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And so, into year 3…

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Yeah, I had to read that twice as well.  I am actually in year 3 already of my move from sunny Yorkshire, down under to the sun kissed shores of Australia.  To Sydney, to be more specific.
If you have been reading the travails of the Yorkshire Expat from the very beginning, from the embryonic outset of And we are off (a blog from exactly 2 years ago today), you will see that it has been quite a journey so far.

One of the very first pics, August 2012
And this is perhaps not a blog that you, let alone me, maybe envisaged me writing maybe 12 months ago.  The move from familiar surroundings, ones that have cossetted you for the first 40 years of your life, to a land down under, some 11,000kms away, is not one without its ups and downs.
Give it at least 12 months people said.  More seasoned observers advised making that 18 months.  Here I am, 24 months in, and I have to say that they are right.  Not until you have lived through certain milestones, celebrated at least 2 of an annual event, do you really get a sense of “being”.
Having a secure(ish), enjoyable job helps.  I work, and have worked, with some great people, and have made some good friends.  I am settled in my apartment and have been here almost 2 years, in a great suburb, with everything I could ask for.  An amazing beach on my doorstep, great cafes and restaurants, and a choice of commute into the city by bus or ferry.
One of the many friends I have made
I have now gone through 2 winters here, and know how much I appreciate summer.  Readers in the northern hemisphere may scoff when I say this, but in a country where properties don’t have heating, including my apartment, this place feels bloody cold some days, and most nights through winter.
It is now spring and how I yearn for the long summer days of November and December.  Days when I can reacquaint myself with sunscreen, flip flops, and my, currently cast aside like an old lover, BBQ.  Where I can sit on my balcony, with a cold sauvignon blanc, watching the planes fly overhead, piercing the azure sky, on their way to destinations near and far.
The esky needs dusting down and I again start my, now annual, hope that this year is third time lucky.  In that I get sun on my birthday, Christmas Day.  The gods have been against me the last two occasions and I am determined to be quaffing champagne on the beach, with the seas lapping against my feet, come December 25th.
If life is about chapters, I have read of few over the last couple of years.  Chapters about change, and transition.  Chapters about dealing with grief, from a distance, across the lonely seas, as the circle of life marches inexorably on.  People have been taken from me.  And new people have come into the world to replace them.
Xmas 2013, not on the beach

As an expat, it is as though you watch these scenes unfold from behind a pane of glass.  You can see, and hear all that happens, but the main characters are heart breakingly out of reach. 
As I turn yet another page, a new chapter is about to start.  Year 3 brings new beginnings, in economic parlance, “green shoots of recovery”.  An exciting chapter, that in a sense feels like the start of a new book.  A book I don’t know the end of yet.  I don’t even know the next chapter, but I know how the plot goes.  I’m writing that part myself.
A friend once asked me, over a year ago, what the chances were of me remaining in Australia for a full 2 years.  I think I replied “17%”, without skipping a heartbeat.  Obviously a totally arbitrary figure, but one that gave a sense where my head was.  If that same friend was to ask me know, I would need a moments reflection.  However, after that short contemplation, I would say that the chances are considerably greater.
We don’t know where life will take us.  And although we are in charge of our own destinies, life happens whilst you are making plans.  A John Lennon quote that I know I’ve used before.  But it is so true. 
A lot of life’s journey relies on timing.  And sometimes that timing is just not right.  But then, every once in a while, the stars align and the world intervenes.  And this is when you know you have to grab your moment.
So all we can do for now, is keep making those plans, and hope life is kind to us.  And with that in mind, I see no reason why I won’t be writing a similar blog in 2 years time, as a citizen of this great country.  Four years being the qualifying criteria for an Australian passport, something I thought would be out of reach this time last year.
But right now, I may only have a 17% chance of still being here in 2 years.  It could be a 77% chance. 

All I can do is take it one chapter at a time.

Some of the perils of living overseas

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As I countdown to my next trip “home”, the first in two years, I have been thinking about some of the perils of living overseas.  Now, when I say perils, fear not.  I am not intimating that living in Sydney puts me at risk of anything more dangerous that a high phone bill, but there are a number of things that you learn to adapt to when living overseas.

Keeping in touch with friends and family ‘back home’

Technology is a wonderful thing. How wonderful, most of the younger generation will not really appreciate. When I first came travelling to Australia, in June of 1994, there was no internet. Well, there was, but it wasn’t widely available, and thus not widely used. No mobile phones. No fancy little laptops and tablets to blog about your trip. Just a smattering of Internet cafes, where you could purchase a block of time, join the queue, then furiously type as fast as you could once seated so you didn’t run out of allotted minutes, mid email.

Picture of an old internet cafe
Ever used one of these?

If traditional pen and paper was more your thing, and it was, and remains mine, we had “poste restante”. Yeah, I had never heard of it either, before that first trip to Australia in 1994. A quaint little idea, that served me perfectly well. And has resulted in me having a comprehensive, written, documentary record of my trip, and a collection of letters that I treasure. Who knows, some of the words you sent me may one day end up in my magnus opus.  My memoir.  But don’t worry, I will change the names to protect the innocent.

“Poste Restante” was (maybe still is?) a service offered by the post offices. You let your friends and family know which town, or city, you were hoping to be in, at a certain time, and they could send a letter addressed to you, care of the said post office. All I had to do was, firstly make sure I was actually in that town, then take my ID and go queue up, with all the other backpackers, and collect my letters. Simple as that.  Left town before you got your letter? Then I am afraid you never got to know what important musings you were destined to read. When you think of it, this could actually change the direction of peoples lives.  Peril alert. You could have left a loved one, on the other side of the world wondering why you never returned their proclamations of love.  We will never know.

Telephoning home was possible, but not from one of those nifty little smart phones that we all now have difficulty in lifting our heads up from.  We were some years from that.  The iPhone was still 13 years away.  You had to use a public phone box, (do we still have them?), and usually through the use of a pre-paid telephone card. Due to the time difference between Australia and the UK, this usually meant that calls were made late at night, on a weekend, after one too many schooners. Drunkenly struggling in a payphone cubicle, scratching off the “PIN” code required to enter into the phone, chatting away as fast as you can before your credit ran out. Which wasn’t very long. I later found out that most of these calls I made consisted of me blathering away incoherently, with my parents just happy that I was obviously alive, in good health, and enjoying life.  Hardly in any kind of peril.

Life now for the traveller, or expat, is much easier.  I think we often forget how far we have come in terms of technology, allowing us to bridge the gap across countries, and continents. This is the changing face of travel.  There are a plethora of instant messaging apps. To the point that it is confusing at times working out which ones people have, what devices support which apps, and whether to do just audio, or video too. Skype. Facetime. Google Duo. What’s App video call. And Google Hangouts.  The paradox of choice.

That said, I probably communicated a lot more in the “old days”.  Letters and calls were done weekly. And now, I instant message a lot, but only probably speak to family and friends once every few months. Hardly makes sense does it? But I think that because the world now seems so small, I have less of a divide to cross. Less of a bridge to gap. I feel that everybody is right there, at the touch of a button.

All this is making me think that maybe I should make more of an effort. Write more letters. And definitely make more calls. Hmm, I have a new objective.

Language “difficulties”

Apart from deciphering the local lingo, and trying to understand why everything in Australia is suffixed with an “o” (Dave-o, Serv-o, Amb-o, Fire-o, please don’t ask!), I don’t have many language issues in Sydney.

Granted, the Aussies can not work out where different UK accents originate from, as a result of them not having many regional accents themselves. This always results in being asked, “right mate, I’m good at this usually. Irish or Scottish?“.  Simply that.  When I say English, I get a very disbelieving look. “Nah mate, you can’t be.  You don’t sound very English.  Not like the lads from Earl’s Court, or Fulham, where I lived for a while.” When I ask how many Irish and Scottish people they have met, I get a blank look.

Cue, me eye rolling.  Again.  Almost without exception, the question about the accent is the first thing I am asked when meeting people. Apart from the local waiter at The Bather’s Pavilion, who complimented us on our very good English, after previously observing us over lunch chatting away in French to each other.  What?  French?  Mon dieu. Two Yorkshire folk, happily chatting away, in English.

“England”, I say, which results in further blank looks.

“You don’t sound English”.  Here we go again, I thought.

“Don’t I? That is odd. I lived there for first 40 years of my life, so I kind of assumed I did”.

“No. Not English, English. You know. Like other English people.”

Yes, it gets weary. Having to explain to almost everyone you meet, that I am indeed English.

Sport (well, football), (REAL football)

In many respects, Australia is much like its colder cousin.  But, the longer you live here you start to feel some of the very marked differences in culture.  A big one that continues to impact my life is football. And this brings one of the biggest cultural differences. Football was a part of my life in the UK. Not just something I chose to do. But was intrinsically woven through the fabric of my life. From playing in the school football team, and captaining it, through to playing regularly at weekends as an adult. Both full 11 aside, and lots of weekly 5 aside games. It was an ever present.

I had hoped it would be even more. As a school child I had been put forward for trials at county level, for Yorkshire. And in the trials, I was played out of what I thought were my best positions, and I didn’t make the cut. This was hard for a 10 year old. Even more so when I saw local lads from that same weekend going on to become professional footballers, even enjoying stints in the Premier League. Oh what might have been.

And then there was following my own club. Every lover of football has their own team. Something that never changes. Through good times, and bad. And I was lucky enough to have a season ticket for my team, Manchester United. Going to my first game at the age of 7, and then continuing the tradition as I grew older, to the point when I could afford a car, and a season ticket.

Football in England is ingrained in the national culture. In much the same was it is in European, and South American countries. It is a religion. And the stadia are the churches. Here in Australia, I have to adapt to the fact that football is a minority sport. It plays second fiddle to the various codes of rugby, and even bloody cricket.  Does a more boring game exist?

I do miss the banter that comes from having a beer with mates, all supporting different teams. It can get quite serious, but then, it is football. Here, I can go through a cup final, a local derby, or even, the height of rivalry, a game against Liverpool, and yet it wouldn’t even make a blip on the radars of my colleagues. Well, there are a few from the UK, and even Europe, who do understand, but to everybody else, football might as well not exist.

The tyranny of distance

Yes, I could live somewhere a lot closer than a 24 hour flight away.  Or 17 hours should I move to Perth.  But where would the fun in that be?  I get amused that some family members still struggle with the time difference, some 7 years after I got here.  The other day I awoke to a message that asked, “how happy are you now that it is Friday?“.  OK, I was tired.  I hadn’t got through my first coffee of the day yet.  I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes.  But, I was sure that after Wednesday, comes Thursday.  Unless I had slept for over 24 hours, which would be welcome, but a first, it was not Friday until tomorrow.

One benefit of being this side of the world though is the opportunity to spend time in places like Ubud in Bali, which is only a 6 hour flight away.  Half that if I move to Perth.  And Thailand becomes a regular destination, which for those of you that have been there, is the definition of paradise.  Fancy a wine tasting trip to New Zealand?  Maybe a long weekend in Queenstown?  Only a 3 hour flight away.  And it has to be said, I do love to travel.

From peril, to positive

For every negative, there is a positive. And with Australia, these positives are massive, and many.  Enough to keep me here for what is my 7th year.  I often get asked why I moved here, alone. Making what most people see as a big step. Firstly, I didn’t, and don’t see it as big. For me, it was just choosing to live somewhere else for a bit. See how it was. Have a little adventure.  Write a new chapter. But also, one of the biggest reasons, was to enjoy a warmer climate. I am not a fan of the harsh European winters. In fact, I am forgetting how harsh they can be, not having endured one for over 6 years now.  We are currently one week away from winter, and even at 18 degrees, I am wondering whether I need a light jacket as I walk about the village.

With the weather brings an outdoor lifestyle that is hard not to enjoy. I love cafes, and cafe culture, and most of all, I love coffee. And the coffee here in Australia is amongst the best in the world. Weekends are all about finding your favourite spot, and settling in for an amazing brunch, with sublime coffee. Take a book, do some writing, or just watch the world go by, but this is something I just couldn’t do regularly enough in the UK. The weather is often too cold and unpredictable.

Perils of living overseas. To the positives.
One of life’s pleasures.

The weather also determines your wardrobe for most of the year. And outside of July, which is the coldest winter month, flip flops are de-rigeur. I like that, in Australia, there are no airs and graces when it comes to dress code for all but the most formal occasions. How I hate the stuffiness of formal events. Having to dress a certain way just to go for dinner. Well here in Australia, oftentimes you just wear what you are comfortable in. Shorts at dinner?  No problem.  Want to head out in your Stan Smiths?  Go ahead. That said, I still find it odd that will see many people in the streets with no shoes on. And not just in the beach suburbs like Manly, or Bondi Beach, but also around your local village. Don’t their feet get dirty? Are they not worried about walking in dog poo? (there is enough of it).  That is one peril I want to avoid.

For those of you that live overseas, or have in the past, what were your perils?  How did you keep in touch with friends and family? What did you miss the most?  Let me know in the comments.

An ode to Brighouse

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They say you can take the man out of Brighouse, but not Brighouse out of the man.
I say this is true.  Having been a very proud resident of this great little Northern market town for most of my life, I am now residing in Sydney, Australia.  And what I would do for a portion of fish and chips from the Dolphin (whoops, must remember it’s now Blakeley’s).  A cup of tea and a slice or two of well buttered bread on the side.  Or maybe one of Brayshaw’s famous pork pies.  Taken home and served us with a portion of real mushy peas.  Or perhaps even a slice of warm apple pie from the Merry England, making use of their newly acquired wi-fi to write my latest blog.  Finish off the day with a couple of economically priced pints in the Richard Oastler Wetherspoons pub.  I think even Brook’s restaurant is economically priced compared to Sydney.


You see, it is only when you become an expat that you realize just how much you miss these little creature comforts from home.  Distance makes the heart grow fonder?  It certainly does something, if I am coming over all misty eyed for “Briggus”.  Yes, Sydney has a world class dining scene.  One to rival the gastronomic capitals of London and Paris.  But you try and find a good pork pie.  Or a portion of chips that even slightly resemble the best that either Blakeley’s, or the Golden Hind serve up in yesterday’s Brighouse Echo without fanfare.  Good luck is all I say.  
Having left Brighouse only as recently as July this year, I know that these things will take some adjusting to.  The delights of Brighouse may fade and become just a memory.  Those balmy (really?) evenings meandering along the canal, feeding the ducks.  That said, it seems I’m not alone with a fondness for Brighouse.  It even has it’s own love song.  Thanks to a good friend for recently pointing me in the direction of Roger Davies singing “Brighouse on a Saturday night” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Al5YWeBpDw
In the meantime, if anybody wants to send me a few pork pies…

Happy Xmas from a sunny Sydney

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What’s this you say?  A blog update from the Yorkshire Expat before the month is out?  Surely he is not in month 7 already?  No folks, I’m not.  And I’m not writing specifically to gloat about the glorious weather and tell you to be safe on the recent outbreak of black ice (if you are reading from the UK).  No, I’m writing for much simpler reasons.  Let me explain.

There are a couple of reasons. 

Firstly, quite a lot has happened this month.  And we are what, only half way through it.  A trifle more, probably, before you get to reading this, so I thought I would treat you all to two installments in December.  Call it an early Xmas present from me to you J

You know how tiresome I can sometimes get, “waffling on” as a friend accused me of recently.  So by chunking into two episodes I am more likely to retain my loyal readership.  That’s assuming there is actually anybody reading this.  My sister always tells me she is the first to read it but I’m sure she is just trying to be nice.

And secondly, perhaps more importantly, more important than mere issues of me waffling on, is that I may not get to write a second blog.  You may not get to read a second blog.  Why is this?  Well, the 21st December is mooted to be the end of the world.  The Apocalypse.  A Mayan prophecy?  It could even be the infamous Zombie Apocalypse but I must admit to switching off when I hear people talk of their contingency plans in the event of an attack.  

I hear that we need to find high ground.  Avoid Coles the supermarket (apparently Zombies would laugh at your stupidity going there and come and snaffle you up).  I’m not sure if it is specifically Coles that poses a threat.  Maybe you would be safe in Woolworths.  Who knows?   The sea is no defence either, remembering zombies can walk on the sea bed.  How could you ever forget!  Basically, if they come, we are up the creek without a paddle.  So just make sure you have your “zombie survival kit” under your bed.  A few tins of beans, water and a shovel should suffice.  Apparently.

Should they come for us*, I want you all to know, I love (loved) you.  Just in different ways.

On a lighter note, the festive party season has commenced.  We have had the work Xmas party, which was very enjoyable.  How could it not be, 200 IT staff in one room together? *tries to keep a serious face*.  We managed to circumvent the free bar closing at 2.30pm by tactically ordering bottles of wine from different, unsuspecting wait staff.  I managed to stop myself from drinking a whole bottle of Cabernet, due to the fact I had a 5.15pm Spanish lesson.  And a true story; what would the odds have been on one of the night’s phrases being, el esta borracho? (he is drunk).  Madre mia.

At the party, a friend said to me, “I have not been this drunk since….September 2009”.  Did I admit that I hadn’t been drunk since…the weekend?  Not on your nelly.

The second Xmas party drinks were hosted by the recruitment agency I got my job through.  Myself and a colleague went along after work expecting a sedate evening.  We should have known this wasn’t going to be the case when we arrived at the venue, a swanky city bar, and were given the wristbands for the free drinks.  And when I say free drinks, we had a choice of a full bar.  That said, I probably shouldn’t have been drinking beer, followed by red wine, followed by spirits.  Or should I?  I had no Spanish lesson to go to, or no other pressing engagements.  I think the alcohol was loosening a few tongues and some of the stories of swinging suburbia in Sydney were quite eye opening.  In another of the tales, exactly how do the knickers of a friend’s wife end up in the tree in your garden?  My weekends are positively tame in comparison.

My last weekend comprised me loaning a Xmas tree off a Twitter friend.  I had mentioned on the micro blogging site that I was on the lookout for a tree and a Twitter follower in Sydney replied that they had one I could borrow.  A few Tweets later and arrangements were made for the drop on Saturday.  So, thanks @NickiGirlStar I still haven’t put it up yet, but the wine remains in the fridge ready for the task. 

On that note, I will bid you farewell, let you get back to your Baileys, mince pies and Bing Crosby soundtrack, and wish you all a Happy Xmas. 

Eat, drink and be very merry.

*Important note for mum, I don’t really believe the Zombies are coming.  I know how you take everything I say so seriously.  And yet I still love you.

Where’s the baby?

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Calm down mum, there is no baby.  At least not that I know of.  Or at the very least that I’m admitting to.  If anybody comes knocking at your door, you don’t know where I am.  You think I could pay both Sydney rent AND child support?!?  And don’t you think you currently have enough grandchildren?
Photo credit: Classical Beaver
No, the “9 month” of the title refers to the month that I’m now entering as a Yorkshire Expat in Sydney.  Yes, I don’t know where it’s gone either.  Did I really leave the UK all those months ago?  Evidently I did, yet would struggle to describe how I have filled those months.  Without, of course, recourse to these blogs.  Maybe I should do that one quiet night, get a(nother) bottle of wine in and recall what I’ve been up to.
It’s been quite an emotional few weeks, for one reason or another.  Not withstanding the running out of Manchego cheese, counter balanced by finding an amazing Chilean pinot noir to drown my sorrows, the major event this month has seen me saying goodbyes.  When I was in the process for coming out here, a work colleague was counting down the days til he left Blighty, for these shores, on a 12 month working holiday visa.  And we were more colleagues than mates.  Sharing the Yorkshire love, we met up in my first week in Sydney and over the intervening months we have forged a really strong friendship.  Alas, the sands of time on his visa expired and he has now returned to the UK.  I’m keeping my eyes on the Nando’s share price as I expect it will be the thing that will suffer most. 
In traditional fashion we had his leaving drinks.  And boy, can he put away his liquor.  Decamped in Paradiso bar near work, at Darling Harbour, we were on the cinnamon whisky shots at about 16.30, followed not long after by Patrone shots.  Some drink I had never heard of.  Don’t worry, I was told, it’s only tequila based.  Oh, that will be ok then!  A great night was had.  I think.  It went by in a flash.  Or, as I tried to recount the day after, a series of flashbacks.  Shots…beers…friends…taxis…chicken tikka roll kebabs (seriously, you have to try this Neutral Bay speciality)…friend’s irate neighbours…wine…walks…international phone calls…unconscious.  In that order.  I think. 
I had a more sedate meeting this week.  Catching up over coffee with somebody I haven’t seen for a long time.  About 20 years she reliably informs me.  Really?  I was young then.  And had dark hair.  Moving out here last year we figured it was time we met up finally.  And we had a great catch up, chatting like we had last seen each other only the other week.  Us Yorkshire expats have to stick together.
On another topic, I seem to remember I had written about homesickness recently.  The “elephant in the room”.  So on that, I must pass on a heartfelt thanks to all my UK based friends.  Thank you all for knocking any residual homesickness out of me with all your arctic “spring” pictures.  I may be suffering in the unseasonal Autumnal heat, yet don’t have to contend with being snowed in and having my life disrupted as seems to happen with increasing frequency at home.  Be careful what you wish for is an adage close to this pom’s heart.  I just hope the snow has cleared by June.
At the time of writing this, I have the long Easter weekend ahead of me.  I think I’ll make another trip up to the Blue Mountains.  I went over Christmas when a friend was over from UK, and we couldn’t have picked a worse day.  The train ride itself was trying enough, with a very annoying little lad shouting “are we there yet” at every station.  On a 2 hour journey.  I kid you not.
And when we got there it was a proverbial pea souper.  Probably even worse, a mushed pea souper.  Not a mountain or a eucalyptus tree in sight.  Anywhere.  We had to buy a postcard just so I could prove to her that the “3 Sisters” mountain range does in fact exist.
Photo credit: environment.nsw.gov.au
Hopefully, this time around, I’ll get a better day.  You’ll find out next month.  Until then, hasta la vista chicos.

Not 19 Forever

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Photo credit: photobucket.com
Not, as I thought, the collective noun for a bunch of old Ford cars (Cortinas), but in fact a (pop?) band.  The Courteeners.  A band responsible for the song of this blog title, played over the tannoy to a very happy Old Trafford as the 20thtitle was secured in style versus Aston Villa.
This being the main reason I have been walking around Sydney with a big stupid grin for the last week or so.  We have been champions elect for some time but until we made it safe I was still having nightmares about the end of last season.  When I see Man Utd play at the ANZ Stadium, Sydney in July, it will be back in our rightful place as Champions of England.
I also feel that the writing of my last blog seems to have been the best therapy I could have had.  Massively cathartic.  And heartening to get so many positive messages from friends.  The outlook seems sunnier now, quite literally despite it being Autumn, and I am doubly looking forward to my upcoming visit to England, just over a short 6 weeks away.  Yes, really so soon.  In typical Project Manager fashion, I have a plan, a timeline and a very full spreadsheet.  And for the last 2 months, Mum has been stocking up on the booze and has a few of my favourite meals lined up.  Aren’t mums brilliant!

The 6-week countdown to my trip ushers in the start of month 10 as life as an expat.  I’ll say it again.  Where is the time going?  I’ve had my well-documented ups and downs, but seriously, I’ve nearly been here a year already?  The writing of this blog really brings home to me how time is passing. 
People ask how long I will be here for, and whether this is “forever”.  What is forever?  I’m not sure it exists as an entity.  More a collection of “nows”.  All the “nows” add up to create the moments and various chapters of your life.  Some chapters are longer than others.  This current chapter is currently a good read, so it will continue.  That said, this is not how I want the book to end.  As alluded to in the last blog, this story is just getting started.  I’m ready for bigger and better things.
What else do I have that I can share with you?  Well, this has been a very expensive few days.  Last Thursday was ANZAC (Australia and New Zealand Army Corps) day in Australia, a public holiday.  ANZAC Day – 25 April – is probably Australia’s most important national occasion. It marks the anniversary of the first major military action fought by Australian and New Zealand forces during the First World War.  Following dawn services, the afternoons are traditionally spent in the pub playing a very strange game called “2 Up”.  A variation of “heads or tails” that gets the pubs packed and has loads of people gambling on the outcome.  I didn’t get roped into any gambling but did savour a few cold ones.  It’s fair to say that the following day at work wasn’t my most productive.
Then we get to Saturday and after a day at the beach, I return to the flat to make @scottbarton8 a cup of tea only to find that we were locked out of the flat.  The thing is, I had my keys, but just not the key I needed.  I have 2 locks on the apartment door.  A yale lock, for which I have the key and is the lock I always use.  The other lock is one of those that you lock from the inside and then close the door.  I never, repeat never, use this lock.  What must have happened is that I appear to have pressed in the lock, on the inside by accident, then pulled the door closed.  Upon my return, I could unlock the top lock, but not the bottom, the key for which was inside the flat.
We jumped in the car and drove to the letting agent, only to find it closed.  I then rang them, only to find they were out of town.  My only option it turned out was Mosman Locksmiths!  He promptly turned up and after about 5 minutes of what appeared to be just trying to ruin the lock, and $140 later, he had me back in the flat.  And before you tell me, yes I know, there is a lesson in there.  It seems I’m learning a lot of lessons recently.
So, as I go and copper up, working out how much spending money I will have for my trip to Europe, I will leave you to enjoy your emerging Spring (if you are reading from the UK).  What’s that you say?  It’s snowing again?  Spare a thought for me.  It’s Autumn here.