The Bed and Breakfast man: Travelin man.

I've been away for a while, both do due a busy work schedule and for some pre baby "let's get away so we can reminisce about what going away was like with just the two of us until we do it again in our sixties unless junior becomes a golf genius and makes us a squillion", time. I was in Queensland a week or two back with my accountant/mate. Always go on trips with your accountant and keep every receipt. This trips business expenses included dressing up in tuxedos, going to the casino and playing Texas hold'em, and basically looking like James Bond wannabes. This was actually my first time at a casino. I've been to the one in Sydney, but only to see a show at the Lyric Theatre, not to gamble. And I must say that casinos are the most soulless and death defyingly boring places on the planet. The night also included one of my least favourite pastimes. Night clubbing.

I had, as is usual, 3.2 zillion comments on my ridiculously old fashioned moustache. "Twirl it baby", "Kerrrist, is that thing real"?, and so on. But the night club scene was infinitely more annoying. I had actually volunteered to go back to the hotel and let the other two night owls enjoy themselves, but as is often the way the cry of "Maaate, it's only 4am and the night is young and we're so drunk that we're going to do stupid things in the middle of the street and embarrass you until you say yes" had me paying a five dollar cover charge, having my wrist stamped and walking into a Maelstrom of noise in a tux with my bow tie undone and drooping around my neck.

I stood with my mates in a huddle near the bar tapping my feet and trying to look hip or whatever it's called. Then from my left came a tug on my mo. I turned in disbelief to see a young woman in tight jeans, high heels, and a push up strip of cloth doing exactly that. With the look of anger on my face she recoiled stammering that she just wanted to know if it was real. I thought about grabbing her breasts and asking the same question, but men in tuxedos don't do that sort of thing. One of my mates was chatting up an "Italian bird", and my accountant was working out the profit and loss of being friendly towards the barmaid when I decided that I would call it a night.

The next day in jeans, boots and a tshirt I got far fewer comments. People probably assumed I was a cricketer. We had to check out of the hotel at 9.30am, and with the flight not being until 2.30pm we did what all good Aussie men do and went to the pub for breakfast, stayed for lunch and then cabbed it to the bar at the airport.

I had Monday at work and then Mrs A and I drove down to Kangaroo valley for five days. We stayed at the K.V Golf club in a cabin on the 17th green. We tootled around 19th century villages in the mornings, and in the afternoons Mrs A practised rally driving in a golf cart whilst I proved that I should take up origami and leave gold to people who actually have hand eye coordination.

And so the time of rest and relaxation is over. It's work tomorrow. Oh, and Rowdy? I didn't mow the lawn.