I think our Canadian spruiker is running a minor mafia. Y'know how, if you were, say, an Irish immigrant to America sometime during the 19th century, you'd report to that guy, and he'd get you a job and a place to live and it'd all be good? Well, our spruiker is that guy for Canadian visitors to Melbourne. I swear. Today he interrupted his pitch to have a long talk with these two barely-bearded youths about finding them a job in Melbourne.

He also stacked it on his skateboard on the way to work, so the highlight of my day was patching up his "ouchie".

As I walked home along Lonsdale Street, a police car went screaming past me, lights flailing, siren strident.

And I thought, oh shit.

I thought some more about this; I am a city dweller, I am not immune to sirens, but used to them. But this one hit me in the gut. Because a police siren can only mean bad news of the worst sort. Half the time I'm sure fire engines are called out to false alarms (like our building, which goes off every two months to keep us on our toes). Ambulances mean that help's on the way, right? But police only pull out the siren and the lights when something awful and violent has happened: a car accident, a hold-up, something that makes my gut twist like that.

The evening girl at work was held up last week. I think. I didn't quite catch the details. It's all making me distracted and jittery.

And vague. I know you noticed.

I really need to remember how to wake up.

I also really need to get to work.

I have new hair. Over the past three days (long story) I have had it both extensively and intensely dyed, and cut. I have lost the long bits that have been the defining part of the Dee hairdo for years now. I actually feel kinda freed by this (when I stop and go, "Gee, how do I feel about this?", because contemplating my emotive response to my hair is not actually something that comes naturally or unbidden to me). It's intriguing, having my hair doing new things (like getting into my face and feeling lighter).

Also, the colour is fucking fantastic.

Continuing my mini journey of discovery; I found out today that one of my dear, eloquent, delightful friends is the Australian equivalent of "Belle de Jour". (If you are not aware of the one to whom I refer - ex-blogger whose blog of her experiences as a London callgirl led to a book contract relating to the same material.) Except better, naturally, because my friend is possessor of a beautiful mind and a languid, gossamer erudition that I just know is going to make her memoirs more gentle, more womanly somehow, than the stark, brash tone of Belle's (which are still quite a lot of fun, don't get me wrong, but not my preferred voice). And also - heh - my friend is publishing under her own name, not hiding behind anonymity. Which is, to me, just her. She is a gorgeous, fabulous, quietly strong woman (with a most delightful streak of wicked and fun).

I am quite bursting with pride and adoration for my darling friend. It shows. I don't care.

The thing about going away is that you remember all the things that are so wonderful about home. Like your own bed in your own bedroom with your own pillows (etc). Certainly your own bathroom with actual, y'know, water pressure sufficient to wash the lather out of your hair. Your own kitchen wherein you can have breakfast any time you like (with your own coffee machine which makes it just the way you like, though sugar lumps in interesting shapes were quite fun).

And your own music. We whisked away down to the coast on Friday afternoon, toting CDs for the drive. Being reintroduced (ho ho) to Faith No More just about gave me a paroxysm of Mike Patton delight. The man can growl in my ear any day. Shame he's such a reprobate. (Management recommends "Last Cup of Sorrow" for those wishing to partake. "Gentle Art of Making Enemies" also always good for the degenerate.)

Italy: Corleto was beautiful, antique and picturesque, huddled against the side of the mountain, sinuous and perilous. Full of relations and food and wood smoke and no one spoke a word of English, but it was fun. Rome, on the other hand, was kinda grotty and insane and the hotel lost our booking for New Years Eve. I'd rather not even think about that again. But it all sorted out and the last two days were a blur of touristy joy, a casual plethora of ancient mementos. However, I was dying for a decent breakfast by the time we hit Britain.

UK: Land of the cooked breakfast, hallelujah. London was crammed full every moment with the Underground and things to see and people to meet and I loved it. I honestly adore that city. Our driving tour was, I think, a highlight of the trip, full of freedom and sidetrips, not to mention castles, and the odd bit of ice, snow, wind, rain and mud. The university towns were mental but entertaining, Cornwall was beautiful, Bath delightfully Austen, and Manchester full of wonderful people.

France: Back to bizarre breakfasting, not to mention weird trains. Normandy was full of weird weather - a day of tiny hail, for instance - and our host was a lovely if anime-mad girl. I got quite an education on William the Conquerer. Paris was... well, I know I'm supposed to love it because I'm a girl or something, but it didn't make that much of an impression. It all looks the same, because it was mostly all ordered built by the same guy. It's kinda dirty, and uninspired, and it probably didn't help that no matter what, I can't really wrap my mouth around French. But Versailles was stunningly gorgeous.

Then we came home. A day early, due to error, a little tired, a lot glad to be back. And that's the potted summary of six weeks.