The flight over to Sydney was fine. No turbulence to speak of. A passable film (Sky Captain and the People of Tomorrow or some such nonsense. I was hoping it would be good, looking at the cast - Jude Law, Gwyneth Paltrow, Angelina Jolie - but I was disappointed) and acceptable food. I was sat next to a Kiwi emigree artist who has been in Sydney for 15 years. When she saw that I was reading a vaguely intelligent book (Krakatoa: The Day The World Exploded by Simon Winchester; it's really good by the way) she decided I would be an appropriate person to have staying in her house as a paying guest. But I have to say I didn't take to the way she would get people's attention by tapping insistently on their arm - it wasn't only me, she did it to her friend in the next seat too.

As I got off the plane, it finally began to dawn on me that I had arrived in the country I will be spending the next year in. I was looking forward to catching up with Julian, an old work colleague who now lives here with his Australian wife Fleur and their two children, Natasha & Josef. But I couldn't get too excited yet because I still had to go through all the immigration formalities. I was expecting the passport control & customs rigmarole to take forever, based on the queues I had seen here in December on my way to Hong Kong, but luckily I was the first person to reach the desk on this occasion, so I was through in a flash. Even getting the work permit sticker in my passport took next to no time. As a result, I was through in rather less than the hour I had anticipated - in fact it took five minutes. So I rang Julian, who said he was on his way.

I walked out of the terminal building and into the middle of the carpark, as arranged with Julian. And it was there that I felt a sense of delighted anticipation well up inside me. The feeling was akin to what I experienced that time arriving in Nice and driving along in my hire car. Perhaps it's something that happens to me on arrival in all hot sunny places!

Then Julian pulled up, we threw my bags in the boot, and drove off back to his house in a suburb on the North Shore called Lane Cove. There we met Fleur and baby Josef. Natasha was already asleep. We tucked in to the bottle of kahlua I had brought as a thankyou present, and Julian & I reminisced about Powergen days. It was quite a strange feeling for me to think fondly of PGI people who I haven't seen for some years now and to talk about electricity industry issues. Hm, I'm clearly not "over" it yet; I haven't achieved "closure". All in good time.

I spent my first full day in Oz getting worked up about finding a job. This fear manifested itself in classic essay-crisis ways: first I avoided the topic altogether, by playing with Natasha all morning; next I made an attempt to get into the topic by reading my Lonely Planet, but quickly got distracted into reading about other parts of Australia instead of Sydney; then I avoided the topic again, by having a splendid lunch in a North Chinese noodle bar in Chinatown; then finally I got down to it and began walking up and down the streets of downtown Sydney looking for a SIM card, info on bank accounts, and temping agencies.

In between times, I spared the occasional thought for the fabulous place I am now in. Sydney sits like a glittering gemstone in the palm of the hand that is Sydney Harbour, its watery fingers reaching up and and over the sandstone coastline. The sun was strong, but the air wasn't too hot and every now and then a fresh breeze darted along the pavements. People everywhere were walking contentedly along the busy streets. Shining high-rise towers jostled for space with elegant fin-de-siecle buildings and churches. The Opera House stood as a crowning glory at the northern end of town, flanked by the many ferries that ply these waters and the monumental Sydney Harbour Bridge.

The results of my day's enquiries were mixed. Sadly, I found only one temping agency, and they said I should approach them through their website. It took me hours to find a Telstra shop, which I have to say I find deplorable seeing as they're the bloody incumbent operator and should be doing their damnedest to stay number one. If I hadn't been told to avoid Vodafone because their coverage is a bit ropey, I'd have gone with them hours before because they have shops everywhere. On the banking front, again I was told the best way is to go via the internet.

On the plus side, I squeezed in a bit of tourism (the Museum of Sydney, which is a bit rubbish but had a lovely montage of three short films set to 20th century classical music about the conception and building of the Sydney Opera House) and even chatted with Human Resources in the Intercontinental Hotel about a job there. They seemed less than keen to entertain an application from someone with my kind of work visa; evidently they want staff to be there longer than three months. Ah well.

That evening Fleur & Julian cooked up a delicious chicken dinner on the barbie. I introduced them to the delights of kahlua & orange juice (sounds gross, but tastes like liquid chocolate orange!) and we spent a few happy hours chatting.

My Day Two in Oz ran at a slightly different pace. I spent the day at home, playing with my CV and Julian's daughter. Slowly my mind is turning more thoroughly to thoughts of work. It's a grim inevitability. There's no running away from it.

On Day Three (that's Friday in everyone else's calendar) I once more headed into town, to see if I could find myself a job. I walked up and down Oxford Street, where Fleur had told me there are lots of bookshops. (Well, I like reading, so I thought I'd give that a bash.) It's a slightly run-down looking part of town, and the centre of Sydney's gay nightlife judging by the clubs and adult shops I passed. Just nearby is a delightful inner-city suburb called Surry Hills, which I could quite imagine myself living in. It had little traffic, lots of small restaurants and plenty of faded elegance. But apparently there are quite a few areas like that, I just haven't seen the others yet.

I drew a blank on the bookshop job front (nobody needed anybody) so I thought about maybe working in a coffee shop. The girl behind the bar of the first one I asked about work in directed me to Darling Harbour, where the bars are much busier with the huge throughput of tourists in that area. I walked down and sure enough the first bar I asked in seemed keen to consider me. The only hurdle I have to overcome is the RSA Certificate - that stands for Responsible Serving of Alcohol - which has recently become a mandatory requirement for people working anywhere that sells booze. But it's no biggie: attned a one-day course costing around 80 dollars and Bob's your uncle. I'll hopefully do that early next week.

The weather had worsened over the course of the day, starting off muggy and hot but turning overcast when a band of stormy weather came over from the west. Just as I made my way home from town some huge spots of rain clattered against the bus windows, and I thought the worst of our evening's plans - Julian, Fleur, Natasha, Josef & I wanted to go into Lane Cove village centre to eat Italian and watch Finding Nemo on a big open-air screen. But by the time I got home the storminess had subsided. We went out and had a lovely evening, the occasional burst of lightning banishing the evening gloom from behind the big screen. When we got home we put the kids to bed and then sat outside with wine and chatted well into the night.