I arrive in November. The hottest one in years they say. Hardly a great start for a European with a 2 year old in her arms. Everyone sweats! There is the strong manly sweat of builders and grass mowers in khaki shorts, proud sweat of jogging men and women, apologetic sweat of other busy mothers pushing the prams loaded with heavy vocal children, and even the air conditioned drivers manage to sweat up their armpits between the cool departure from their perfectly environmentally controlled vehicles and the shops and cafes that they run in and out of. But that’s in the suburbs. Brisbane city seems curiously resistant to this side effect of tropical living- its central streets teaming with perfectly dressed, perfectly clean men and women in suits, white shirts and pencil skirts and not a sweat mark in sight. Women’s perfectly smooth legs completely throw me off my cool as I stare in disbelief. How do they do it? Looks like I will need to seriously step up my skin and hair routine. I sigh.

First few weeks are really hard going. Though my in-laws are helpful and generous with their time and their home three weeks later I am constantly screaming in my head and when I return home to find my freshly washed clothes folded for me and a bottle of air freshener discretely placed next to the bin it becomes clear that we really really need to move out. Luckily just then my Brisbane grown husband finally secures a job and all three of us move into our first house ever! Renting of course- we are far too immature and unaccountable to have invested sensibly or acquired any assets as we enter our thirties. Another one of those cases of “modern young couples” who live from day to day and only have debts to show. Still- the house is charming even if all the wardrobes do smell of urine and there are grease stains all over the kitchen walls. Or what is intended to be a kitchen but really is just a space behind a bar, no bigger than a bartender gets to prepare the exotic labor intensive cocktails at a really swanky tropical bar. I beam as I picture myself blissfully sipping a Piña Colada, fanned by the palm leaves in the garden as my toddler plays contentedly in a water filled shell that seems to be a must for kids in the Brisbane summer.

The bliss doesn’t last. Having finally accepted that I will simply be sweaty every day for the rest of my life I encounter something a lot more disturbing. The cockroaches pay a visit. Every day. God only knows how the buggers get into this securely guarded home with screens across every door and window, they rarely give their little tricks away. They just appear- on ceiling, on walls, on floors, on curtains and every time I scream. Now this particular evening I am typing away at my computer, minding my own business, possibly writing back home to say how fantastic tropical living is and all that jazz, when with a corner of my eye I notice a movement! Yes, there he is- on the kitchen wall right opposite. I don’t even get any time to blink as the cockroach takes off and flies right towards me or rather towards the lamp right behind me, but I haven’t figured that one out. With a terrible scream I dive sideways onto the floor and I am sure a robber with a gun couldn’t have got me doing that any faster. My husband saves my life one more time and I vow to myself to book a ticket back home first thing in the morning. I simply cant see how I can survive in a place where insects the size of humming birds fling their bodies right at my face on a daily basis. What was I thinking?

But as the days unfold, the surface spray does its job and the rains set in to flood us things seem to take a turn for worse and cockroaches temporarily leave my field of awareness. My husband gets man tackled, bruised, arrested and charged and so nearly gives me a heart attack. And guess what. His crime? Running a red light on his pushbike! Unbelievable! I am frustrated out of my head concerning his upcoming court appearance and the threatened thousands of dollars of fine money but I feel reassured that Brisbane really must be a terrifically safe place to live and prosper. Crime? What crime? Drugs, domestic violence, burglaries? Not a problem! Now those rough cyclists though, that’s a different story! They really are a menace! As a seasoned London cyclist I cant decide whether to laugh or cry. Well, I do a bit of both as the magistrate throws the case out of court and sends my husband packing though not without having given him a good finger wagging first. Yes Sir, says Hubby, I should not have done that, gazing at the floor tiles. That’s when I start to worry that we might need to grow up soon. Both. And separately.