““Home interprets heaven. Home is heaven for beginners.””

— Charles Henry Parkhurst

I hate flying. I absolutely detest it. I would rather cage-fight crocodiles than be on a plane in turbulence. In fact, I would consider that an opportunity for picking out bespoke matching shoes and handbag and thank the organisers profusely. If ever The Hunger Games existed in reality and I was forced to compete, all the Game Makers would need to do is stick us all on a plane and say 'the quicker you do the deed, the quicker you get off' - and bam, they would have a merciless puppet of the State.

Hey, my name is Kate after all. Kateniss could work.

My point though, when I stop rabbiting on about being a Girl On Fire, is this; I was so tired yesterday afternoon on a flight back from Sydney, that I actually fell sleeps on the plane.

Before it even left the runway.

This is profound tiredness, which made me particularly snarly when the flight attendant decided I didn't need to be asleep, I needed to be asked if I wanted to purchase anything to snack on.

Tempted as I was to answer her with 'yes your liver, with some fava beans and a nice Chianti' and Hannibal Lecter 's-s-s-s-s' noises, I didn't want to sit in a straightjacket for the rest of the flight, so I settled for the Kate Stone (copyright pending) Glare Of Death which subdued her accordingly, and then sat and admittedly had a lovely conversation with my fellow traveller (mainly about slightly stupid flight attendants).

Eventually we reached Gold Coast aeropuerto, and I toodled straight off - literally - into the sunset, and drove home, with a short stop at the crazy shops where everyone was buying enough food for the Apocalypse as everything is closed for one whole day.

And it was on the way home, whilst conversing long distance with the Dread Pirate, that I realised something very important.

I had just done my first return to my new home - and it felt like home.

Awesome. Quite astonishing really, as despite a number of visitations to the weirdness that is my new locale, I have not lived anywhere like this in my life. And honestly, after less than a week, it could be expected that it would still feel completely alien, and strange, and a little bit unreal. But instead, it felt like sanctuary, and that is a whole big whack of gratitude right there. Enough, if not for a lifetime, then certainly enough for a very happy Easter break.

Kate the Grateful indeed.

Or was that Kateniss the Grateful.

Heh.

““She asked where he lived. ‘Second to the right,’ said Peter, ‘and then straight on till morning.’””

— J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

This post really belongs in two sections. Hmmmmm... actually, three. Because there is a lot of gratitude, quite a bit about shoes, and it sits nicely in the 41 bucket list items for the year.

Multi-tasking!

What a woman.

How is it involved in the 41 Steps? I am glad you asked (even if you didn't). Step Number Five: Live Somewhere You Have Never Lived Before. So that I am. I am about to grace (they may disagree with that term) the fair shores of South East Queensland. To feel the sand between my currently broken toes on a daily basis, and to further my ambition of NEVER GOING THROUGH A CANBERRA WINTER EVER AGAIN.

EVER.

So off I head to the Land Of The Long Orange-Skinned Meter Maid. Where ugg boot and bikini combos are considered the height of fashion and my paleness is a weird attraction for Japanese tourists on the Main Beach at Surfers. Where people watching is more than a hobby, it's a way of life, and where the best coffee and pork belly in the Southern Hemisphere can be found if you don't think like a tourist.

If there was a bookshop closer than Coolangatta (sorry - Gold Coast) Airport, all would be for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Thank goodness for the interwebs.

As for the shoes - well, I am having to pack them. Which involves much effort. Much, much effort. And multiple pauses to appreciate just how lovely my shoesies are.

I am certain they will love their new home.

There are built in shoe racks in the wardrobes.

Mainly though, this post is about gratitude. Gratitude for those people who have made my time in the Can pretty damn amazing. Who have made me laugh until I've had to cross my legs and hope for the best; who have held my hand in some fairly spaztacular moments, several of them involving various hospital visits; who have cried with me, drank, eaten, cried, not cringed whilst I've sworn at the rugby and netty and AFL on TV, again when I've sworn at live rugby, cried some more; who have propped me up and been inspiring, irritating, huggable and horrible.

Who have loved me and been my friends.

Gratitude is not quite a strong enough word for the emotion I wish I could express for what you have given to me. But it will just have to do.

And as I set off on the reverse of the road trip that my gorgeous sister Oonagh and I made about six months ago, this time with a very suss Thelma to my Louise in tow (Thelma as far as I know didn't have a 5 o'clock shadow), I am happily aware that in a few days time, I will be crunching through said sand. And also, that not too far up the road from my new abode, a buccaneering boyo will soon be home from adventuring to help make my life well - interesting. To say the least. God help the Gold Coast.

I don't know why P. Pan was so keen on popping off the twig.

Life is a big enough adventure for this little duck.

And her several trillion pairs of shoes.