Shall I go and live on the other side of the world?

At a well-lubricated dinner the other night at a first-class Chinese restaurant called Red Emperor by the stunning riverside development on the south bank of the Yarra in Melbourne, Australia, my host made me an offer that I very nearly couldn’t refuse. ‘What would it take to persuade to you come and live in Australia?’ he pleaded.

This may well be the second nicest thing anyone has ever said to me in my entire life after ‘Gosh, you’re so big.’ Or, now I come to think of it, the first nicest — because I’m pretty sure that other quote may be the figment of a hyperactive imagination warped by an excess of jetlag, Coopers pale ale, Margaret River shiraz and the occasional short film a lonely fellow tends to watch on his laptop of an evening when he’s miles from home and nobly trying to ward off the temptation of all the gorgeous Sheilas hurling themselves at him because he’s so bloody famous and they’re such a fan of his blog and God it’s so exciting to meet him at last….

No really, though. I’ve never before been anywhere in the world where I’ve been quite so well loved, so generously entertained and where I’ve felt so totally, instantly at home. Maybe it’s the effect Australia has on all first-time visitors. But I feel as if, at long last, I’ve found the place on earth where I truly belong: with the funnel webs, the king browns, the white pointers, the redbacks, the salties and all the other creatures whose threat Aussies so love to exaggerate in order to deter too many people from discovering just how blessed is a bloke’s existence in the Lucky Country.

‘Ah but you’d miss the culture,’ Aussies tell me.