Even when travelling the world was a distant dream, Rachel insisted that we had to spend Christmas Day on Bondi Beach. There was no way we would wish Jesus happy birthday anywhere else. Even when the weatherman announced that there would probably be rain, we wished and hoped that he would be wrong. When we awoke on Christmas morning to see cloudy skies we assumed they would blow over. So we packed up our boxes of wine, jumped on the train and crossed our fingers...

We soon realised that we were not the only people wishing to fulfil the Bondi Christmas cliche. But it certainly isn't a dream which many native Australians share. There were approximately 67 people on the beach. This might have been due to the weather, but i'd venture to suggest that the banning of alcohol and the searching of bags was a bigger factor (apparently drunk people and strong currents don't mix well). Instead, the backpacker community had decamped en masse to the grass verges overlooking the sand. Armed with little more than furry Santa hats, blind optimism, and boxes of cheap wine, dozens of groups of inebriated travellers stoically refused to accept that the dream had died. The spitting rain was ignored as footballs were booted around and alcohol imbibed. The whole experience reminded me of a music festival. With no bands. And crap weather.

Yesterday was also the first day i felt truly homesick. Christmas without your family is no kind of Christmas. The traditional Ward timetable will have ticked on relentlessly without me - although who took my role as chief breakfast maker remains an unsolved mystery. Instead of my regular lunchtime pints with Ross Virr i wolfed down a six-inch meatball marinara from Subway for Christmas dinner (i'm so ashamed of myself). Although i did get relentlessly and terribly drunk - some things remain constant, wherever you celebrate! I'll also make a better attempt at phoning my family at the next available opportunity.

I'd be thoroughly sick of Sydney if it weren't for the people. We've been here too long. We're existing rather than living. Stagnating rather than moving. But as we've dragged our backpacks around the world we have met some rather spiffing people who make staying worthwhile. At the nucleus of the Kanga House community is Tina Mistry: it's Tina's world, the rest of us just live in it. She's stalked us since we touched down in Malaysia and i hope she continues to do so. Plans are now afoot, however, to take our leave of Tina and the Mistry Men and head to New Zealand. It'll be a sad day when we say au revoir to Scott, Mo, Jase, the inimitable Connar and the revolving cast of goons and loons who have become our Sydney brethren. It's hard to imagine that any group of people could take a 1980s cordless telephone and turn it into a comedy implement of such epic proportions that i can barely describe.

I hope you all had an amazing Christmas and that Santa brought you everything you wished for. I hope the traditional Boxing Day Bridlington Booze Binge is an epic success and couldn't think of anywhere i'd rather be in the world than Nag's Head under starter's orders. Have one for me.