Written in early 2000s:

Before I crack my knuckles and get stuck in to another furious bout of narrative masturbation, let me offer soothing and heartfelt apologies to those of the antipodean descent. I know Australia is extraordinary in many regards, but I have to say the place just isn’t for me. For once I have toned down the criticism within my report, but this is a passing phase, I’ll be back to the usual sodomising of cultural values before long.

The last 12 months from the time of this writing has been a tantalising 12 months, from diving in Mallorca, to studying Spanish in Chile, drooling over the optical wonders that is the Ornithologist’s paradise of Argentina, then skiing like an Al-Quaeda suicide bomber late for his mission in the Swiss Alps in St.Moritz. All of this has spoilt me, and in keeping with this new-found tradition, I have relocated to Sydney, Australia.

Thanks to the wonders of cyberspace, I applied for an electronic visa online, received it after 48 hours, and booked a flight to leave within the month. The flight was uneventful, although I was seated next to a merry fat Asian woman whose affection towards me was demonstrated by letting rip the most potent of gases for all 18 hours of the trip to Malaysia. I always thought these anecdotes were made up by bored travellers, but am disheartened to have lived through it. Whilst gazing at my TV screen, I would suddenly realise a stinging sensation in my eyes before sharply gagging and fearing a Sarin attack from some splinter terrorist organisation. The cow must have been raised on pure algae. However, I digress. I have been here three weeks and already my one year visa seems no
where near long enough to truly experience the largest island in the world.

Australia is home to over 20 million people, four million of which live in Sydney, which incidentally is not the capital, Canberra is. Although it would upset many to compare it to London, it is difficult not to. Much of the architecture is obviously British, and names like Hyde Park, Epping, and King’s Cross keep cropping up at various corners. And yet, it is entirely different from London. For a start, not every public place stinks of piss, and it is generally cleaner. To best envisage my description, picture London in your mind’s eye. Now swallow some really, really strong Grade A hallucinogenics. That more or less does the trick. The architecture stays the same, only it is surrounded by Dali-esque style trees and animals, precise and defined in their design, but somehow with a drooping melting
element to them. There are normal pigeons, but they wear Mohicans on their heads, and there are odd white long-legged birds with beaks that look like droopy syringes. And just when you think you are coming off the trip and returning to normality, fucking HUGE (pronounced hooooge) hairy arachnids play with your sanity by indulging in a game of hide and seek, them hiding in your cupboard or the hard to reach corner under your bed, you seeking with a metal-capped boot or Kalashnikov, depending on whether the arachnid is armed or not.

What strikes me most about this city is how decent it is. Your average person is friendly and chatty, your average Chinese takeaway is clean and efficient with great tasting food, and although Ozland does have the second highest rate of obesity to America, the birds are well dressed and generally attractive enough to want to talk to. There is a variety of race present here, the majority being Asian, although Lebanese and an odd mutated strain of European called “Backpacker” is also noticeable. Just as the Pakistanis in England, oriental Asians have cornered the market of newsagents and small supermarkets. Not uncommon is being greeted by a smiling cashier with a “G’day. You want to pay for dis? That be fy dollaaah.”. Stocked in the shelves of these stores are unbelievable ingredients and fruits that make one feel truly ignorant of the world. Most people in Europe consider a mango as a tropical fruit, often as a treat, yet here these things are part of the staple diet (depending on where in Australia one is). The cultural diversity  has created a wild cosmopolitan centre, comparable to what New York is to the rest of America. Design and style of every part of the world gets a peek here sooner or later, with Australia taking the best out of what is on offer, except when it comes to shirts. The average male wears shirts to look like a cross between Liam Gallagher and a black pimp on a golfing tour, meaning messy in style, and tasteless in colour, clashing against even pitch black darkness and so loud it results in Tinitis. When going out to a club, the style resembles stage-set for a porn film rather than a nightclub, with nipples and bulging muscles/hanging bellies being a requirement to flaunt.

The clubs are awesome, with music on a par with that which is churned out by any Balearic island DJ, although my only gripe would be that it becomes dull to be surrounded by tall gorgeous blondes the whole night, meaning brunettes get the best attention. A good attraction to look for is a Maori bouncer at the clubs. They are a warrior caste from New Zealand are considered to be the best bouncers as they know no pain nor fear, and if you meet one, I strongly recommend not pissing one off, as they will eat you after having violated every one of your body cavities. Despite the multitude of nationalities, being English is the least accepted, and bringing out the “actually I’m German” line does wonders for social ice-breaking. Obviously the Brits have said and done some nasty things in the past, and although it won’t hinder one’s progress in this over-relaxed country, it helps not to be obvious about it.

As for sport. This is a religion and not a hobby here. Sydney is blessed enough to have beaches within a ten minute bus ride of the central business district, and so it is not uncommon to see people come from the office, grab their surf board, and ride waves while foreign slackers like myself just look on with envy. Other every day activities include rugby, soccer, cricket, diving, lifesaving, body-boarding, and pumping iron on the beach after you have slathered your naked body with bronzing oil. For those wishing to
delude themselves that they are doing a sport and having fun, running is also a popular option, although that is dependant on one’s level of stupidity and love of masochism. Because of this fanaticism for sport, men tend to be REALLY BIG. Being over six foot and having shoulders like a Sasquatch is the norm here, and to make it worse, it seems that everyone is fitter than most olympic benchmarks. Gods and Goddesses sprint along the
seaside pathways at all hours, padding past small white-skinned packs of tourists that huddle in fear and wonder from such Spartan figures, boasting physiques that bring home the realisation of how average one really is.
Fuckers.

The Sydney lifestyle is very much what every European wants theirs to be like. There is the life and intensity of any major city here coupled with the exceptional nightlife and eateries to make any lifestyle glutton sweat with pleasure. At the same time however, there is a very laid-back approach to it all. Almost lazy. So lazy in fact, that the American lifestyle seems to be shining through at every corner. Shopping is done in massive malls,
fast-food restaurants tease you whenever you are precisely half-way between home and destination, or better said, between the watering hole you have stumbled out of and the closest form of transport to get you home. One oddity I have not yet understood is the Drive-Through Liquor Store. Obviously it is set up for those too drunk to get out of the car and walk to the shops and do not wish to risk sobering up in the fresh air. I shiver to
think what is meant by the Drive-Through Drug Store.

On a personal note, I am beginning to think that, other than in the realm of sport, Australia is TOO laid back. Some intensity and extremity would be a welcome sight. Everything is so calm (relative to the average European life), which is understandable given the great weather, scenery, material offerings on sale, but it just puts a dampener on the adrenaline. Having said that, I am about to sign up to go Heli-diving, so it seems that which I say is a crock of the proverbial.

I need to round off this diatribe by saying that yes, this is a marginally shallow view of the country, and its nature, geology and not to mention various other cities are not taken into account. But I consider this to be a good opener to whet your appetite. One of my less positive views of the place? Australian society is sooo anal….yeah, they are all relaxed and happy to party etc, but they just love to place Health & Safety and wag an index finger at someone about what is truly correct or not. In fact, I would say they give the Germans a run for their money in the lecturing department. Aussies are so conscious of the paradise they live in, they all seem to enjoy being experts on the true path to Nirvana, making everyone else’s life a misery by being a know-it-all.

Why is a ‘real’ fire so covered by some such as myself? I think the words of Lars Mytting say it best in his book “Norwegian Wood Chopping, Stacking and Drying Wood The Scandinavian Way”….Don’t snigger, it’s an excellent read and should be read with appropriate reverence by anyone wishing to have a fire at home.
QUOTE

“Yet the return of the log fire can hardly be reduced to a matter of money. Many people feel that a living fire gives a rich experience. We are drawn to the fire,just as we once gathered around the flames in former times. For many there is a qualitative difference in the heat supplied by the radiator and that provided by a woodburning stove. A stove can glow with heat. Your feet won’t get warm when you turn on the inverter, and a radiator has to be on for quite some time before it will drive the chill from a cold house. Electric radiators seldom deliver more than two thousand watts, whereas even a small woodstove is easily able to generate six thousand watts, and many stoves as much as fourteen thousand watts. Scientifically speaking, there is no measurable difference between the heat generated by electricity and that produced by combustion, but the body reacts in a different way to the more intense heat from the stove, not least because modern fireplaces with glass doors radiate heat. An ordinary electric radiator or hest pump only warms the air in the room, but flames and glowing embers release electromagnetic, infrared radiation that has much the. Same characteristics as sunlight. Warming occurs in the skin and the body as the radiation arrives, with an immediacy and an intensity that bring a feeling of well-being and security. The indoor climate is also slightly changed. The consumption of oxygen encourages a degree of air circulation, and the stove absorbs a quantity of dust. These factors, combined with the smell of wood and a little woodsmoke, and the sight of the ever-changing play of flames, connect us with the primordial magic of the fireplace.”

UNQUOTE

Couldn’t have said it better myself…..

Here endeth the lesson.

I find it unforgivable that the top ten posts on Google for ‘Best Place To Hang Out In Singapore’ are nothing but average drivel meant to shuttle average minded individuals to average locations dressed up to seem noteworthy. Although, now that I think about it, maybe that is in fact a worthy service, or else all those average and unappreciative types would end up here, at Atlas. A true temple in the heart of this metropolis, this oasis is a perfect watering hole day or night for those looking to orient themselves during their stay. 

Whilst I’m all about contemporary, this Art Deco statement smacks down any dissent and demands quiet applause. 

I know what you are going to say, “It looks ‘nice’, but I bet it is just an overpriced bar….” 

Silence, fool.

This is an altar to Bacchus himself, staffed by loyal and talented minions from Narnia. The moment you step into the room you are disconnected from the day to day reality by virtue of a wormhole in space, and from the second you are greeted to the slowing of time as you peruse the menu, you can’t help but feel that ‘life’ can wait, this is a pit stop from the daily hamster wheel. 

Just reading the menu is a tantalising collection of short stories, the descriptions of cocktails creating a surge of hormones as the mind races to fully comprehend the extent of the taste sensations that each title offers. 

Seriously, if that doesn’t sound like a dessert and a flirtatious love note at the same time, you must be dead inside. Actually, if none of this spiritually  tweaks any sensory organ of yours, then best if you stay away from this den of intrigue and leave the space free for true or budding connoisseurs. Spaces like these are rare, and need to be coveted without stripping them to a form of crass nudity and pasting their images across a multitude of advertising spaces. Treats such as Atlas are passed by word of mouth, filtering out the unworthy in the process. 

Hence, hear my words…. Come to Atlas, Parkview Tower, Near Bugis, Singapore. Average people are politely asked to refer to the Google top ten hits….. 

I am a firm believer that a person’s basic characteristics can be divined from their driving style alone, much like a country’s typical psychological development can be read through the styles of toilet paper that it consumes…….the more developed a country, the more luxurious the paper, albeit it with cultural hallmarks. German toilet paper is robust, in small stoic sheets, whereas American or British paper is generally thinner, but larger, with form taking the lead over the German function.

In any case, I digress. The point is, the way

Why is it that with all the ‘good’ that is being done, all the charities, good deeds and philanthropy, the world is not becoming a better place? Yes, we have never had it so good on this planet before, with the least amount of warfare, best medical, most spread of resources, almost unlimited connectivity and far-reaching extensive education. Then why do we all view the world as going to shit? Some people say that the ‘rich’ are screwing it all, but that’s crap. Many of the rich are extremely well educated, and along with that adopt good values and are kind and considerate of their environment and social groups. They help out, share, and make efforts. The number of billionaires who pump tons of money into philanthropy is also significant, and generally, the average person is the world is a ‘good’ person. So where is the magic negative swing? Is it all the badly educated people? The poor people? The desperate? Is it the faceless corporations, or just plain bad government? Has the media got us programmed to embracing misery because it fascinates us more than success? And has anyone ever proved that marketing is positive in any form? How can it be that with so much opportunity and evolved consciousness, we aren’t all amazed at how well we are doing? Why the gloom? And why are all the successful Indian social projects full of smiling droves of children? Why aren’t we seeing that in the suburbs of Birmingham with mobs of kids planting trees and ploughing fields of nutritious vegetables?

Why are we so fucking negative? Why does it seem to be such an achievement to be happy and experience success? Why can’t the surprise happen when we fail, instead of succeed?

My education, for all intents and purposes, was stellar, and I was given every opportunity to become a high-flying ‘city boy’. Yet, when I look back, I think I made more effort at avoiding that outcome than to embrace the corporate lifestyle and become ‘successful’. I did corporate, and literally mourned my death every day to work. But then, can anyone blame me when my first memories are of a deserted beach in the Canary Islands where I spent my first few formative years, exploring the coastline, finding pristine lizard skeletons and splashing in the inches deep water whenever the moon had waxed and brought the sea up over the beach to be slowly cooked to a pleasant 30 degrees allowing me to float in gigantic bath pools with no one in sight for 20km in either direction?

My fascination for the outdoors has always held me captive, although TV has fought a good fight to claim the same title. Thankfully the Gods have somehow always nudged me outside, or maybe it was my sugar overdose that forced me to burn off the nervous energy. Either way, I now have a collection of gear that more or less leaves me equipped for the apocalypse. The trick, however, much like sex, is knowing what to do with it.

The intention of this section of the blog is to share some healthy tips on how to enjoy the outdoors somewhat more, and maybe even help some timid types to regain some of those lost talents that sedentary city life strips from us. Seriously, if you don’t know how to make a fire without matches, that’s part of your evolutionary heritage you’ve just flushed away. Trust me, there is satisfaction in being able to achieve some of these survival traits.

 

I don’t think the locals like me. At the very least they think I’m odd. Or maybe alien. Picture this, a deserted Omani beach near the Yemeni border, Hollywood backdrop of massive sand dunes that stop short at the beach by the Indian Ocean at its rather feminine nature of sudden mood changes. That’s all cute and lovely, especially when you factor in the turtles shells from the last hatching that litters the sand, and the extraordinary aqualife that congregates around the reefs along the shoreline like a sales bonanza in a Dubai mall. I suspect that what really made the locals do a double-take was the white guy perched on a reclining camping chair with a laptop on his knees powered by a solar-charged battery listening to AC/DC. Maybe they are more Rachmaninov types. Regardless, the locals are lovely people and generally extremely hospitable. Normally they come along and ask if there is anything they can do to make your stay more hospitable, but my Jeep is so well kitted out with gear that I must resemble a cross between Mad Max and the Gumball Rally.

Let me make a judgment and say that I doubt you have ever had the pleasure of working like I do, although when I contemplate the subject of work I’m forced to giggle as I sit here on a deserted wild beach having just dived with some of the most diverse aquatic life on the planet and slurped on a coconut for some light refreshment between barbecued meals and the odd Oreo. I can guarantee there will never be anyone at a party to counter this experience with, “Well, there I was sitting in the office….” Shut up right there. You said, “Office’. You lose. Why? Because other than some insanely dirty sex act on a colleagues/boss’ desk or giving either one of them a violent kicking after an age of repressed hesitance, nothing will give you this same satisfaction. Sure, some of less enlightened or fatter types will wax lyrical about the feeling that power/money/title may give you, but you’ll never achieve this kind of nirvana until you wake up after your first heart attack or your second divorce, or get fired despite having been at the receiving end of one of those dirty sex acts.

Don’t get me wrong, money is phenomenal when you have it, but it doesn’t give you this experience. Experiences like this are honed, and practiced, or sheer wild chance. The reason this experience is extraordinary is because no one can be bothered to make the effort to achieve it any more. You have to ‘work’ for it. And when I say work, I mean go against what everyone else considers normal. It means kitting out an off-road car, packing for a variety of eventualities, driving 12 hours across inspirational areas named ‘The Empty Quarter’ and then setting up camp miles from any form of help whilst trying gauge whether you’ve plonked your only ride out of here safely out of the way of a possible torrent that may wash down a wadi without any prior warning. Having said that, I would undergo this trial for several lifetimes rather than spend my adult life commuting on a train or subway.

 

It has been 4 days, camped next to the sand dunes that flow majestically onto the beach being kept at bay by the exotic expanse of the Indian Ocean. This is where the turtles come to lay their eggs, and all the reef fish come to feed at high tide along with the serious predators such as Tiger sharks, dolphins and, depending on the time of year, the odd Orca. At night, when the sun plops into the ocean with a mute fizz, the sky is transformed into an often forgotten scene of pure universal expanse populated by its random creations, and piles of space junk that circle the Earth. It is mildly upsetting that a person needs to drive for a full half day just to witness the Earth devoid of light pollution these days, but when one does it truly releases a experience that cannot be replicated in any form. Couple that with the stress-busting flickers of an open wood fire on the sand and a full belly of beach-cooked bolognese, it makes for a reset of ones priorities.

But I digress, the true benefit of this is the ability to reset ones’ circadian rhythm, being active by free-diving for lobsters and beach-combing for firewood, and having the freedom to complete a train of thought without the interference of some email, text or phone call. It sounds so simple, but our lives have become fragmented to the degree that even goldfish have been found to have greater attention spans than us humans (3 seconds vs our 2.9 seconds). In essence, one ‘earns’ the right for nature’s wonders, and the pay-off is truly handsome. Immediately your metabolism kicks into a new gear, stripping you of those almost mandatory ‘love-handles’, not to mention the visceral fat that encases your internal organs. You start to sleep better, deeper and earlier. Your day becomes more enticing, without a groan of despair at the scheduled meetings or the incessant stupidity of regurgitating paperwork.

Ultimately, these kinds of experiences are as life-enhancing/prolonging as good nutrition as they feed the soul as much as leaching the rubbish out of your system. I dare anyone to not come back from a minimum week’s trip and feel transformed, both physically and spiritually.

 

 

Bariloche is a small but significant town in the heart of Patagonia, nestling on the southern shore of Lake Nahuel Huapi (pronounced NAH-WEL WAP-PEE) where resides the mythical Nahuelito, a Patagonian version of the Loch Ness. To the immediate east there are the dry and barren plains of Patagonia, and to the immediate west there are the enticing mountains of the Andes. The first day I arrived, it snowed for two days and then on the third the sun was so hot that one could sunbathe on the snow. In fact, it was so hot that I suspect that there must be a definite absence of Ozone, considering that my pate was burnt faster than if I had doused myself in petrol and tossed a match.
The people here are exceptionally friendly, and not necessarily because as a tourist one brings those attractive hard currencies, but rather because they are genuine here. Surprisingly enough, the town is twinned with St.Moritz, and the swiss influence is obvious. Not only are the houses and many of the names the same, but there is a chocolate shop on almost every corner. I truly believe this the reason that everyone is so sporty, because if not, then it would be a town entirely populated by fatties. As it happens, as with the rest of Argentina, the gene pool is truly blessed. If one is frail of heart or suffers from bad circulation, I do not recommend coming to Argentina, as the beauty is heart-stopping, for both sexes.

In contrast to Santiago, where dogs roam the streets in gangs, heckling the old and infirm, looking cool on the street corner and generally not giving a toss about that sub-species called ‘human’, the population of Bariloche actually owns the dogs. Every house and courtyard has a dog, be it for protection or for purely decorative use. This in turn becomes interesting at night, for if one happens to walk down a quiet street and one of those canines hears you, it will stay true to its employer and bark furiously, in turn waking the mutt next door, and within seconds a Mexican wave of awaking Poodles and Alsatians alike sweeps over the town and ripples out over the suburbs, only to have this canine version of Chinese Whispers end some 1600 miles away in Buenos Aires.

In my experience, other than Andorra, Bariloche is one of those few towns where one can strap on a backpack and simply walk with unfettered access into the supreme wilderness of roughly 7000 square kilometres of national park that surround this city of 200’000 people. The sheer vastness of the most pristine and sublime beauty is simply impossible to ignore. The food is sublime in its simplicity, where the locals smirk at the notion of trying anything other than their own regional meats and wines, and quite deservedly so. The average bbq leaves you dry-humping anything within reach once you have maniacally stuffed your face with the delights of fresh and unadulterated foods grown in the clean surroundings of Southern Argentina. Even if you hike up to one of the Refugios in the mountains that happens to be manned, they will serve you a simplistic dish of utter taste divinity that you’ll contemplate moving in right there and then.

If, however, you happen to be the more pampered type, try the Llao Llao hotel nestled on it’s own little patch of heaven at the far reach of town, roughly 20km from the centre….this luxury golf and spa resort mixes a history and service that leaves you dragging your heels in a depressed funk as you are courteously checked out by the staff on your last day.

 

See? Told you so.

But if that doesn’t give you a chubby, there is always the skiing in El Catedral, the resort nearby that will give you a taste of sweet sweet powder. As they say, you are not born until the day you ride powder, and achieving that in this remote enclave of paradise is hard to beat. You’ll find many of the ski instructors are well versed in Alpine skiing, given that there is an exchange program with St. Moritz allowing both countries to send their gifted ski Gods to each domaines.

However, if you have made the effort to make it all the way down to the southern tip of the planet, you’d be a fool for not trying one of the more obvious pursuits…..horseback riding.

On the whole, riding in Europe is a lovely affair, but generally restricted to spoilt nags being pampered by their owners to the point of challenging the podium at Crufts. The beauty of this part of the world is that, well, it is all as it should be. When you go riding here, there simply are no fences….just wide open spaces. Personally, I think this should be a fundamental right for every being, but the Establishment has other plans. In any case, there is seldom an experience more thrilling and inspiring than having the vast Patagonian Steps to roam around on whilst plonked comfortably on western style saddles carried by ‘real’ horses. By real, I mean hardy and unfussy beasts that are simply content to do what you wish. In essence, there is none of that miserable frustration of constantly egging your horse on to take a few steps and stay in line…..out here, they do what they are supposed to do….a kind of ‘point and shoot’ style. You wanna gallop, you gallop….there is no health and safety to restrict you for the sake of the bicycle lane, or the dozy dog walker getting in the way of that delicious straight bit of the forest path. Patagonian horses are not prissy about the weather, they don’t need constant preening and emotional counselling, and they enjoy as much of a challenge as the person sitting on them……In all my life, I have had very few experiences that have been of equal stature as that of chasing stag on horseback through a forest and bursting out on the Steps only to witness the stags bound effortlessly away whilst the sun starts to glide cosily behind the jagged silhouettes of the Andes. Even to this day, my heart yearns to return….

 

Thoughts written in 2001

For once I shall endeavour to leave alone sensitive political issues and
ignore classist arguments. This time I wish to make a statement. I have
fallen in love. Yes, it`s true, and this time it is a life-changing
experience, one that may make me move to live with her whilst I still have
time on this continent. Who is she you all ask? Well, let me describe her to
you and then you will all understand my attraction towards her. I recently
went on a trip and met her almost on my first day. Most strikingly, she is
exceptionally beautiful, with a huge presence that leaves an impression on
any man, or woman for that matter. She has a beauty internationally
recognised to be superior to most others in the world. Although Chile does
have beauty, Chile`s beauty in comparison is a mere light switch away. This lady
speaks with an accent that causes severe hormonal imbalance in favour of
testosterone even with the utterance of a single word. My new-found heart
flutter has class, style, and above all passion, possibly attributed to her
European roots mixed with the Latin fire. Many say that she is arrogant, but
I believe that to be a misunderstood character, for she is simply proud of
her heritage. Despite the fact that at the moment she is financially
challenged, her background boasts of wealth and once international
recognition. True, she certainly is not politically correct, and honesty is
not one of her finer traits either, but what do you expect from a Latina?
She always has a smile on her face and parties every night into the early
hours of the morning. As for her appetite, she certainly makes me seem like
a sparrow pecking on crumbs when compared to her desire to eat meat. This,
obviously, is endearing to any man, and makes going out to dinner a joy
every time by not having to face pathetic rabbit food salads and refusals for
dessert. Her physical health is impressive, and she is a wild sports
fanatic. Said short, she is exactly my type. I am sure from my description
of her you can all appreciate why I feel so comfortable with her. Her name
you ask? Her name is Argentina.

I am going to refrain from giving a complete indication as to my identity, mainly out of a healthy respect for my own privacy which I realise is a mildly moronic exercise given the baring of my personal thoughts to the ever unruly cyberspace. Let’s keep it to the basics….I’m a qualified European who has paid rent in 13 countries so far and speaks relatively fluently in 4 languages and one dialect after having studied in 3 universities and graduating from two of them. My curriculum vitae is eclectic to say the least, meaning that recruitment agencies are far too basic to know what to do with someone like me. Despite having started out in Corporate, I have fled at every available opportunity to taste the very essence of what my heart desires at the time. Inevitably this has forced me to become an entrepreneur with a penchant for the Great Outdoors, being most satisfied whilst staring into a log fire in some patch of wilderness and munching on lightly charred steak under a night sky awash with stars and space junk as the baby turtles scamper towards their heavily weighted destiny. Yes, I am healthy and athletic, find the concept of inhaling smoke into my lungs as idiotic, and get more excited about cake than I do alcohol. Yet my dark side has me addicted to TV, driving offensively, and speaking my mind with an assassin’s focus that, whilst well-meaning, has cost me many a door to close. On a spiritual level I would say that I have an utter disregard for any religion, yet will fight anyone’s corner to preserve their faith. My life’s experiences have taken me from the serene connection of higher intuition to the lows of complete self-despair and self-doubt. As I now hit my fourth decade, wisdom is starting to prevail and I like to think that I have more certainty with regards to the essence of being, be it personality or contribution to the world. I may be an avid fan of the Environment, yet am completely aware of the hypocrisy in that I am one the worst offenders each time I strap into yet another intercontinental flight or gun my 4 litre engine. However, to complete my monologue, just know that I am an extremely principled individual, with high standards that have alienated many a friend or colleague. Whatever my quirks and oddities, I’m a good person and focused on leaving a positive legacy behind.