I’ve left Melbourne for Ballarat, looking for a change of scenery after the conference. I’ve joined a few employment agencies, and they’ve said there won’t be much work until January, so I thought I might aswell travel a bit while I’ve got the chance. And of course, the English schools are closed over the summer holidays, so I’ll need to wait till after Christmas to start a TESL course.

Ballarat’s a gold mining town, or was, and the hostel’s on the grounds of Sovereign Hill mine, which has been turned into a sort of open air museum. Staff wander around in 18th century clothing and make horse shoes and wheels and old-fashioned toffee. Ballarat was the site of a rebellion by the miners, who were protesting against the licence system (they needed to buy a licence to mine gold). Last night I went to what’s described as a “sound and light spectacular”, “Blood on the Southern Cross”, which told the story of the rebellion. We were carted around to different areas of the mine, all of which were filled with, well, sound and light.

My grandmother surprised me with a phone call in the middle of the show, though fortunately it was when we’d just boarded a truck to go to another part of the mine, rather than just after a disembodied voice announced that “It is the year of our Lord, 1855″. She told me that it had just snowed (she guessed it would a week ago, because she’d smelled it in the air) and that she didn’t believe Cherie Blair’s tears were real. After searching the web for the latter story, it looks like just another bit of gossip the British press have blown up into a scandal. I mean, the boyfriend of a friend of the wife of the Prime Minister, who has a criminal record, legitimately helps her purchase a couple of flats? How does that make the front page? It’s not as if she’s even an elected politican herself. My grandmother was paying for the phone call, though, so I guess she can talk about it if she wants.

Maybe on to Bendigo, next. I’ll see where the mood takes me.