In many ways it says a lot about taking a 4 year old and an 8 month old on a big trip. Parts of the trip were a real dirty nappy. For example, I suspect our car service driver from the airport in London might take a few less trips for people requiring 2 baby seats in the future after both our babies cried their way across the city. Also sitting on a beach in France with a baby is hectic because the ground is made of choking hazards, beautiful, smooth, oval shaped stone hazards.



While there are some hard bits, it’s also amazing out there. My 4 year old loved the platinum jubilee decorations, Big Ben, the London Bridge and the double decker buses, but not as much as the playground with the big sticks. Also people love babies, even in other countries. Strangers make baby sounds to babies in all languages, it’s a human affirming trait.


When I’m at home and I hear my son say “thank you” to a person in a store it is pleasing and important. Hearing him say “merci beaucoup” in a tiny shy voice in a strange foreign place was enchanting.


Yep, the whole trip was a nappy in a bag tag, and I know I was very lucky to do it.

Margaret grew up in small town Canberra in the 50s and 60s, in a moderate and harmonious family. Dad did numbers in the public service, Mum ran the house and the three kids. One of the early messages was try hard and don’t brag about yourself - modesty was important. Nobody played the guitar.


Now Maggie, she needed to fly, so she went to California as a young adult. It was fun and she “bummed around for a decade.” She waited tables, met performers, travelled to Europe where she pan-handled as an armature musician and visual artist. One day a friend in Santa Monica said she should try working as a Real Estate agent. With no other real ideas to choose from she decided to give it a go. The transition would be one of the hardest feats she ever attempted.


As a child her parents had said ‘don’t skite’. The culture of her country had said ‘don’t be a tall poppy.’ Something inside her had said ‘relax, create, it’s all ok, cruise.’ The new profession in Southern California in the 80s though demanded the opposite. She had to act in a new way, she had to “change her personality”, she needed to embrace the brag and sell. This was uncomfortable for her and not easy to do. Maggie went for it though, she adopted a real estate persona and found that over time it worked. She had success at work but also noticed that the agent persona become her actual personality - she changed.


Santa Monica became too much and she moved to a mountain ski town. She found mentors and her own system for success at work, Maggie thrived. People knew the ‘Aussie’ in Big Bear town, they liked that she was blunt and confident. To me she always seemed to have embraced America, and her up tempo character.




Maggie’s winding down as a real estate agent these days. After 40 years people now call her rather than the other way around. She’s done the work and the full power agent persona isn’t as important anymore. This year she found her old guitars in the cupboard - the agent didn’t play, but now Maggie sits on the deck most afternoons and plays. Her fingers are coming back and feeling the strings again. She told me she doesn’t regret anything, but who does these days?


Maggie changed as a person and it was one of the hardest things she’s done, now she’s changing again and it’s as easy the summer breeze. Strum on cool Aunt Maggie.

During the Roman republic citizens voted for their representatives based on a class system. For the top jobs of consul, praetor and censor the Roman’s voted in blocks based on wealth and status. The first class consisted of the wealthiest citizens who formed the senate, they always voted first. Together with the equestrian class these men held more votes that the second, third, fourth, fifth and proletariat (head count) classes combined.

On voting day the rich and powerful stood at the front of the line talking about how rich and powerful they were, presumably people said things like ‘first class over here’ or ‘priority citizens are welcome first’. Then the senators walked up and exercised their privilege while everyone else (as long as they were male and a citizen) stood around in the heat waiting for their turn. The votes were announced progressively and often the results were decided before anyone in would the lower classes even got their vote.

I wonder how much different the situation is now? Western democracies don’t vote in sequential classes anymore, however money still seems to be a critical element of success. How far have we come from the Roman version of democracy and power?

This morning my alarm woke me up at 5:30am in London - we had to leave for the first bus at 6. Dani was already up as the baby had been feeding at 4am and it’s hard to get back to sleep sometimes. The bags needed a final packing, some food had to be rocked down and two children had to be woken, dressed and hustled out the door.

Leg one: The walk to the bust stop usually takes 10 minutes. With 3 weeks worth of luggage, a sleepy four year old, a baby in a carrier and a vague idea of where we were going it was likely to be longer. We left at 6:05 and were late for the bus. On the other side of the travel scales was our hosts, who are the most helpful and engaged friends to stay with. John ‘Fred’ Chop caught up to us with the bag of snacks we’d forgotten and helped carry the big bag to the bus stop. Dani played ‘fast tiger, fast leopard, rocket” with Pan and we made it with a couple of minutes to spare.

Leg two: the number 8 local bus was a double decker. It was a quarter past 6 and the front row was available. The ride through East London was brilliant.

Leg three: the express train to Stansted left from Liverpool station which is just a little bit grand. We had a pretty good fall on the escalator as someone insisted we line up in correct Ninja Turtle order then sat down on the rapidly shrinking metal steps. The only real casualties were a couple of rice rusks and 4 precious minutes. Dani started to buy the tickets 6 minutes before the train was due to depart. We ran into the platform - bags, baby and all after another trip and fall through the ticket barrier from a partially awake boy. The helpful staff member offered “first five carriages only, you better hurry”, we then legitimately started to run. We burst into the rear door and literally collapsed into a pile with 45 seconds to spare. “You did so great Pan,” said Dani. “That was not great,” he yelled in reply.

Leg four: the flight was only an hour and 45. The airport halloumi and avocado English muffins we’re pretty good. There was an actor from Bridgerton in our row, the staff said “it’s nice to have the Viscount onboard.” Lion smiled at him, he smiled back.

Leg five: it is twice as hot in Southern France than in England. We got the coach from the airport to the train station. It was the wrong train station so we fudged a modified ticket arrangement. The train ride along the coast was superb.

Leg six: to much consternation the Airbnb host confirmed (curtesy of multiple French message the night before - worlds best London friends) that the 67 bus we needed to get from the Hyères train station to the accomodation didn’t run on Sundays. Of course the next day when the 67 came around the corner we climbed on with the other holiday types and cruised down. I spoke to a priest for most of it.

Leg seven: we waited on the stoop for an hour for the Airbnb host. We read Harry Potter. The view from the place is incredible. It was a great day.