Though I wasn’t born on the same day as Hitler nor clutching a blood clot like Genghis Khan, I nevertheless grew up knowing that conquering foreign lands was my destiny. Not with armies and bloodletting but rather with newfangled budget airlines and the liberal aid of Mastercard.

But I’ve gone and overstepped the mark already, haven’t I? I tell myself a thousand times a day I shouldn’t go blaring my intentions for the world, well, to the world. So forget I said that.

What I mean is, I quite like now and then to pop off to places I haven’t been. I get a real kick out of that. I tire easily, see, not in the sense of being weak-limbed but more in a fickle sort of way. I can’t even let the furniture in my apartment be for a month, so I certainly can’t dither about in one place much longer than that.

Having said that, I’ve been in the Netherlands almost a year now. No, not in the same apartment – I moved next door once I got sick of the old one. I suppose I’ve slowed down a bit in that sense – I throw on the old backpack now and then but its not permanently affixed to my back as it once was – but there’s plenty about to keep me entertained.

The Dutch are quite a novelty, for one, as I’m Australian myself. Not a convict though, which is a real shame as far as ice-breakers go. Of English blood, at that. I live with my boyfriend who was born in Kenya and raised in South Africa but is to all intents and purposes German, though his folks live in China. My hairdresser is from Haiti, and I buy my salami regularly from a street vendor from Burkhina Faso.

What this all means is that when I do get bored with the current situation, I simply move two blocks up and take my business to the Bulgarian butcher. Foolproof, no?

Let’s see how long it lasts.