This is despite the fact that I haven't yet managed to face the moment where I hang undeneath a large canvas bag full of nothing but hot air high above the landscape in a shallow wicker basket.
A decade back I became sick of the tizz of the big city – the late night parties and the unbanned substances – the nicotine and plonk and shimmering vodka, clear as the conscience of a new-born child. In the end I galloped out of Sydney, like one of those wild grey horses that roam the Snowy Mountains – the ones that have now become far too prolific and need to be culled by gunshot from helicopters.
