Monday arrives, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed for some news about the Sydney job. I ring Steve at the agency, but he hasn't heard from Commonwealth Bank. He says he'll chase them. Meanwhile, I decide to go back to my new favourite place - Straddie Island. I leave The Rig on the mainland. Taking a car is too expensive for just one person who's just going to the far end of the bus route. So I just go back to Cylinder Beach, bob about in the surf for a while, have some food in a cafe at Point Lookout, and generally do nothing much.
There's no phone signal on the island but, sitting on the afternoon ferry back to the mainland, I ring Steve again. He's spoken to Commonwealth, but they don't have any more news. It's frustrating, as I should have had an answer last Friday. But it's only been a couple of working days since the interview, so I remind myself that it's not unusual for delays like this, especially if they're trying to get an answer from a manager who isn't around. I suppress the feelings that something is going wrong. Nevertheless, when I mention it to Lisa, she says that there's definitely work available for me at Queensland Police. Helpful as always, she sets up a meeting with a colleague of hers - a Project Manager who needs an outstanding chap like me.
So, on Tuesday morning, I'm strolling through Brisbane's CBD, on my way to a coffee shop where I'm to meet Lisa and her colleague Christine. My phone rings, and Lisa tells me to come to a place on George Street called Kiss My Coffee! I'll recognise it by the pink sign over the door! She finds my dismay hilarious. I can't believe I have to go and talk to my potential boss in a pink-signed place called Kiss My Coffee. I forewarn her that I'm not wearing hotpants, and she just laughs even more at my discomfort. In the background, I hear Christine saying "No hotpants? Ahh, what a shame". I walk on, wondering what kind of early morning experience I'm letting myself in for. Sure enough, toward the bottom end of George Street, I see the dreaded pink sign (Lisa forgot to mention the love hearts), I clear my throat and practice saying hello in a gruff Yorkshire baritone. The morning sunshine is bright, and the inside of the coffee shop is dark. My eyes trying to adjust, I think I can see Lisa sitting next to a woman with short blonde hair. I stride in.
"Hi Jerry. Christine, this is Jerry. Jerry, this is Christine"
"Hello Jerry. Pleased to meet you."
"Hello Christine. Pleased to meet you too."
We shake hands.
Lisa and Christine have drinks already. I get a glass of water, and sit down to chat. My eyes have adjusted to the light, and I see that Kiss My Coffee is a small coffee shop with a strong 'music' theme. The posters on the wall include Hendrix, The Doors, Bowie, Zeppelin, and numerous other legends. I'm pleased to see AC/DC represented, and even more pleased when the opening chords of "Highway To Hell" fill the room.
We chat about almost everything except work. We talk about how long I've been in Brisbane, and what I think of the place. We talk about when Lisa and I worked together in England. We talk about Christine's travels around Australia and New Zealand. She seems to think that, having spent so many years away from Germany, she has hardly any accent left. In fact, she has an accent that wouldn't be out of place in 'Allo 'Allo. But she's friendly and she's nice and, when we finally get round to talking about work, she clearly knows what she's talking about.
The work is more technical that what I normally do, but we talk about this and both Lisa and Christine are sure that I'll be fine. I'm happy to trust them, and confirm that I'm interested. Leaving Kiss My Coffee, I've warmed to the place. The seats are comfortable, the music is good, the decor is interesting without trying too hard to be cool, and the air-conditioning is a lifesaver.
I get a follow-up text from Christine and one from Lisa. It all looks good.
I walk around the CBD for a while, and then through Fortitude Valley and down into New Farm. I check a motorbike shop that should be selling a bike I'm interested in - a Moto Morini Corsaro. Before I came to Australia, I was going to test-ride one in the UK. They were unknown at the time, but they've had some press coverage since then, and been getting good reviews. The prospects of haggling a discount are looking less likely. Unfortunately, although this is my third visit, the bikes still haven't arrived. Maybe my test ride will be back in the UK after all.
The rest of the day, I amble around, pondering the Sydney situation and the QPS role. I speak to Dawn, who's interested in seeing Straddie Island. Paul might visit one day, but he's just started his new job. And anyway, Dawn is his guinea pig. If she says it's ok, and the ferry ride won't make him seasick, he'll come along another time. Dawn and I make plans to go tomorrow.
Wednesday arrives and I call round on Paul and Dawn. Their new apartment is good, with a nice tiled yard out the back with a barbecue that's the size of an entire stainless steel kitchen. It was a great deal apparently. It looks like it weighs as much as The Rig. The three of us chat for a while, until we bid Paul farewell, and hit the road.
Driving in The Rig, with no doors and no roof, is a very different experience. I love it, and I've started to feel quite confined in cars that have doors and a roof. But I'm not sure what Dawn will think of it. It can be quite a vulnerable feeling, especially zipping along the Highway in shorts and flip flops (or thongs as the Aussies insist on calling them). But I needn't have worried - Dawn seems to be enjoying the experience - a ride that takes "wind in the hair" to new extremes.
With a guest and some luggage, we take The Rig gets to visit Straddie again. Dawn likes it, although she's rubbish at going in the sea. She gingerly wades into the surf, and after about half an hour, she's probably knee deep. She eventually gets in as far as her waist, but isn't really interested in splashing around like I am. She has a book to read, so she returns to dry sand while I continue to splash around like an idiot.
We then go for a bite to eat in the cafe at the Stradbroke Hotel. Looking at other plates, the burgers look great, as do the steaks. But it's too hot for that kind of food, so I go for a Caesar salad. When that arrives, that's good too.
We head back to the ferry and, when I finally drop Dawn off at her place, I now have a buddy who can talk about Straddie Island. We both bore Paul for a while. I stay for a while and have a drink and a chat. On the way home, I still haven't heard from Steve at the agency. I've been too busy to chase him today, but it's starting to feel like bad news is imminent. We'll see what (if anything) happens tomorrow.
On Thursday, I speak again to Steve, and it's not sounding so good. The project that Commonwealth had in mind for me has gone on hold. It could be an excuse, but the guys did seem keen on the phone and when I was there at the interview. So I tell myself that they're telling the truth. Not that it matters. The key point is that the almost-firm offer is slowly turning to vapour. I also get a text from Christine, who wants to meet. This sounds more promising. We had one meeting in the coffee shop that seemed to go well. Christine wants to meet in the same place, so that doesn't sound like a formal interview. I can't take anything for granted, but I do wonder whether she's just saying that I can have the job, and negotiate a start date.
The truth is somewhat different. Christine talks me through the next steps which are, essentially, that she has to go through all the normal procedures. It's not a complete surprise - funded by taxpayers, QPS has to demonstrate high standards in the way they spend the public's money. But it's still frustrating. It's clear that I won't be going back to the UK with a firm job offer. Nevertheless, contracting is full of hiccups, so I put in a formal application and cross my fingers.
There's just one ordeal remaining. For weeks, the Australian television coverage has talked about getting revenge over the English in the Rugby World Cup. TV adverts have, with no trace of good nature, talked about revenge. While the Aussies that I meet are all good people, some of the TV pundits are appalling in their coverage. There's a clear hierarchy for some of them - Australia can do no wrong and never commit any foul play, other teams are good but they do commit fouls (especially against Australia) and they exaggerate perfectly safe Aussie tackles to make them look bad. And then there's the English, who are rubbish, are over-protected glory boys (especially Johnny Wilkinson) and are about to get the hiding of their lives. To be fair, some of the pundits (two in particular, although I don't know their names) are very fair to all the teams. But the others (and one middle-aged guy in particular) are arrogant in ways I've never seen before. To paraphrase Kevin Keegan, I'd LOVE it if we beat them.
When the day comes, both Paddy and I are tired and, although we contemplate going to watch the game in a bar somewhere, we decide to watch it at home. The bars will all be absolutely heaving, and neither of us can be bothered wading through huge crowds to get beer.
The very last advert before the game shows George Gregan looking intent, with a strapline confirming that the time has finally come, and England are about to be humbled.
So it's with a mixture of elation and regret that we watch England beat the Wallabies 12-10. Mainly elation though. It would be great to see the reactions in bars around the city, although I have nothing against the Aussies I've met. It would be even better to hear some of the biased pundits choking on their words. But we're just granted a couple of short minutes of analysis, mainly from the pundits who've been fair all the way through. The others are notably silent, and the worst one isn't even there.
It doesn't matter too much though. I know that, somewhere, they're feeling angry and stupid and probably blaming the result on everything except Australia not playing well enough to win.
England 12, Australia 10. It's a good way to end a day.
