Fat boy always wins at see-saw

Come New Year's Eve the team can be found heading into Sydney harbour along with literally one million other folk. Dilly and Seamus stayed at home to keep the 'Flying Bat' at bay. We watched the feativities from the balcony of Keith and Ann Lane's new house on Mc Mahon point. It overlloks the famous bridge. The best seats in Sydney to watch the best firework display I've ever seen. The boats in the harbour were all lit up, also the Lunar Park funfair across the water, all the buildings and most of the people. A smallish party was in swing at Ann's. Delicious food (glorious new spuds and salmon and many other delights. Perkins himself loves the deserts). Here we met Lindsay and Sue Johnson, Garnet and his young daughter and several others of the Irish diaspora. A lady handing around nibblets sported reindeer horns worn tiara style. At midnight the bridge erupted with fountains of light, rockets, explosions and streams of golden glittery light falling down into the harbour. From the Opera house a laser beam lit a giant globe that slowly rose to the top of the bridge, turning colour as it travelled.

Morgan skilfully sniffed out the champagne and the guests who were interested in fashion. We have learnt a lot from him on the preening front and realise that we are underdoing it by about an hour a day. He is always immaculately presented and the ironed white shirt is to be seen at breakfast at best advantage against the sugar pink of the Strawberry Milkshake (fast becoming a breakfast favourite with some of the party). He has now returned to NZ and is much missed by all three generations of Poodle. There is the promise of a party though in Auckland on 18th Feb.

The evening was rouded off by a hideous trek home through the streets of Sydney along with a bucketful of drunken revellers all looking for the same non existent taxis and buses. It took us about 3 hours to find our way back. Vanity took it's toll. Camille was barefoot after about a mile, high heels were lacerating . Mrs Poodlem's sandals were cutting her feet and she hobbled. My new Birkenstocks were raising an open sore and worst of all was Morgan who returned to the Christian Centre like a true pilgrim with bleeding feet. The wages of sin is sore feet. That said we all behaved exemplarily but were never so glad to be home and unhurt by the rowdy British lout who harangued our bus as we shot thru the suburbs. He brandished a light sword which he suggestively slung below the belt and was egged on by an admiring girlfriend whom I wanted to throttle. we had the last laugh though. When he alighted from the bus he turned to us all and made a 'phallic gesture' by way of goodbye at which point the sword fell off.