So after the long, arduous trek into the Fjordland of NZ, we're back in Queenstown with our tails between our legs. The Milford Sound weather well and truly chewed us up and spat us back out.

After spending a couple of days in Te Anau chasing glowworms, avoiding rain showers and sampling the (excellent) venison pies, we headed out on the Milford Road to Milford Sound, reckoned by Sir Ian McKellen (as if one needed any other reccommendation) that it was one of the most beautiful drives in the world. The weather when we left Te Anau was pretty rubbish, with what seemed like gale-force winds and massive rain dumps, so we're that hopeful that we'd get a crystal clear view of the Sound. However, as we neared the Homer Tunnel, it became clear that we were not dealing with just any weather - this was Fjordland weather and it meant business. The wind was howling across the lake, and our poor van took a battering from the rain. Eventually, we got to a roadblock - they were clearing the debris of a landslide from the night before and a very nice, apologetic man called Ian informed us that the road would be closed. So... A few kms from the Homer Tunnel, we had to turn around and go back to Te Anau, where we didn't stop, but sped on through to Queenstown instead. It was quite astonishing how quickly the weather changed, as we left behind the dark clouds quite rapidly, and were soon in glorious sunshine. However, the prevailing south-westerly is still present, churning up the lake into breakwater and blowing us off our little feet. Plans for kayaking today have had to be abandoned, and don't even get me started on the frisbee golf...

So, althought the sun is shining brightly over Queenstown, wehaven't been able to partake in the activities we would have liked to. Instead, we've done our Christmas shopping for each other, and Howie has gone off downhill mountain biking which I decided not to partake in. I prefer to spend the afternoon in quiet contemplation, bracing myself for the onslaught of anziety that will inevitably catch up with me tonight and won't leave until tomorrow morning at about 10.30am, when I will have thrown myself off a perfectly good bridge and shall (hopefully) be strutting around in my souveneir t-shirt along with all of the other smug youths hanging around the AJ Hackett booking centre.

'The Bungy' is set for tomorrow at 10am. We've decided that Howie should go first because he is a boy and should therefore be more brave with these things. Then, it's my turn. After having been to see the bridge and the swirling torrent that rages underneath (that's a real torrent, by the way, not a metaphorical one), one cannot say much but to remark that it is, indeed, a long way down. It's 43m to be exact, which might not sound much, but when there's nothing between you and oblivion but a big rubber band, the prospect is rather daunting. They dunk you in the river as well, and apparently the water is - to quote the lady who took our booking - 'not warm'. Nevertheless, we're both rather looking forward to it with a healthy dose of anxiety.

If all goes well, reports will be made here tomorrow, hopefully with such expressions as 'dude', 'awesome' and 'extreme'. May the weather be good, the instructors be kind and the bungy rope be strong.