Introducing...

Ladies and genuflects, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Eamonn Shute.

An entirely fictional creation, living in Miami for the past eighteen months, he is living life large. And not only because he is 6 foot 6 and 16 stone.

Eamonn is a fairly smart guy. His IQ test in his year 11/12 (when he was 14 - he completed both grades that year) clocked in at 152. On the day he took the test he was suffering from a virulent form of flu and was heavily medicated, handicapping him by an estimate 15 points.

Eamonn's a pretty laid back guy though, and didn't care a whit what his IQ was - he just wanted to do well on his football team. (If you live in North America, that would be soccer, and the rest of us would really appreciate you calling it by its proper name, and quickish, please.) As large as he was, and being as graceful as a herniated hippo, he seldom played in any position other than goalkeeper.

I mentioned he was fairly smart. He figured out the obvious fairly quickly. Sports were set aside and the pursuit of more intellectual endeavours became the focus. Being an early bloomer allowed him to physically fit into University at the somewhat early age of 15.

Three years later he left with a Masters in Mathematics, distinguished honours.

Eighteen is too young to start a career, I don't care what anyone says, so he spent - or planned to spend - a couple of years helping his family run their live-in bed and breakfast castle.

To residents of anywhere other than Western Europe, that may sound strange, but the Shute family were direct descendants and current owners of a modest, draughty, moss-covered Shute Castle located about 15 miles south-west of the much more famous Donegal Castle. To help make ends meet, mother was a primary school teacher and father managed a small, but popular, distillery.

To be as smart as Eamonn is can be a curse. Constant mental stimulation is a requirement. There was, and is, precious little of that at the castle and to bridge the gap Eamonn started in earnest to study the patterns of the winning numbers in the Irish Sweepstakes. Using large number theories that he had mastered in school he started playing the lottery.

He had a couple of small winnings, more than enough to fund his experiment, until that fateful day, just over eighteen months ago, when he hit all the numbers. The prize for that particular sweepstakes was well into the 2 comma category. Nine digits before tax, eight after. A small chunk (seven digits) was put aside to ensure permanent upkeep of the castle, as well as permitting both of his parents to retire. Although, if the truth were to be told, his father didn't retire, per se. No Irishman in his right mind would voluntarily leave the premises of a distillery - he continued on in an advisory capacity at minimal wages.

Eamonn took the remaining funds, still a healthy eight digits in pounds sterling, and moved to Miami, away from the damp, cold land of his birth. He started a business with a vague enough charter to encompass almost everything, earning himself a permanent visa in record time. He has recently purchased a very spacious penthouse apartment on Biscayne Boulevard, with a balcony sporting a stunning view of the rising sun over the Atlantic.

That view of the sun rising over the Atlantic is one that he has not, I am lead to believe, seen yet. To see a sunrise would require Eamonn to rise far earlier than he ever has in his life.

And that is where we leave him for now. Fat, rich, warm and surrounded by greased up, tawny, bikini-clad beauties. The poor soul.

Stay tuned.

Australia

Word has it that the Australian Immigration Department will be stamping something in our passports any day now granting us Permanent Residence in this fine, fine country.

I'm delighted, and not just because it draws to a close what has been a dozen or more (actually, well more) years wandering around the world, living on one type of temporary work visa or another.

We (my wife and I) left Canada, the first time, to move to South Florida in 1988 because, as Canadians, the thought of walking out of a grocery stop Christmas week in shirts, t-shirts and sandals to warm air held enormous appeal.

HUGE appeal.

Once there we quickly adapted to the crappy service in the off-season, palmetto bugs the size of flying gunships and the thunderstorms. Holy crap, the thunderstorms.

As these types of things go, we were just getting comfortable when the company I was working for was bought by a company in L.A. ("Head west, young man!"). Because of my temporary work visa I was an indentured servant, unless I wanted to head back to Canada, a beautiful country unfortunately plagued with snow. So we went to L.A.

Now the thing I learned, quickly, about L.A. was that there were some very beautiful places there to live, and if I wanted to live in those beautiful places I'd have to add at least one zero to my salary, though two more would have been better.

We lasted there until the middle trimester of our oldest when the pre-programmed first pregnancy homesickness kicked in and we headed back to Canada.

First winter back we quickly - I mean VERY quickly - agreed that we were right the first time, and this snow shit wasn't for us, and further, that we would be best suited to a life between the Tropics of Capricorn and Cancer.

That decision had us move to Virginia a couple of years later (not between the tropics, but a home base for some travelling for awhile) where number 2 was born. When that little bub was two months old we headed to Malaysia (3 years), then to Taiwan (1 year), Atlanta (two more years), US Virgin Islands (1 year), Singapore (four years) and now here, where we've been for almost four years.

Until now, and except for the three year stint back in Canada after number one child, we've been 'temporary'.

It finally ends, and it couldn't happen in a nicer country.

Now, Canadian friends and relatives, hang on for a minute. I'm not saying I hate Canada. It's a beautiful country filled with beautiful people.

But there's this snow, and the unavoidable cold temperatures necessary to make snow. I really don't have enough hair on my body to handle it. Even less on the top, lately, and they say most heat is lost through the head. Yeah, yeah, it builds character. I've got enough character, thanks.

I've got distinct memories of walking to school in February, head covered with a woollen hat, snowsuit with hood and scarf, the only visible skin the band slightly above and below my eyes so FUCKING cold I thought I would die. My eyeballs hurt from the cold. I layer of snot froze on the outside of the scarf.

No thanks, not when there's an option.

Australia is a beautiful country, with very beautiful people. It's winter here now, and the high tomorrow is 19C. Yes, I gloat.

Granted there are some of the nastiest creatures on the face of the earth hanging out here, but the act of living with these guys kind of warps your sense of life, or living. Puts things in perspective, I'm trying to say.

There's a red-back spider living in the fuse box. If it bites me I'm going to feel like crap, but the odds of actually dying from it is so remote as to be non-existent.

In Canada, a black-widow or a brown recluse spider would have been the worse critter I'd see, and while neither one would kill you, the thought of getting tagged by one of them would put the fear of God in you.

After four years here, the attitude has become one of (and no bullshit here, really) that which doesn't kill isn't that bad.

I've been stung by blue-bottle jelly fish twice, my son once, and sure it hurt like a sonuvabitch, but it doesn't keep us out of the water.

But I'm making it sound like a dangerous place to live. It's no more dangerous that South Philly, East LA or some places on Gottingen Street after dark.

Now that the permanence part of our life has returned I'm afraid we're going to have to adjust our way of life. We can actually start looking at buying a house. That thought scares the hell out of me.

THE Mrs. Stephen Fry

She's a wonderful human bean, erm, being

A very quick note to tell you all, dear readers, emphatically, to follow Mrs Stephen Fry's Blog entries. She's the beleaguered or be-lagered wife of the often confused and frequently absent Stephen Fry, and her voice deserves to be heard.

Follow her ramblings here. I've been told she's armless. Terrible bass fishing accident.

What's that?

Oh, sorry. HARMless.

Later, all...

...full on leg stump, tickled away happily...

It's been too long, readers. My apologies. I'm going to make a promise to myself that I'll put something - anything - down here each Thursday evening (Australia time).

And in advance, apologies. I have a flu (maybe THE flu, but they're no longer testing moderate cases) so my head is full of snot, my bloodstream full of LemSip (Australian NeoCitron, my Canada dwelling readers) and my belly full of scotch. Coherence is not only not guaranteed, it's not to be expected.

So...

It's really winter here.

Of course, not the 40 below, snowy and windy jaws of hell winter I'm still trying unsuccessfully to erase from my memory, but a wet and chilly 10 degree winter, dipping down to maybe 4 or 5 at night. Still above freezing, but uncomfortable.

However, with the aforementioned scotch, and a fire in the fireplace, the only real annoyance is the fleet of moronic twats driving the roads that are abso-fucking-lutely convinced that it's necessary to slow to 30 km/hr on the gentlest of sloping curves, lest they careen out of control into another moronic twat.

God. I learned to drive on streets deep with snow where a four wheel drift on a corner was not only expected, but desirous. Sped up the cornering process by at least a factor of three. And was monstrously fun.

Slowing down on a damp road (not a WET road. Not a chance of hydroplaning at ALL) is like chewing pudding. Pointless and a bit silly. And makes you look like a moronic twat.

--oOo--

Speaking of silly, it's Ashes time again.

The Ashes, for the 98% of the global population that doesn't follow Cricket, is the biennial Test cricket series played between England and Australia. It is comprised of 5 Test matches, each 5 days long.

Yup.

Five days a game. I'm not going to even start to try and explain the game. Better you read about The Ashes here and test cricket in general here.

This year it's in England. The last series, in Australia was held during the Australian summer of 2006/2007 and Australia won all five matches.

I say this sport is silly, and difficult for a newcomer to understand, because of commentary like this (all taken from the BBC web site):

"Drifty-drifty from North, gently onto leg stump, and Strauss could sweep that in his sleep. The twirler then strays the other way and is driven beautifully for four more."

"...he flicks a Johnson half-volley high over square leg for four, and then goes down on one knee to flay one wide of off through cover for a dreamy, dreamy repeater."

"Siddle short and wide, slashed away effortlessly by Strauss for four behind square; next ball, full on leg stump, tickled away happily for four more. And then Haddin spills another easy take behind the timbers. It's Cardiff reversed."

I mean, what the hell? I know they are all words found commonly in the English language, and individually I can give definitions for most of them. Strung together in that particular order, though...haven't the foggiest.

But I'll continue to watch - at times.

First test, in Cardiff, was a draw (because after two innings England had scored more runs than Australia, but Australia ran out of time and couldn't get back up to bat their second inning. Makes perfect sense.)

Second Test is at the Lord's cricket ground in London. As I write, England is batting first and have 245 runs with 2 outs (they get up to 10 'out'). This is good, but ultimately means nothing. I think.

So, another log on the fire, top up the scotch, and back to the book.

Later, all...