Opera House & Arcadia

It's 5.30am and my alarm goes off. I get up and sleepwalk to the shower. There is no question of pressing snooze and turning over. I leave the room at 6am, timing it so the kitchen will just have opened upstairs. I pour a cup of coffee, grab a danish and an apple, and hurry along to the front of the ship. We're high up on deck nine (of eleven) and there is an balcony that runs the width of the ship, just under the bridge where we have just embarked a pilot to guide us to our berth.

There are already a dozen or so people gathered on the deck, cameras at the ready. Ahead of us at the moment are nondescript headlands and a few twinkling lights. The sky is brightening but the sun has yet to make an appearance. People chat in low voices, though there is no reason we need to be quiet. We round the headland and the reason for the gathering is revealed; there, in the not-too-far distance, is the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House, framed by the skyline of skyscrapers that make this one of the most spectacular cities in the world.

As we sail slowly through the bay the sun starts to rise and by the time we dock at Circular Quay the sun is rising over the opera house. Our home for the next two days is the primest of spots, with the bridge on one side and the opera house on the other. Inbetween the two are the hectic commuter piers where boats leave every minute, and we look down like a mother duck watching her young at play.

I can't really get back to sleep but try to steal an hour or so as it's going to be a long day. Up again at eight I have another breakfast before leaving the ship and heading for the adjoining Rocks district, recently derelict warehouses and rough bars, now revived into a harbourside playground for locals and tourists alike. It's a clear day and already boiling hot, so we decide to abandon the idea of walking around everywhere and jump on a tour bus to Bondi. I've been Sydney a couple of times before as my brother emigrated here, but have never been to Bondi, largely because people say its overrated..and it is a bit, a crescent shaped beach with headlands either side dotted with hotels and villas.

Bondi is also no good for your self esteem, populated as it is by surfer types in fantastic condition. There is one of those outdoor gym areas with parallel bars and pull up wotsits where they all conregate and drool over each other's biceps. Merely walking past this accentuates every ounce of fatty tissue on my good self to the extent where I feel like I am in a hall of mirrors.

After a mooch around it's back on the bus through the trendy districts such as Rose Bay, with it's individually architect-designed houses and harbours views over to the bridge. Back in town we head over to Darling Harbour, another recent development. The next bay along from Circular Quay, it's a tourist playground, but a very nice one. The Star City complex, where Priscilla the muscal opened a few years ago, dominates the northern side along with a few hotels, while the other side is a jumble of bars, restaurants and clubs spilling onto the harbourside. Lunch is taken and then we head back to get spruced up for the main event, for tonight we are actually going to watch an opera in the opera house. The actual opera is 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' by Benjamin Britten, with this production devised by Baz Luhmann. It's faithful to Shakespeare, which means both a complex plot and a score to match, and while I did enjoy it, I discover that at three and a quarter hours, it is maybe possible to have too much of a good thing.

The next day is spent at Manly, a thirty minute boat ride through the network of bays that comprise Sydney harbour. Manly is popularly thought of as a superior resort to Bondi; the beach is better, the shops and reaturants are better - but unfortunately the weather is worse today, cloud dominates and we stroll down the promenade with unused towels. After lunch its back into town for a quick drink with ex-pat and ex-Stonewall football colleague Daryn, who emigrated a few years ago with his Aussie partner. It transpires there are no downsides to living there, its completely brilliant. I suspected as much but was hoping for a few bad bits to alleviate my jealousy. Oh well.

We sail away from Sydney around 7pm, backing under the bridge which seems close enough to touch. The pool deck is thronged, most are half-drunk and all are waving at those ascending the bridge. The sun shines, music plays, drink flows and we set course north for Brisbane, seven hundred miles or so north.

Other news today concerns itself with literary matters. Having no baggage limit we bought along a suitcase full of books. However, having got through my stack of novels I have resorted to James' biographies, and can report that Andre Agassi's is very good, if a bit needy. Yesterday I reached the bottom of the barrel and was forced to look at 'Going Rogue' by Sarah Palin. Why we even have it I don't know. I was forced to buy it on Amazon, something which has irrevocably changed my profile (you may also like, Mein Kampf' etc).

Anyway I had thought it might be good for a laugh, full of dumb observations and folksy stories about slaughtering reindeer. However it's just dull, and it goes on forever, letting you know that God is responsible for everything, that she really likes meat (ahem), being a mother is important and that, hey, there's just too much darn government. The funniest bit is that there is a map of the world on the first page with no explanation, but I think it's to let Americans know where Alaska is (honest).

Defeated, I headed for the room onboard that has the nerve to call itself a library, situated down on deck three. It's actually not that bad, except the biography section, which is itself a rogues' gallery. Katie Price nestles between Jonathan Ross and Ant & Dec, Jade Goody and Jeremy Kyle are filed together, presumably under 'J'. Every fatuous celeb with nothing to say is represented, from Lewis Hamilton (he's about fifteen for God's sake) to Lorraine Kelly (summary: born, Scottish, big smile, can be found on a sofa discussing high street fashions). Thousands of pages and not a sentient thought to be found. Sickening.

There is also an exchange shelf where you can leave a book of your own and pick up another. It's a great idea but I've got this far without confirming what I think I already know about Danielle Steele. Do I sound like a snob? Good, I'm glad we sorted that out. Anyway I left with Tony Parsons' latest effort, which I'm determined to hate as much as I did him waffling on in 'The Late Review' days on BBC2.

Late news: speaking of snobs I was wandering back to my cabin when I encountered the Skipton Snobs from my last post entering their cabin. I am delighted to report that they have an inside room, a fact I am sure they are not relaying to the North Yorks Glitterati. Having an inside cabin is, I'm sure, akin to defecating on the floor at the Rotary Club annual dinner. I am considering blackmail.