our way to our hosts house which is in the middle of the rainforest. We take a wrong turning and end up in the middle of a lot of trees, thick grass beneath us. Madame M attempts to turn around and we hit something hard (a tree root as it turns out) and the car is bogged. We try to reverse and end up deeper in mud. We try to push the car then pull the car then merely insist that the car stops pissing around. All to no avail. Madame M decides to chase a Bush Turkey that's been minding its own business whilst I smoke a cigarette and listen to animals killing and raping each other nearby. Night falls. It really does 'fall' in the rainforest. Eventually our host and Tim, from breakfast, wander down the hill with beer and find us. They send us up to the house and arrange to tow the car out before it gets any darker. How can it possibly get any darker I think? It gets darker.

The house was built by our hosts father in the 70's. Its called The Ark and it is like something out of a children's fairytale. It reminds me of a tree house. Vast and tall, full of winding staircases and hidden rooms. All dark wood and hundreds of perspex windows giving a panoramic view of the surrounding beauty. Its almost like camping, the place needs work. But there's light and gas, a flushing toilet (very recent), head lamps should you need to use the toilet and incredibly, wifi!

We are greeted warmly and given drinks and fish pie is cooked and slowly bit by bit neighbours pour through the door, the youngest being a charming eight year old boy, the oldest, a man in his 60's with an impressive beard. Madame M sits chopping rhubarb for her legendary crumble. Junior, a large and jolly south african cracks macadamia nuts that have been brought in from the garden. Chris fetches me some mandarins and lemons from the trees overhanging the veranda to put in the mulled wine I'm making and everyone is chatting and laughing and eating cheese as our wonderful feast takes shape.

The following morning the charming child bounds in and finds me lounging on the decking with a fag and a coffee.

'Hey, d'you wanna come on a bush walk?'

'No. But ask Madame M, I'm sure she'd love to.'

He bounds off.

Two hours later he returns.

'You could NEVER have handled that walk,' he grins. Covered in mud.

Five minutes later Madame M staggers in all wild haired and breathless and throws herself in a chair.

'He had me climbing ravines,' she wheezes.

'Goodness,' I say.

'And swinging from trees,' she coughs.

'Oh my,' I say.

'And then of course we had to fight off aliens. I had to replace my weapon twice.'

'Poor you.'

She told me later that at one point he had slipped down a muddy embankment and trapped his foot in a bog. As he struggled to free himself he called out:

'Go on without me! Save yourself!'

Tim took me back to the Rainbow Cafe for breakfast and made me laugh for a solid hour. I said that he should live down here as he has a skill to offer the community (he's an electrician) and that was one of the deciding factors when they were vetting you. He looked momentarily perplexed.

'Skill? What – Lechery and ambivalence? Maybe.'

He shows me a picture in the paper that at first glance appears to be a man and a bull posing with their heads close together grinning for the camera. It then becomes clear that the man is not grinning, he is grimacing, and the bull has a horn right through his stomach.

I imagine the man walking home with a carrier bag containing his intestines muttering that it was the shittest day out ever.

Tim takes it a step further: I went to the running of the bulls and all I got was this lousy colostomy bag.

Before leaving we went to meet some friends at the local market which was huge and arranged in a large circle. Christian, Sandra and Christian's daughter Lily are lovely and we wandered around buying Limoncello and oohing and aaahing over handmade things before grabbing some food. Everyone went for something from a different stall and seduced by the smell I bought a plate of seafood paella. We sat and ate and chatted and within about three minutes of finishing I suddenly felt very hot and dizzy. My heart rate shot up and my throat began to close.

Oh shit, I thought. I decided to wait for a minute and see if it passed. My tongue decided to grow a bit.

'Christian, I think I'm having some kind of reaction to the seafood.'

I sat there and Christian went away and returned with a nice looking elderly couple who sat down next to me. The man had his hand on my lower back and the woman asked me questions about my throat and my head until they decided I was having an anaphylactic reaction. The man continued to touch my back whilst a woman at the next table came over with some anti histamine. Christian gave me one with some water. The woman kept suggesting I go to the hospital which was just making my heart beat faster but then I caught Christian's face as he kneeled in front of me. He was smiling and shaking his head subtly, the telepathic message being 'Don't worry, she's mad. You're going to be okay.' And I started calming down. Christian is kind. Kind eyes. If you cut him down the centre you'd see the word 'Dad' written over and over again.

The couple were from the medical tent. And it turns out the man with his hand on my back was performing some kind of Reiki. That's what you get for having a turn at a hippie commune. If ever you find yourself in Nimbin with a medical situation demand drugs. And back up drugs. But be nice about the reiki, cos y'know, they're hippies, and they mean well. And if nothing else the placebo of that man's hand on my back was a feeling of being cared for.

And so, whilst my throat still feels like it has razor blades in it, I am delighted to say that I did not die today. All that time fretting about being killed by a crocodile when a mussel could have done the job quite efficiently. Can you imagine how embarrassing that would have been?

Madame M and the Glass Harmonica.

A good friend of Kate's, whom I will call Madam M to spare her any blushes, has been keeping an eye on me in Kate and Keir's absence. She was the one who originally collected me from the airport in an electric blue bubble car wearing a red knitted beanie at a rakish angle. Its a bit like spending time with Dorothy Parker. She has an arid sense of humour that utterly contradicts her girlish pixie like giggle. Last night she came over with some stuffed capsicums (what the Australians call peppers for some reason best known to themselves) and a bag with hiking boots in it. I noticed them halfway through my second glass of wine and asked if they were hers.

'No I borrowed them for you to wear whilst we're hiking in Nimbin.'

'Oh, right.'

That's how I found out we'd be hiking in Nimbin.

She breezes in, usually with some kind of food to share, and announces what I'll be doing tomorrow or next wednesday.

'So, we're going to a cigar and whiskey night at this place called Fumidor.'

'Okay!'

When we arrived we discovered that we were practically the only women there. A gaggle of cigar lovers and Che Guevara wannabes almost jumped to attention at the sight of her. All blonde and sultry with her pointy chin and razor sharp fringe. We purchased a couple of good San Cristobal cubans and made our way on to the roof where men fought over themselves to light her cigar with their special tiny bunsen burners. By day the Fumidor is a coffee shop and so this event was a BYO affair much to my dismay. Madame M produces her best slightly forlorn drawl:

'If only we'd known it was a bring your own drink affair....'

And immediately the men are tripping over each other to offer her their whiskey or perhaps the limoncello because it goes so well with a San Cristobal!

'I think I'd like to try that one there,' she smiles.

I could learn a lot from Madame M.

Last night we were in a bottle shop buying some wine and the old sod behind the counter explained in great detail how and why she should open the wine and leave it for thirty minutes before drinking it to open up the flavours.

'If ya gonna drink the wine straight away ya may as well just buy a four dollar bottle, ya'll get the same results as ya would from a twenty dollar one.'

Madame M's eyes go wide like Marilyn.

'Oh yeah?' She breathes. 'So I could open it and maybe go and take a bath or something before I try it?'

'Yeah,' he says wistfully.

When we leave the shop she rolls her eyes.

'Like I don't know what letting a wine breathe means. Honestly. And a four dollar bottle? As if such a thing exists in this country. I get so tired of old men thinking they have something to teach me.'

She then points at a building and starts giggling uncontrollably. Its the Brisbane Mormon Centre. It is palatial and roman looking and upon its highest tower stands a huge golden statue of a small boy with a bugle to his lips.

'I'm pretty sure there's several mentions in the Good Book about not worshipping false idols,' she says. 'When the place was first built the people of Brisbane just said “What the fuck!?” Some reviewer wrote that the inside was a perfect spiritual retreat.....for a gay man looking at a luxury spa holiday.'

'So, I'm coming to get you tomorrow, be ready at 9am.'

'Where are we going?'

'Wait and see.'

She texts at 9am the following morning.

'Make it 10. I had a lie in Xx'.

She texts again at 10am.

'Ok – 10.30. I swear!'

We head off in the blue bubble car, Madame M weaving in and out of traffic on the motorway. She drives like a boy racer and I find myself occasionally grabbing the seat beneath me. I am one of life's dedicated passengers. I do not drive, nor will I now ever learn. I have no sense of direction whatsoever and frankly don't give a damn about getting myself anywhere off my own steam. I feel like I'm travelling in a tuna can but its fun.

She puts the radio on and we listen to Gabriel Gatte, The Tour De France chef murmuring about dishes from different regions whilst the woman interviewing him sighs and gasps.

'This is like porn,' I remark.

Madame M giggles.

Between recipes they play songs that Gatte has chosen to reflect the region or a time in his life. We listen to Charles Aznavour croon about “Yesterday, when I was young”. It is very french, very sentimental and borderline histrionic. We laugh and laugh and laugh and attempt to sing along.

Two and a half hours later we arrive in Lennox Hill. Australians think nothing of hopping in the car and driving hundreds of miles for a great doughnut. In the UK we'd call it a day out. In Australia its popping out for a snack. We meet a couple who are friends of Madame M's for lunch. She has mentioned in advance that the husband is a Life Coach 'of sorts' and doesn't expand. After speaking to him for an hour or so I mention this and he cringes. It takes a further thirty minutes to establish that he is in fact a sort of psychic healer. He is horribly embarrassed by this and finds the whole business of spirituality and the characters it draws to to it hideous. I find this hilarious and spend the rest of the day calling him the reluctant ghost whisperer whilst he stares balefully in to the distance. It never stops being funny. To me.

After lunch we drive down to Byron Bay and have a walk on the beach. Its a beautiful little spot and upon entry there is a sign saying 'Switch off, calm down, chill out.' I take exception to it. There are signs everywhere in Australia telling you what to do like you're some idiot child with no internal gauge. 'Don't Forget To Drink Water!' No shit Sherlock. 'Don't Be A Tosser!' This next to a public ashtray. 'No Butts!' In case you didn't get it from the first message.

We mooch around some shops and Madame M buys a tiny black dress that makes her look like a felony. 'Is this suitable to have dinner with my grandparents?' She asks turning slowly from side to side in front of the mirror and knocking the earth off its axis. 'Yes, absolutely,' I answer. 'Maybe with a shawl.'

She takes me up to the lighthouse and I stand on the most easterly point of Australia watching the water crash against the jet rocks. I watch it for some time, dolphins appear and disappear, the sun starts to set and I have that feeling of returning to a place I've never been to.

A fair few of Kate's friends in Brisbane have been calling to invite me to things, from markets, to concerts to protest marches. I don't know if this kindness and inclusiveness is an Australian quality of nature or the result of Kate emailing them from the UK saying: She needs to be walked twice a day. Don't leave her locked up in the house for too long or she'll start scratching at the furniture. And if you do have to leave her then crack a window because she's bound to smoke.

This morning one of Kate and Keir's neighbour's called me. Mr Wild is a terribly talented musician. He plays several instruments the primary one being the violin. He joined us for a few gigs on the tour and he is breathtaking to watch. He has a booming baritone voice and shouts at you when he's chatting as though there's an entire orchestra playing in his head, which I suspect there is.

'THEA! MORNING! DO YOU HAVE COFFEE?'

'I do! Come on up.'

He bounds through the door all tall, wild haired and wired on exhaustion. He grabs the coffee and starts pouring like a crack addict on the hunt for a fix and rolls a ciggie.

He always seems to be working on 74 projects simultaneously.

'So, what are you working on at the moment?' I ask, noting how tired his eyes are.

'A performance in the city on thursday night. Come. If you want. It'll be good.'

He has a staccato way of speaking that I like.

'What instrument will you be playing?'

'Glass Harmonica. Invented by Benjamin Franklin in the 1880's. Based on the wine glass thing. You know?' He makes a circling motion with his finger as though running it around the rim of a glass. 'Franz Mesmer used it. Fascinating. Madness really. Literally. The sound is so pure you see. They believed its pureness sent people mad. Come. If you want.'

I sit there thinking; Remember this, remember every detail, you'll want to write about it later. I miss the next two minutes of what he's saying as I repeat the words 'Mesmer', 'Franklin' and 'madness' over and over.

'...and she was the first Australian opera diva which is very interesting.

Damn.

'When did you start learning to play?' I ask. I am deeply envious of anyone who plays an instrument and constantly make bargains with the devil: Take my German, I hate the language, just take it and give me piano instead. I'll practise every day, I promise!

'Piano at nine. Guitar at ten and violin at twelve. Which is very late actually. I wasn't really interested until I was fourteen.'

I sit amazed.

'Is that it?' I ask.

'Well,' he reels off a list of instruments and ends with, 'and Banjo.'

'Right.'

'But you know I enjoy them all in different ways, I get interested in one more than another for a while. But violin is my main as you know so I have the most complex relationship with that one. That's the one that can produce anger and hate.'

He laughs and I think the windows will implode.

'Anyway, thursday. Come. If you want. Let me know. Look up the glass harmonica. Its fascinating.' And then he's gone in a whirl of sound and frenetic energy and I go back to contemplating my naval and missing B.

Lessons I have learned: 1. Don't drink and blog.

The Australian Tour is over and I am back in Brisbane rifling through Kate and Keir's belongings to see what would sell quickest on ebay.

They have gone to the UK and Germany to play even more gigs before we all head off on our drive from Darwin to Broome. I'm knackered and I weigh more than I did a month ago.

Last night at the end of the very last show in...Taree (Yes, really) a young girl came up to speak to Kate at the end of the signings. She was about 13. She wanted to ask a question and the question was;

'How did you get to where you are today?'

As Kate pointed out, that's a big question.

It reminded me of a comment Keir had made a few nights previously. Two teenagers had come to get their CD's signed and the mother of one of them said;

'They're a couple too, and they're musicians. They want to be just like you and Keir. They've applied to the Conservatory that you went to.'

In the car on the way back to the hotel Keir said;

'But we got to where we are today not because of everything that went right, but rather everything that went wrong.'

Kate gave the girl a two part answer. The first part was spot on;

'Play music every day. Make music every day. If you love doing something then just do it all the time. You'll find you can't not.'

She then lost the thread slightly (distracted by Keir trying to remove a cork from a good wine using nothing but a pen and the will to drink) and continued;

'Don't say no to anything in the first couple of years.'

My wine glass froze halfway to my mouth. The girl is nodding and smiling. Kate is nodding and smiling. I'm trying to gag back laughter and the girl's mum has a glazed look of horror.

If you're reading this 13 year old girl, Kate meant don't say no to opportunities to play or sing. There are some things you should definitely say no to. Just to clarify. I'm sure your mum will have filled you in on the details by now. At length.

A few of the teenaged girls at the gigs have been showing up in stripy tights and fairy wings. Its a reference to the song Sarah in which two girls go to Livid festival dressed in this way. One of the girls is abducted and her dress is found later in a creek. Its all pretty chilling. I took a picture of two of the girls in their finery and one of them joked;

'Hey, I hope we don't meet the same fate as Sarah huh! Hahaha! D'ya think we've jinxed ourselves?'

There was an uncomfortable pause before I heard myself in my own mother's voice;

'You two stick together okay? Is someone picking you up afterwards? Good. Now go and enjoy the show. Responsibly.'

I've talked at length about the fans. But there are also the people we just stumble across along the way who recognise Kate. That's fun too. My favourite is when we're in a cafe having breakfast and the server politely takes our order whilst his eyes dart repeatedly sideways at Kate. They then go off to get our coffee and a minute or so later we hear Kate singing Last Day On Earth through the sound system. It always makes me giggle.

You now know that I know that you know that I know who you are. More coffee?

Kate tells this story about having performed somewhere remote that I can't pronounce and afterwards checking in to a motel. As she climbed in to bed the phone rang and when she picked up the man on reception said:

'I've just been googling you. I've thought about it and I'd like to offer you a five dollar discount on the room.'

She took the offer and maintains that it was a bargain.

Things that I have learned from being on tour:

1. When Adrian says; 'It was a good show but.' The sentence is finite. He is merely taking the 'But' from its rightful place at the beginning of the sentence and propping it on the end. I no longer need to repeatedly ask 'But what?'
2. People are much the same wherever you go and whilst I gleefully rip the shit out of some tiny backwater I will invariably feel like a complete arsehole two hours later when the community of said tiny backwater greets me with open arms and recommends all the best places to eat/get coffee/while away an hour.
3. Women in Mandurah like their T-shirts tight.
4. Women in Albany like them loose.
5. When Kate says we need to eat. We. Need. To. Eat. And she's quite right. Four people locked in a car together for five hours at a stretch cannot add low blood sugar to the equation. That way madness lies.
6. Two glasses of excellent wine give you the same high as two bottles of bad wine. (Learned so very late in my drinking life.)
7. If someone at a merchandise table asks you how much something is 'worth'. They are asking the price. Do not answer philosophically. They will spend the rest of the evening pointing at you from a distance and laughing with their friends.
8. Don't make a gay reference whilst happily chatting to a fan in very small town who is clearly in the closet and fighting to remain so for his own safety/sanity.
9. When people tell you that if you rise early and sit on the bay you'll see dolphins/whales, they are lying.
10. If a theatre employee tells you the venue is haunted take it to mean that something went horribly awry during the soundcheck.
11. If something goes horribly awry at the next venue it does not mean that you brought the ghost with you.
12. Telling a professional sound engineer who is extremely good at his job (Adrian) that you just think of him as the driver is unforgivable. And never forgotten.
13. Constantly mentioning Adrian in blogs and it leading to him getting hugged by complete strangers when he has an aversion to physical contact is also unforgivable.
14. 
    Adrian telling you that he believes you to be more terrifying with every day that passes in your company is kind of funny. Accidentally getting on a plane with his copy of 'Eat Pray Love' and refusing to get off the plane to return it to him is not funny. His having a copy of 'Eat Pray Love' IS funny. Make no mistake.
15. Keir doesn't often recommend things. But when he does they are always unquestionably brilliant. From films and comedy to Chiko rolls.
16. A lesson I learned from my Gran many moons ago but is always worth a mention: One good friend is worth a dozen adequate lovers. But I am still in the market for lovers.
17. If you make a friend online and have the opportunity to meet them in person on the other side of the world four years later; Do it.
18. Kate is always being told how beautiful, talented and inspiring she is. Yeah yeah, she's alright, in the right light, and she can hold a tune but what Kate also is, is kind. And a good friend.
19. That was uncharacteristically sentimental of me but I am three quarters of the way down a bottle of shiraz and I have nowhere I need to be.
20. If I ever have the chance I'd like to go back to Margaret River and spend a month there.
21. All of you who said I'd love Melbourne were right.
22. The Mandurah tourist board who recommended I check out the miniature village were wrong.
23. Shepparton may only have a swamp as a local tourist attraction but its a lovely swamp.
24. 
    The Giant Oyster in Taree gets funnier the longer you look at it.
25. When your hosts add several hours to their journey to drive you along the Great Ocean Road, stay awake.
26. This American Life is one of the best podcast series in the universe. Your life can only be enriched by listening to it on long journeys.
27. Every single hotel or motel we have stayed in on this month long tour has had something to recommend it. Be it a good bed, a nice complimentary soap or free wifi. Except for the Travelodge in Sydney. That was shit. It was like being in Prisoner Cell Block H. With fewer windows.
    
    ...28. Say Yes more than you say No. Unless you are an ambitious 13 year old.
    
    

It's hard to stop when you start numerical points. That could be point 29. I've lost my thread haven't I.

I'm a third of the way through my Big Australian Adventure.

I got to where I am, not because of everything that went right, but rather everything that went wrong. And I'm very happy about that.  

Do you remember me Kate?

'I love you so much, you're beautiful and you sing like an angel. Could you sign this? And can I have a picture with you?'

'Sure, of course.'

Snap.

'Say hello Bree. Say hello to Kate. Say hello. She's a bit tire- Say hello Bree. Say Hi Kate! Say Hi. She's your biggest fan. Your songs have actually helped her through some really hard times. Get your picture taken with Kate Bree. Well somebody's a bit grizzly this evening. Seriously though, she's been going through a really hard time and your songs have helped so much.'

Bree is three years old. At a stretch. I think maybe its Mummy who's been having a rough time.

Snap.

'Can you sign my ticket stub please?'

'Sure, of course.'

'I already have all of your merchandise. All of it.'

'Oh, great, thanks.'

'And if I could just get a quick -'

Snap.

'Well done Kate, I liked the set tonight. I think its the best set you've done.'

'Oh, thanks so much.'

'I approve of those songs in that order. Just keep doing that from now on.'

'Oh, right, okay.'

'Just like that.' She thrusts a camera at me. 'Can you take a picture please?'

Snap.

'Hello Kate.'

'Hi.'

'I'd like to begin by saying how much I enjoyed your show this evening.'

'Thanks so-'

'I made you a gift.'

'Thank-'

'But I forgot to bring it.'

'Oh that's o-'

'So I made you this.'

I brace myself. Its actually a rather lovely origami butterfly made out of a napkin. It has the theatre logo on it. He flies it across the table to Kate in slow motion so she can see the wings move up and down.

'Wow that's lovely.'

His mother interjects;

'What time were you born?'

'Uh, I'm not sure.'

'You were born on November 16^th 1981. What time was it?'

'I'm really not sure.'

She is glaring.

'You're a scorpion but I can't do your chart if I don't know the exact time.'

'I – I'm sorry.'

The son:

'Before we go, may I just ask, what is your favourite colour?'

'Um, I think, I guess, blue...?'

'What shade of blue?'

'Azure?'

'Light or dark?'

'Dark.'

'Thank you again for an exquisite evening.'

'…..my pleasure.'

'Oh. My God! I am like your biggest fan. Seriously. What's that song about the fat kid getting bullied again? I want that CD. Can I get a pic?'

Snap.

'Come on then! Give her your Cd's to sign.' Two shy slightly chubby pretty girls inch forward. The mother turns to me:

'Have you got anything that'll fit these two? Anything at all?'

Kate chats to the girls. The mother cuts it short.

'Okay now, don't bother her! Can they get a quick pic with ya Kate?'

Snap.

As she marches them off, a quiet mumbled:

'Thanks mum.'

'Come on stop dragging your heels!'

'Hey Kate! How're you going?'

'I'm good, how are you?'

'Great. Can we take our pic with you?'

'Sure.'

'And can we do four faces?'

'Er...sure.'

'Okay -Happy Face!'

Snap.

'Sad Face.'

Snap.

'Confused Face!'

No rehearsal needed, immediate-

Snap.

'Thoughtful Face!'
Pause.
Snap.

'Hi Kate, the show was incredible. You're incredible. I just need to tell you, my Dad/Mum/Uncle/Cousin/Second Cousin/Poodle died and we played Last Day On Earth at the funeral. It was incredible.'

'I'm sorry to hea-'

'Can we get a pic with you holding a pic of Mum/Dad/Greg/Michelle/Mr Snuggles?'

Snap.

'Hey fellow Scorpion.'

'Hi.'

'I bet you don't believe in star signs right?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Typical Scorpion. I'm going to get a picture with you now yah? Because we are sisters. Soul sisters. But you know that. You know.'

Snap.

'Ohmygodohmygodohmygod-'

Snap.

A lovely couple approach with a massive box of home made chocolate muffins.

'Hey, how are you?' Kate smiles.

'Good good. Great to see you.'

'We made you these.'

'Wow they look wonderful. Are those straws?'

'Yeah well Can't Shake it is my favourite song so I made them to look like Milkshakes.' The woman grins.

The husband turns to me deadpan:

'We're not crazed stalkers.'

Kate laughs.

'Ha! No, these are friends of mine.'

'Hi. I better hide these from Keir.'

'Hi Kate this is my daughter insert any one of fifty names here she sings just like you.'

'Oh great, you're a singer huh?'

'Yes she is. And she's just like you. She sang Caught In The Crowd at school assembly.'

'That's great.'

'You're her idol. Here honey take the camera. Can I get a quick pic with you?'

Snap.

'Hi Kate. Do you remember me? We met in 2004 at that festival in that place and you were drunk.'

'Um.'

'Here's a picture of us.'

'Oh yeah. I was drunk.'

'Can I just...'

Snap.

'I made this for you.'

'Wow. Thanks.'

Its a painting of Kate. Stroke victim Kate. I'm mean. Kate is not.

Snap.

'Wow you were just so, it was like, I mean you totally, and I was like, and its just the most...can my friend take a pic of us?'

'Of course.'

'Okay, hold the button down or it won't –

Snap.

'No, I had my eyes closed. Do it again.'

'My hands are shaking.'

Snap.

'Did you get it? Did you get it? Let me see? Okay. Thanks Kate, you were so. Like, really.'

'Hey, are you the blog lady?'

'Nope.'

'Hey Kate how're you going. This is my son Danny. He loves you. He said when he grows up he wants you to be his girlfriend.'

'Mummmmm Noooooooo! Don't say that to her!'

'Do you want to get your picture taken with me?'

'Yeah, please.' Glares at mother.

'Put your arm around Kate sweetie!'

'MUMMMMMMMMMM!'

Snap.

'Hi Kate, great show. Can you write your name on my arm?'

'Sure.'

'I have an appointment to get it permanently tattooed in the morning.'

'Oh! Well now I'm nervous about writing it wrong. Do you want the whole name or just the initials?'

'I was thinking initials would look good. Round about there?'

'Okayyyy...' shaky handed Kate writes her initials.

And just a quick-

Snap.

'I love you Kate.'

'Aw thank you.'

Tiny girl;

'I love you Kate, can I get a hug?'

'Of course you can! Come here.'

Snap.

'Your songs really help me Kate. Thank you.'

'Its my pleasure, really.'

Snap.

'Thanks Kate.'

Snap.

'Caught In the Crowd is so special to us. Thanks.'

Snap.

'Kate I love your voice. Keep up the good work.'

Snap.

'Caught in the Crowd helped me.'

Snap.

'...Last Day On Earth when he proposed.'

Snap.

'...Last Day On Earth for the service.'

Snap.

'Just Bliss.'

Snap.

'So happy.'

Snap.

'Thank you, really.'

Snap.

And slowly the queue dwindles to nothing. And we pack up the gear. And we pack up the car. And we make sure we haven't left anything behind, especially not the drawings, the origami, the muffins, the pictures, the kind words.

I watch Kate struggle down the metal steps with her suitcase and her two bags, he big red scarf wrapped around her neck.She climbs in to the back of the car and smiles at me. She won't talk now until tomorrow so her voice can get some rest.

She falls asleep.

I get out my iphone and switch on my instagram.

Snap.

Drink then?

Soundcheck at St Michael's Unifying Church, Melbourne. Four pm

Madeleine: Is it time for a drink yet?

Kate: (Whilst massaging throat with vibrator) Let your own conscience be the judge of that.

Pause.

Madeleine: Yeah, it seems like it might be time for a drink.

Madeleine has joined us for the weekend as Kate's backup singer. It is the day after the Melbourne gig and we are stood outside a coffee shop in Bendigo having a smoke.

'So, how long have you been with yours?' I ask.

'Coming up for thirteen years now,' she smiles. 'What about you?'

'Uh...twenty? God yeah, twenty years,' I say taking a drag on my fag and wondering if he's stuck to his electronic cigarette on the other side of the world.

'You must miss him,' Madeleine says. 'I miss mine. We're trying to make a go of things long distance at the moment.'

'Must be hard.'

'Yeah, but its been a while now and we talk a lot. How did you meet?' Madeleine has this lovely conspiratorial quality that makes you feel like you've known her forever.

'University. You?'

'Same. He came up to me on the first day and said his bum was hurting.'

We both laugh.

'Those early days are so special aren't they?' She looks wistfully into the distance.

'Yeah,' I think back to those heady drunken times. 'Does yours have a partner?'

'No, not right now. Yours?'

'Yes, he's been with a lovely chap for a few years now. They're settled and happy. It's what you hope for isn't it.'

'It is. I don't know where I'd be without my gay.'

I overhear her on the phone to him later:

'I love you my darling. How's it going? That's amazing. Of course...yeah...yeah...sure. Awesome! I'll call you tonight. Love you.'

My conversations go slightly more like this:

'Yes I'm wearing make up. Yes I have put a brush through it. No I am not wearing the 'good' bra. Uhuh. Uhuh. No, no I haven't shown anyone my feet. Shut up. No, I am not going to end up like that chick in Wolf Creek. Yes I have stopped eating everything in sight...no I'm not going to be my own excess baggage weight and unable to afford to come home ….I miss you too.'

As my Grandmother says; There are all kinds of marriages. Mind you, she also says; Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.

We have been having a very civilised tour. Not so much Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n' Roll as Coffee, educational podcasts and fine dining. And oh my have we dined. Kate orders delicious little things and relishes them. It doesn't matter what Keir orders, he will always wish he'd ordered whatever someone else at the table is having. And he will almost always go to bed with chronic indigestion under a cloud of regret and Eno salts. Adrian approaches the menu like a vandal. He has the unique gift of picking something that sounds incredible and getting them to alter it to the point where it is as close to something you could get from Maccy D's as is humanly possible. I sometimes fancy I can hear the chef weeping behind closed doors as he self harms with the pointy bits of his Michelin star. I order and eat like someone is going to take it away from me. I noticed myself hunching over the plate the other day. I don't want to talk about it.

So, bearing in mind that we have not had any particularly excessive nights, imagine my surprise when we finished the show in Melbourne and I found Keir rocking on his heels looking mischievous with a mostly empty bottle of Shiraz in his hand.

'What's up Mr Nuttall?'

'I'm meeting a friend round the corner for a quick drink. Wanna come?' He swigs the dregs from the bottle in a devil may care fashion and then pops it responsibly in the bin.

I don't want to intrude on his evening and start to demur when Kate interjects;

'Go! Let some steam off, we're not in Melbourne for long.' I know for a fact she is heading home to ginger tea and an early night and I'm not tired.

'Sure, okay, great!' Keir and I head off to The Carlton Rooms. We are initially horrified by the sheer volume coming from within. And everybody is being turned away at the door because its too full.

Keir approaches the security guards in his cardigan. I follow, in mine.

'Hey. We're here to meet John...?'

The bouncers immediately nod and step aside.

'Wow, John must carry some weight around here,' Keir observes.

We enter Dante's first circle of hell. Whatever the young people in here have done to warrant this cruel and unusual punishment they can't possibly deserve it. The room is dark, heaving, loud and the walls are sweating. Two overgrown foetuses are attempting to flirt by standing very close and screaming information in to each others faces.

'He just texted to say they're on the roof,' Keir communicates with a mixture of sign language and despair.

We head up. The second floor is still heaving but the lighting is better. We continue onwards and pass the ladies;

'CLAIIIRE! CLAAAAIIIIREEEE! AH AHM SOOO WORRIED ABOUT SHANAAA. SHE'S BEEN IN THE TOILET FOR AGES AND HE'S HERE WITH THAT OTHER GIRL AND SHE'S BEEN SLAMMING THE SHOTS AND AH Reckon she won't come out cos remember that time she got really fucked and fell asleep with sick all over.......'

We continue on up. The roof turns out to be a massive relief in every way.

Its an open air tiki bar, some heat lamps and god help me if tears of joy didn't form in my eyes– ashtrays.

'What are you drinking Keir?' I ask flourishing my purse and rolling a cigarette simultaneously.

'A glass of shiraz please,' he smiles.

'Seriously?'

'I think its best to stick to the same drink.'

That was at around eleven pm. Two hours later I can be heard asking John, Anne and Keir if they want the salt too or just the lime. I remember Keir's sage riposte:

'Noooo no no no no no no Thea! No No No (Slam, bite, swallow, slam) no no noooooo. No.'

At around three thirty I find one of Keir's eyes looking directly at me and his urgent insistence that; “We have to get out of here. Right now.”

We marched with singular purpose straight in to Hungry Jacks and ordered a couple of bags of Too Much and a portion of Completely Unnecessary.

Keir spent the whole taxi journey home telling the increasingly nervous driver jokes interspersed with some very soul searching questions about his spiritual beliefs.

When we got back home Keir told me that he'd mentioned to John how we had only managed to gain entry by using his name. John said he knew no one on the staff or in that building. We can only assume that wearing a cardigan, giving a specific name and looking bewildered will get you in anywhere. Give it a try.

Fantasy Lane.

Follow the road of tranquility....

'The girls will be with you in a moment. Please make yourselves comfortable.'

He closes the door. Kate and I stand in the lamplit room, staring at each other, nothing but two futon beds on the floor to separate us.

'Okay. So, it looks like we're going to be naked together in the same room then,' Kate observes.

'I am not getting naked,' I retort.

We kick off our shoes.

'He gave no instructions!' Kate starts rummaging through the shelves for a clue. She finds a small pillowcase.

'The windows have been blacked out,' I mutter.

'I'm beginning to understand why this was so cheap,' Kate says.

'Shall we just strip down to our knickers?'

'Okay. Let's do this.'

Two days previously:

Kate and I are in a sex shop in Geelong called 'Fantasy Lane.'

It's a main road not a lane and unless 'Fantasy' is the same as 'Wipe Clean' this place should be investigated under the trades description act.

'Explain it to me again Kate?' I ask glancing nervously at the vast selection of battery powered merchandise.

'Apparently it vibrates at the same frequency as the vocal chords when singing.'

'Uhuh.'

'So you massage your throat with it whilst you're practising. It loosens everything up.'

'Uhuh. And you can't just buy any old vibrator?' (I suddenly think of a stall offering discounts on second hand vibrators and shudder.)

'No, it has to be a particular one. It looks like a small egg and the brand is called.....' she scrolls through her iphone, 'Lelo.'

'Okay. Go on then.'

'I can't go up to the counter, she's chatting to a couple. Its awkward.'

We stare at each other. We stare at the counter. I clear my throat.

'Fine,' I say, squaring my shoulders.

As I approach the counter I overhear a couple talking to the owner;

'And that one fitted like a glove didn't it Gary!'

'Er, hi,' I mumble.

'Hi!' The couple smile.

'Hey there, how're you going?' The shop owner smiles.

'Hi!' I say.

'Hi!' The couple smile.

'Hello,' the owner smiles. 'So...how can I help?'

I look to Kate. Kate looks to the novelty cock shaped cake tins.

'My friend here is looking for a Lelo vibrator for her - '

'Got 'em!' She certainly has a Can Do attitude.

'Oh great. She needs it for her - '

'We've got this one,' she pulls some monstrous looking device from a display cabinet and blows off the dust.

I recoil.

'It's for my throat,' Kate elucidates somehow managing to sound like a kindergarten teacher.

'Uhuh,' the shop owner leers.

As Kate explains the whole vibrations throat thing I take in the shop owner. She is in her late forties and she is without question a smoker. There is an empty space next to her mouth where in happier times a cigarette would permanently dangle. She has long middle parted straight hair dyed Vixen Black. Her roots are a full inch grey. She looks tired. And yellow. And like she's seen things she can never un see. She has a top on that's a kind of halter neck but with a large round silver coloured hoop in the front connected to a boob tube that is resisting gravity with a mutinous determination. The whole look is vaguely reminiscent of a dominatrix except she has topped it all off with a comfy knitted cardigan.

'Oh well isn't that interesting,' she says. 'I can use that as a selling point. So you're in a band are ya?'

'Uhm, well I'm a solo artist,' Kate murmurs.

I can almost read Kate's mind at this point. Last week she twittered a comical picture of herself on our flight to Perth wearing a 'Humidiflyer'. Just for shits and giggles really. Two days later its in the local paper and the company have contacted her to ask if they can use the image in their advertising.

And whilst there is nothing that would amuse me more than seeing Kate on a poster clutching a Lelo Egg with the caption “It really helps me hit the high notes!” I do feel for her. I'd hate to have to second guess myself like this. I'd be shit at it too, whereas Kate is quite mindful.

'So what's your name?' There's an opportunistic look in the woman's eyes.

'How much is it?' I ask.

'$155.'

'$155,' I repeat for no reason at all but she takes this to be an exclamation of shock and immediately lowers the price to $120. Bargain. No, really.

As Kate pays they talk a bit about The Voice, and stood there, surrounded by gags, whips,wipe clean catsuits and cheap crotchless netted knickers she sighs and, staring in to the distance, says 'I really like Harrison.'

'The one with the stutter?' I ask.

'Yeah,' she sighs again, 'he's lovely.'

Before we leave Kate has another quick glance around;

'It's my husband's birthday today. Do you have any birthday candles that aren't shaped like cocks?'

'No love, I'm afraid I don't.'

We leave.

Back to the present;

We have stripped down to our knickers and are lying under our towels when the two thai masseurs enter. They look momentarily surprised to see that we are women but cover it well.

I've never had a thai massage before. Earlier on Kate has told me that its referred to as a lazy persons yoga. We have opted for No Oil.

As the two women quite literally climb on top of us and start kneading our backs and legs they whisper to each other in their own language. I'm reminded of a podcast we listened to the other day that talked about a new craze called ASMR. Or not so new as it turns out. Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response. The short version is that people whisper and the frequency of the whisper causes small explosions of pleasure in the head which are by all accounts very difficult to describe but incredibly addictive. You can watch youtube videos of women whispering at you. Just telling you about their Gran's jewellery or that they are a nurse and they're going to take care of you. Its not sexual. They are VERY clear about that. But of course it is. Even if it isn't. If you know what I mean.

As the woman on my back sticks what I can only assume is a piece of molten lava shaped like a knuckle duster in to my spine, I wonder if Kate is thinking about ASMR too. (I checked later, and yes, she was.) Over the next hour we basically had seven bells of shit kicked out of us by two tiny but surprisingly strong women. I wouldn't say it was relaxing. I wouldn't say that at all. But afterwards we both agreed that we did feel we'd had a good workout and I certainly felt a bit taller. It's strange to lie down for an hour and still feel the burn of strenuous exercise.

'Kate.'

'What?'

'You know I'm going to write about this don't you?'

'Yeah I figured.'

'And the sex shop.'

'Yep.'

....and you shall find the facilities.