There are three great train journeys in Australia. The Ghan which travels from Adelaide to Darwin via Alice Springs, The Overland - Melbourne to Sydney and the Indian Pacific. It's the latter that I catch during it's epic weekly voyage from Perth, on th Indial Ocean to Sydney on th Pacific Ocean. At Adelaide, Keswick, there's a half hour delay as we wait for the Ghan to arrive and allow passengers for Sydney to transfer. I settle in my "Red Kangaroo daynight recliner". I'm already beginning to regret not booking a sleeping berth. My self imposed travelling companion on this leg of the journey is "Eric", whose of to see some friends at "Broken Hill", our first and only stop.

The steward introduces himself to a carriage full of passengers, some of whom continue to natter away while he's talking, which draws a typical short, sharp rebuke from him. Now, playing to a full house he goes on: "The toilets are at that end, the showers are at this end, help yourself to towels. The lounge is through there and the buffet is next door. If the emergency alarm goes off and I don't appear, then it's a false alarm. Can one of you cancel the alarm by hitting this button up here? Right! I'm now officially off duty and I'll see you all tonight" and with that he's off.

The train pulls out of Adelaide at 10.30 and that's a signal for Eric, in the seat next to me to start making noises and snorting ass he reads the local newspaper. He's obviously trying to entice me into some verbal sparring but I try not to fall for it and I turn my ipod up a bit louder. It's no good! I try to politely explain that although like everyone in the UK I'm an expert on Brithish politics, I know nothing about Australian politics. I think he gets the hint but then he turns to the sports section and starts prattling on aboyt Aussie rules football. Again I have to show my ignorance and own up to knowing sod all about his chosen sport. "What do you like portwise?" he asks. "I quite like motor racing" I reply to which he claims that weekends race was quite an event. "I think Renault are the team to beat" I say and he looks at me as if I've just broken out in ancient Latin. "No, I'm talking about the Clipsal 500 in Adelaide" he says, not really having a clue that in a few days time the F1 circus will be burning rubber around Albert Park in Melbourne. It's odd, I think! We talk the same language but don't undersatnd what each other is on about. Eric seems to get the hint and I turn up my ipod.

About an hour later Eric nudges me as I'm watcjhing the Australian countryside pass lazily by. "Should be a video on in a minute" he claims. I look up at one of the 7 14 inch video monitors strategically placed in the center of the carriage roof. "Probably "Finding Neverlands", that's a favourite one". I look around the arm rest and wonder where people plug in the non-existant headphones and suddenly the audio bellows out from speakers in the roof lined up above all the seats. I turn the ipod up higher but there's no escaping Neverlands, never mind finding it! So I get up and wander off to the buffet for a coffee and a bun. When I get back, Eric helpfully fills me in on what I've missed. I try to explain that I'm not really all that interested but all he can do is to impress on me that if I don't watch, I'll miss some more of it! "It's a great film" he enthuses. "I've seen it 8 times on this train!"

Six hours later the train pulls into "Broken Hill", where it's scheduled to depart at 18.30 "according to the clock on the station". Everyone gets off to stretch their legs. Eric has his holdall with him, shakes my hand and wishes me well, then toddles of to meet his friends. I watch him go, then turn and move sharply in the opposite direction. We have about an hour befoe the train leaves. On the platform there are rows of tables with local entrepeneurs behind them selling souvenirs of Broken Hill. Their wares are laid out on the tables and unlike traders I've met in Africa, politely ask if I want to buy a souvenir. Their idea of the hard sell is "Can I interest you in a Broken Hill clock?" I almost ask why I would want a hill clock that's broken but decide not to. The price is 15AU$ and I'm tempted to start haggling but there's probably some quaint law which forbids the haggle, so I politely decline and move on.

After a drink and a McDonalds (See, it is the civilised world) the train, dead on 18.30 by the station clock, pulls out of the platform. Now it's Sydney non-stop! I wonder if anyone's ever missed the train and as the thought lingers, I see a car racing along a track on a collision course with us at a level crossing point. Maybe this is the local youths way of relieving boredom? Will they beat us to the crossing or are we going to smash into them. It's neither. The car pulls to a stop and so do we. The driver gets out and then an elderly gent follows from the rea seat. They both walk to the train where the guard unlocks a carriage door and the elderly man climbs up and walks through our carriage, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he's held up one of Australias most prestigious trains an it's payload of passengers.

We left, as I said, at precisely 18.30 hours by the station clock. As soon as we're under way properly there's a message on the tannoy from the guard telling us to put our watches forward by half an hour. Adelaide had half an hour time difference to Melbourne and this weekend Australia puts their clocks back by an hour. It shopuld have been last weekend but was deferred by a week because of the Commonwealth Games. In the UK there's an advert on TV for holidays in Australia with the strap line "So where the bloody hell are you?" At this particular moment, my body clack hasn't got a bloody clue!

The rest of my time in Adelaide is spent with Keith. That evening we meet up with his friend Phil and have a few beers. Keith, Phil, Ashley and Jolie jam together it seems and I'm pumped for information about microphones and which are best for vocals and which for instruments. We'd only planned to stay for a tin but a further three later, Keith and I finally make it to our original destination, the pub. Another late boozy evening is followed by another early morning. I spent a few hours at the library in Adelaide, looking through some of the local papers from the time of my birth. I'm just trying to get a feel for things. Nothing comes to light and it seem that with some pre-warning I could have had better access to the library, but never mind. I meet Keith at mid day and we're off to "The Barossa". Millions of square acres covered in grapevines. We end up at Jacobs Creek. Yup, it's really there! Jacobs Creek have a lovely visitors centre and I make use of the free samples on offer, then we move on. We find a place called "Humbug Scrub" which is a wild life sanctuary, full of 'roos, parrots and all things Australian. The owner is a nice man whose father founded the sanctuary and is buried "somewhere over there". The present owner doesn't smoke, drink or eat meat. He thinks he's going to live long. Keith and I both think that it'll seem longer!

That night after a bowl of "scouse", which anywhere else in Britain would probably be called stew, we all jam. Jolie plays piano, Keith on bass, Ashley nixing the sound and playing guitar. Me? I resurrect my role as lead singer from the band "Millinbro", a group of three school boys from Kent who never made it big. Keith MILler, Steve LINington and Jeff BROwn. I seem to remember we only played one gig and that was to a group of pensioners at the annual pensioners Christmas party at Temple School. What they thought of our rendition of "fog on the Tyne" I don't know, but they all clapped at the end! (Maybe because we'd finished!) We also did a version of Neil Sedakas "Oh Carol", one of my favourite songs of the era, which by a strange quirk of fate is also playing on "Cruise AM, Adelaide's newest music station" as Keith pulls up to drop me off at Keswick Station where I'm to join the Indian Pacific Railway on a 27 hour journey to Sydney

My first full day in the place of my birth and of which I have no memory begins early. Keith has a board meeting to attend to and he has to drop Jolie of at her school which is about 45 minutes away by car. We leave the house at about 7.25am. Jolie gets herself up and dressed and breakfasted all without any prompting from Keith or Carol. I wish I could bottle that up and somehow infuse it in my daughter. We live literally a 2 minute walk from her school in Teddington and it's still a mad rush to get her out of the door on time. After we drop Jolie off, Keith drops me in Adelaide and I'm left to my own devices for a few hours while he tends to business at his work place. As I walk around the town I begin to wonder if my mum and dad took these very steps? Are there echoes of their past here? They're both no longer alive so I take a few photos and make a mental note to ask my sister, who was 10 at the time, if she recognises any of the places here.

The board meeting over, I meet up with Keith and we decide to head straight over to Elizabeth South, 97 Wilison Rd to be precise. The house where my first 18 months were spent. On the way, Keith points out some display homes that the company that he works for, Rivergum, build. They're bungalow, prebuilt and then shipped to their final resting place. 2,3 and 4 bedroom abodes with kitchen and all mod cons. We muse over the coincidence that my wife is also an accountant and that she also works for a company they builds house, but at the other end of the financial scale!

On the way we call into a hangar on the airfield near the house display. It houses a small display of military exhibits including a bloodhound missile of the type that I'm sure my dad worked on at Woomera. Maybe he worked on this very one? It's in one piece, didn't go off and explode so perhaps he did! My dad was never what you would call a handy man, Upside down electric sockets, a banister that went up the side of the stairs at a different angle to the stairs and bookshelves that couldn't take the weight of a fag paper were all testament to my dads ability to use tools. It's quite frightening to think that he used to arm and dis-arm ejector seats in Lightnings!

Eventually we make our way to Wilison Road. Some time ago I'd sent a letter to the current occupier asking if they'd mind if I knocked on the door when I got there. I never received a reply. Strangely, I feel less emotional than I though I would. The school that my sister went to is still on the same site although it's much more modern than it was 47 years ago. I'd heard stories that Elizabeth South is not exactly the Beverley Hills of Adelaide, and as Keith and I park up and walk a few streets, evidence suggests the critics are right. It's a bright, sunny day, not a cloud in the blue sky, but somehow it's slightly depressing. Some of the bungalows are pretty but quite a few have old cars, tyres and general debris scattered around their gardens. One has an old mattress leaning against the wall, it's contents of springs and stuffing just spilling out onto the floor. It's not encouraging! Keith speculates that the current owners may not even speak English so didn't even understand my letter, either way, I don't feel inclined to knock!

Walking down Wilison Road, I know that 48 years ago this was all new. The Browns pitched up in 1956, after a journey on the SS Straithaird that took in India and Aden en route. There was my mum and dad, Marion the eldest daughter and Terry the eldest son. They all walked these streets, pushed me and my twin, Richard around in a pram, played here, learnt here and lived here. Like a spawning salmon, I'd long held a desire to return to the place of my birth, yet sadly, I don't feel emotional about actually being here now.

Number 97 lays on a bend of the road. It's a bungalow, brick built and I guess all those years ago was attractive to a family that had until then endured typical married quarters provided by the RAF. And this not so long after the end of WW2 and the rationing and deficiencies and deprivation that it caused. Simple things that we take for granted, like oranges and bananas that we expect to find in every corner shop in every town, were so scarce that until now were just a yearly treat at Christmas. Yet in the welcome box on the new furniture at 97, when The Browns arrived there were oranges the size of footballs, or at least thats how they must have appeared to my sister and brother.

In the RAF you never had a real home. Dad would be posted somewhere, Leuchars in Scotland or Gutersloh in Germany or any where else in the world. We would follow on! Our possessions packed up in big wooden crates which would catch up a few weeks later and there we'd stay for three years or so until another posting came along. The whole cycle repeated. I never had real friends at school, just people I knew. You'd get friendly with someone then one day they'd be gone, replaced by a new face at the desk. Then one day it would be your turn to be the missing face at the desk!

97 is in the shade of a giant tree, which apparently wasn't there 48 years ago. A nice tree but blocking out the light to the bungalow which makes it seem darker and colder than it probably is. All the curtains are drawn. I look around and take it all in. In my mind I see and hear my family and their friends walking these streets. Me breaking the glass of the water meter that's still on the front lawn...more than once! Me with the upturned bucket, pushing it along the concrete and revelling in the wonderful noise it makes. But it's all gone. I don't have any childhood memories from here, just notes from my sister, There might be a few black and white photos lurking around of life at 97 all those years ago. But for me it's just filling in a little piece of the jigsaw. Keith takes some photos of me stood outside 97 Wilison Road and then I take a final look and walk away. I don't know what I expected! Certainly not a blue plaque! But as I walk away I don't look back.

So, The Games are all wrapped up for another four years and it's time to pack up and ship out. Farayi and Idd left before the magnificent closing ceremony, Piers and I stayed on to sort out the Monday edition of FastTrack. On Tuesday, Piers and I shook hands and we went our separate ways. A fiend of mine, whose mother has a flat in Docklands has arranged for me to leave most of my kit there so that I could travel light. It transpired that I'd actually walked past the flat a number of times without knowing it when I visited the replica of HMS Endeavour. Kit deposited, I popped into Melbourne to pick up some last minute souvenirs of the games. There's a lot to be had, mostly half price.

Next a 20 minute trip to the airport to catch my Virgin Blue flight to Adelaide (yes, he is everywhere!). Virgin Blue are another fun, easy airline in much the same way as Quantas. The staff all laugh and joke with the passengers throughout the 55 minute flight to Adelaide. And you don't feel as if it's put on, they genuinely seem to be a fun bunch. Perhaps BA could take a leaf out of their book.

Adelaide has a brand new airport and our bags  were waiting for us as we got into the arrival hall. There was no sign of Keith, my host for the next few days so I hung around the main entrance. The last time I saw Keith was probably around 1975, when we had both left Temple School in Strood, Kent and started our careers.  Since then I'd been in the RAF, driven for an air freight company, sold advertising space for a local newspaper, worked for a brewery, been a DJ on a local radio station and finally ended up working for the BBC World Service. What had Keith done? What did he look like now? Probably nothing like he did in the old black and white photo of him and me collecting our Chief Scouts Award in the early 70's. And I'm right!

I'm approached by a beard with a man attached to it. "Jeff" he proclaims, more than asks. "Keith?" I ask more than proclaim and I gradually recognise him. We shake hands awkwardly as he offers me his left hand, which I seem to remember is how Scouts shake hands. I on the other hand offer him the other hand, so our initial greeting must look somewhat odd to the casual observer.

Greetings over, we chat as if it was yesterday we last spoke, not 30 plus years. A lot has happened in that time and he fills me in on what has happened to him over the last three decades and how he and his family ended up in Adelaide, as we drive out to his bungalow in "One Tree Hill".

We pull into the drive and I'm by Carol, Keith's wife and two white scruffy dogs , who as usual with dogs off this size are either wary of strangers or want to hump their leg. It's the former with these two and I'm advised that a swift size nine should sort them out if they bite my ankle. That's not necessary and I'm soon part of the Miller family. Then I'm introduced to two cats, followed by a couple of budgies and a duck called "Willby" (as in "Willby on the table at Christmas"!) A little joke I'm assured! From inside the house, from separate rooms I hear guitar and piano noises. And what good noises they are! I soon get to meet the purveyors of these sounds, Jolee on piano and Ashley on guitar. I knew that Keith had wanted a musical career when he left school. He was, and still is, a talented musician but it was not meant to be for hi, However, the musical genes have been passed on. From what I hear coming from these two, I'm convinced that one day they will both be able to make it in the music business, in whatever genre they want, and will be successful.

You certainly seem to get a lot for your money when it comes to property. A massive ( by Teddington standards anyway) back garden, pool and a big bungalow complete with half finished pergola and a recent delivery of wood that needs to be painted green to finish it off.

I'm made so welcome by Keith and his family (and the animals) and Keith and I sit for a leisurely meal with a few glasses of wine. We catch up on all that' gone on in our lives over the last three decades, talking about school, jobs, family, scouts and then, after a long and exciting day, I climb wearily into my bed.

 

Just added a few new photos to the "Australia - Melbourne" section.

I'm quite priveliged with my position at The Commonwealth Games. You'll see from the photo how close royalty were to us on the opening night. Not so tonight, the final day of the athletics at the "G"! For the last week, apart from the two minutes that HMQ walked through the entrance, we've been in and out of the double sliding doors, getting coffee, water, sandwiches etc. But tonight, when I went to get back to my seat in the broadcast area via the corridor, I was told by a member of Melbourne's finest..."You can't come through here!".  "Why not" I asked, "there's my position" and pointed to an empty chair at the far end. "This is a sterile area" she said. "Why, all of a sudden is this a sterile area?" I asked. "The Prime Minister of Great Britain is coming" I was told. I looked at my empty chair and asked the policewoman how I was to get to it, pointing out that my accreditation gave me access rights to be where I was. "Go though the media entrance" she said, so I walked along another passage, doubled back and ended up at my position. Behind me were the double doors that I wasn't allowed through. On the other side I saw the policewoman and waved to her. She didn't wave back! Next it was the turn of the "suits", all earpieces and talking into their wrists. I imagined them saying things like "The Chicken is in the coop". There were CWG stewards on there day off from working behind the counter at McDonalds suddenly given the task of vetting people walking past, one of whom was the Senior Vice President of a major sponsor of the Games. I wondered who had vetted these stewards. The local security company had provided someone as well. Red day-glow bib with "SECURITY" on the back, at least 30 stone, droopy moustache and looked like an extra from a Super Mario Gameboy adventure. Last week Her Maj took two minutes to make her entrance. His Maj (Tone), along with the First Lady took 40 minutes, during which time everyone was treated as if they had a personal grudge against him. The suits took up position as if they'd carefully reheased it by watching Clint Eastwood in "In The Line of Fire"all the time holding their earpiece and talking into their wrist in a very inconspicuous "LOOK AT ME" kind of way. Tone didn't even use the entrance that I'd wanted to use, so at least I guess it remained sterile. Broadcasters who had been in the stadium all week were suddenly being treated as a major threat. If these suits are so good, why hadn't they cased the joint previously and made themselves aware of the local geography, instead of just barging in as if they had a God given right to disrupt people going about their lawful business? Eventually Tony and Co left and so did the suits, no doubt feeling extremely proud that they's saved Tone from a stray javelin or a real person. Back to normality! I walked up and down the corridor twice, past the policewoman, who ignored me.

Just been going through some of the photos I've taken on the journey here and added them to "piccies". Up the Rialto Tower which is the tallest office building (at the moment) in this hemisphere, a beautiful sunset and a visit to Vlado's Restaurant for a two inch thick fillet steak (Micheal Schumacher visits this restaurant every year!). Also a couple of shops whose names made me laugh. Enjoy!

So here I am, Melbourne, Australia, the land where I began! This really is a great place. The people are so friendly and open and the climate is just right. I've mentione befor that I can't understand why people want to swap Melbourne for London and I've asked a few people here. They all say that a trip to London is almost a rite of passage.

The last few days have been taken up with sorting the workplace out. I'm in an apartment on the 27th floor and I've built a small studio so that we can send audio back to London. I've also had to sort out various IT problems (which isn't officially my job) but it's meant that the team can deliver. Yesterday I installed a printer and today I've got the team on a wireless network which means they can all FTP from the comfort of their room and don't have to queue up to do it.

Yesterday was also the Opening Ceremony of the Commonwealth Games.I must admit to being torn between attending the ceremony or staying in the appartment and watching it develop from our ariel view. Piers, Idd and I went to the stadium and we we quite surprised to find ourselves almost next to the Royal Box. We had all the nobs walking around us including her maj. I've put some photos up of the event.

The next few days......Oh, it's chucking down with rain as I type! The next few days are going to be taken up with much the same as we've been doing today. Compiling reports, packages and programmes and sending back to London. I'll try and add more but it could become a bit monotoneous for a while!

The flight was more full to Melbourne than the one to Hong Kong had been and me and my fellow travellers were in seperate areas. I had a chinese lady sat next to me who spoke English, but hardly spoke all the journey. Farayi in the seat behind had a Chinese lady next to him who didn't speak a word of English and Idd was in a seat at the back next to a talkative Australian lady. We had a laugh at immigration, especially when I pointed out to the immigration officer that Farayis name on his Zimbabwean passport was spelt wrong. "That's not how you spell Mugabi"!. Then when I'd got though immigration (using my Aussie passport for the first time) I turned to Idd and said "Idd I'm in" which sounds very similar to Idi Amin. Idi Amin died a few years ago but I imagine he looked the same as Idd did at the moment, suffering as I was from the 11 hour time difference. I look on the bright side as I heard a story one of a guy who was travelling with his mate Jack and when they met at the airport shouted "Hi Jack!"

Immigration and Customs are VERY strict in Australia. You're not allowed any fruit, meat and other stuff into the country, this keeps any pests, bugs and lurgies at bay.At the baggage carousel, as our bags were going round in circles we were joined by a couple of dogs who went round sniffing everones bags. In Hong Kong, Farayi had a couple of bananas (which he'd eaten) but the scent was picked up by the dog and Farayi had to empty his bag before they accepted the fact that he didn't have any bananas. Anyway. we're now in Melbourne, 27th floor apartment in a tower block over looking the city, and what a city it is!

I'll tell you about it later!

Travelling to Africa a lot, the first thing that strikes you is the fact that everyone wants you're money and they're not very subtle at how they go about getting it. "Carry your bag?", "You want taxi"?, "You want girl/boy/camel" "look at you in a funny way?". They're all ploys used to seperate you from whatever currency you have on you. Local currency is good because by the time you figure out how much you've just handed over to the person who forcefully helped you carry your bag 10 yards, he's gone. And if you're really unlucky so has your bag. US Dollars! How odd? Americans are universally hated, yet their currency is universally loved!

The first thing that struck me in Hong Kong is that there's a distincy lack of any of this shennanigans. There's no sign of the Self Employed Loose Change Removal Operative, or SELCRO (similar to Velcro but SELCRO doesn't stick to you for long). People in smart uniforms, pointing the way, orderly cues for taxis and trains, how brilliant! A bit like London only in reverse. Fast train into Hong Kong then a short taxi ride to the hotel. My room is on the 21st floor and I wonder if I'll need an oxygen mask. Then, when I look out at the view, it's totally obscured by skyscrapers twice the size of the building I'm in. By comparison I'm almost on ground level. If I'm looking for an oxygen mask, people on the top floors of some of these will probably need weighted boots to stop them floating away.

Had my first "authentic" chinese meal today. Chicken and mushroom with rice. So called as there wasn't mush room for the chicken because of the amount of rice. For a minute I thought it was crispy chicken then realised all the bones had been left in. Anyway, I tucke in nonetheless without a care in the world when I heard someone state the obvious, " Hong Kong bird flew". It took my jetlagged grey cell a few seconds to realise it was "flu" not "flew". I thought the chicken tased fowl! I carefully pushed all the bones to the side of the bowl and ate just the rice. I've just checked my vital bits and all is well, but my plumage could do with a bit of a preen!

Never flown East to West much, most of my journeys are North to South, with very little change for the body clock, so after taking of at 12 40, it was a suprise when people started getting ready to sleep at about 15.30. I don't know if they pump sleeping gas through the cabin or whether it was the umpteenth viewing of Curse of the WereRabbit which still makes me laugh ("Kiss my artichoke" in a kids film??) but I was starting to feel more dopier than usual so I decided to get some shut eye. So after 3 bottles of wine (merlot at that), 2 airline meals (I was hungry and to ask for a second helping of  airline foods indicates just how hungry I was) and the small bottle of whisky, I dozed off. The flight was very smooth and eventually we touched down in Hong Kong.

 

Not the best start to the day! There's an old saying, "If God wanted us to fly, he'd have made it easier to get to the airport". The cab to take me to the Heathrow was booked for 10 am. At 10 to I got a phone call from Premier Cars to tell me that itwouldn't arrive until 10.15. I was due to be meeting my fellow travellers at Terminal 4 at 10.30 and I said that had I wanted a car to pick me up at 10.15, I would have ordered a car for 10.15! 10.15 came and went, closely followed by 10.16,17,18,19 and 20. I got on the phone to them. "It's 1 minute away" I was told. If Premier ever ask you to hold your breath for 1 minute, don't. They exist in a different world where 1 of our Earth minutes is equivilent to plus 10 of theirs! At half past, and with no finger nails left, Ann, my wife who is an accountant and on this day was working at home offered to drive me to the airport. I was in serious danger of not getting the flight. Have you been to an airport letely? You can queue for ages to get through secruity, where you're treated as a potential terrorist until they prove otherwise. No problem with that but why can't Heathrow have more security people on duty at peak times? Anyway, on the way to T4, Premier called my mobile and asked my location. I told them where I was and where they should go. Don't think they'll be seeing the sun for a while! Well, got to Heathrow and met up with my colleagues and we checked in, but with a bill for £290 for excess baggage. I went to the cashiers desk and the nice lady nicely relieved me of the money and nicely gave me 3 "FastTrack" stickers. This allowed us to jump the queue of the great unwashed, lined up waiting to be frisked, scanned and prodded and join a smaller queue waiting for the same treatment. It took us about 10 minutes to get through but we did it in style with a better class of potential terrorist.

I can't deny that I've had a great time working for the BBC World Service. I've seen a full moon sweeping over the ocean, from a cable car heading up to the top of Table Mountain at 2am. The car, a one off, put on especially for us so that we could start our 16 hour, 70th anniversary of the BBC World Service transmission at 4am. The sky was like black velvet with diamonds stitched in, in patterns that were unfamiliar to an eye more used to the night sky from my home just outside London.

I spent time flying around Cyprus in a helicopter taking readings from tramsmitter masts at a height of 8000 ft and more, with the door wide open.

I've been to the birth place of one of my heroes, Freddie Mercury, in Zanzibar and then visited the home of a man at the other end of my hero spectrum, 10 Downing Street, to record an interview with Mr Blair.

I worked (sort off!) at the Olympics in Athens, where the paint was still wet, and visited the Great Pyramids in Egypt where the stone is well worn.

Now I'll soon be off to Australia for the Commonwealth Games, then to retrace the footsteps of my mum and dad, both no longer alive, and my sister Marion and elder brother Terry. Where was I born? Where did I live? What did my dad do at Woomera and Edinburgh RAAF base? Questions, questions, questions!

Just got back from a five day trip to Nairobi. I was mainly there to recruit someone for the company I work for and managed to get a few hours in Nairobi National Park. An absolutely massive area full of wild life. Giraffes, zebras, baboons, wilderbeast and half eaten carcases! The highlight was making friends with three cheetahs at the animal orphanage there. A couple of photos uploaded into piccies!

I'm indebted to the lovely Annabel for reminding me how, for a very brief time, I owned a free, lovely watch, made by Cerutti. It was during a visit to Kuwait with some colleagues where I was presented with a beautiful watch by one of the Kuwaiti ministers. However, as I work for the BBC World Service, I could not accept this gift, which had been left on my bed in the hotel room. Annabel, so dutifully collected in all the watches that had been handed out and later presented them to the British Ambassador, who in turn raffled them off at one of his parties to raise funds for local childrens homes. (I think it came from Elizabeth Duke, anyway!)

It was about 1960, I was two years old and my dads tour of duty with the RAF in Adelaide came to an end. I'd planned to go back whenI was 50 but, fortune smiled on me when I was assigned the task of providing technical support for the BBC World Services coverage of the Commonwealth Games in 2006. So, in March, I'm off to Melbourne. I'll do the work then a couple of weeks to explore where I lived for the first two years of my life. Hopefully I'll get to Sydney and Brisbane as well as fitting in the Australian GP. This blog will detail all my journey and as the time allows will start to fill up with pictures and stories. Am I looking forward to it???You bet your life I am!!