8th January

Those of you who've been avidly following the knuckle-biting saga of Mike's boiled eggs will be relieved to know that this morning's was cooked to perfection (5 minutes is the magic time, apparently. I know, the excitement's palpable. I feel this blog may have peaked early.) While Mike was contentedly chomping away on it I nipped off to David Jones, the world's oldest department store not to have changed names somewhere along the way, and a Sydney institution. I wasn't there to shop though - in a fit of wanton extravagance (£14! Just think how many improving books you could buy with that) I'd booked myself in for a pedicure so that my poor, bruised toenails could hide their shame amidst Sydneysiders' impeccably groomed feet. The colour's a liiiittle brighter than I had in mind - I fully expect my toes to glow in the dark.

I seem to be taking rather a lot of photos of feet.

Walking in an awkward, duck-footed sort of way (I had a vague idea that this would help protect the nail varnish) I made my way back to the flat via a shopping arcade or three. Sydney has a bewildering array of shopping centres, many of which, confusingly, merge seamlessly into one another, which is pretty fatal for someone with my sense of direction. Having eventually disentangled myself, by fluke as much as anything else, I scooped up Mike and we set off to the Quay to catch a ferry to Manly. Sydney, by way of a bit of background, is basically a compact city centre surrounded by a sprawling mass of suburbs, and Manly's one such suburb, situated to the North and famed for its beachside lifestyle. In a rather nice touch of etymological transparency, its name stems from the manly behaviour and appearance of the indigenous population. To be honest, the ferry ride there and back was more diverting than Manly itself, which comprises a couple of nice beaches (dotted, somewhat incongruously, with pine trees) and some sleepy suburban streets. Forward planning not being our strong suit, we hadn't actually brought swimsuits along, but we did have a paddle in the Tasman Sea. We like to live on the edge.

Marvel at my fearlessness in the face of Manly's unstable rock formations.

Back in central Sydney (or the CBD, as I will henceforth annoyingly refer to it) we headed straight to the Rocks again, the slum-turned-café-culture-hotspot which Mike mentioned last time.  Every Friday evening in the Summer the area plays host to Markets by Moonlight, though seeing as the market opens at 5:30 and the sun doesn't set until ten past eight, the name's more poetic than descriptive. Even in full daylight, though, it's got a great atmosphere, brimming with boutique-y craft stalls, tempting street food (think barbecued Tasmanian salmon and chocolate-covered strawberries rather than burgers and hot dogs) and live music. Find of the evening was these fantastic cuff-links, handmade from old watch mechanisms - the cogs even turn when you twist the dial.

9th January

On a quest for cheap fruit and veg we head for Chinatown, home to a vast Hong-Kong-esque market known, somewhat bizarrely, as Paddy's. Apparently over 1,000 stalls are crammed into this underground space, offering, among other things, so many hats that even I, inveterate fusspot and owner of an exceptionally large head, manage to find one. Although in a moment of ill-advised colonialism I opt for a wide-brimmed white straw number, which I expect I'll regret as soon as I see the photos.

Fashion faux-pas out of the way, we stock up on gratifyingly cheap groceries, including some intriguing-looking green-lipped mussels from New Zealand. No, I didn't know mussels had lips either. Unfortunately, once we get them home it transpires that they're all dead. Maybe just as well we didn't risk this stuff, which was labelled simply as "shell meat":

By the time we've got back to the flat and finished lunch (Korean preserved octopus, what else?) the Sydney Festival is underway. The festival's an annual affair comprising three weeks of music, dance, drama and performance art, which admittedly doesn't sound overly impressive if you're used to the Edinburgh Festival. Today, though, is the so-called Festival First Night, and even Edinburgh doesn't have anything quite like it. The CBD is cleared of cars; stages hosting bands and acrobats crop up across the city; sax performances break out on rooftops, and supposedly some British guy in a spandex suit floats above it all in a parachute. Best of all, everything's free.

The park our apartment borders has been set up as a circus skills area, where you can try your hand at everything from ring juggling to diablo. For someone with the coordination of a newborn giraffe I acquit myself pretty well with the hula hoop - Mike slightly less so, but he redeems himself with a stellar plate-spinning performance. My own efforts make a five-year-old child snigger.

Then again, he might just have been laughing at the hat.

The festival events stretch well into the evening - from the free programme which is thrust in our faces we learn that Al Green's playing in the Domain at 10pm. Al Green! I didn't even know he was still alive! On looking him up I find that he's only a few years older than my parents, so perhaps I should keep my surprise at his continued existence in check. For some reason our strategy of turning up ten minutes in advance fails to secure us seats for Mr Green's performance, but ambling through the streets we stumble upon a mass swing dancing lesson which is followed by a squelching set from a big band. Throw in balmy weather and plenty of enthusiastic shuffling on the spot and it's a pretty idyllic way to round of a day, though I suspect you get fewer drunk people standing in fountains in their underwear at an Al Green concert.