Needless to say, absolutely nothing has changed here during my time away. Least of all me, I’m sorry to report.

Besides compiling a comprehensive survey of wireless internet availability worldwide (poor, on the whole), one aim of my trip was to test the hypothesis known as “The Universal Truth Of Travelling”: that you’re still you when you get there.

Of course, that truth would be plainly reassuring for most individuals; but I must admit I was slightly disappointed to discover that it applied in my case.

You’d have thought that landing alone in the heart of Bangkok, or bussing up the Australian coast with an entirely new and temporary set of friends, would be a perfect time for self-reinvention. Apparently not. Surely I could exaggerate my past and inflate my social standing? Maybe even change my name.

Don’t be fooled! You can run away from people, and you can leave behind your circumstances. But you can’t run away from yourself…

This time round, the on-line journals of Silicon Valley have plenty to report about my semi-professional japes during my time here. My counterpoint in the 1997 story was none other than fellow straight-A student Imran, also headed to Oxford to study Maths; by contrast, the habitually-condescending Valleywag listed me alongside hi-tech posterboy-of-the-moment Mark Zuckerberg. Their take on events pushes both of us through the wringer - and arguably the Facebook CEO comes off worse; although he also emerges as the only paper billionaire, so I think he knows who’s winning.

In extraordinary scenes, photographic records of which are reproduced here by permission of the San Jose Mercury, last week I gave a speech to a gathering of Valley luminaries at Google HQ. The shirt (by ‘H.I.M. Collection’) was purchased with the help of cousin Rachel at a Thai market earlier this year; the podium conceals my convertible trekking trouser-shorts (by fashion label Decathlon Sports).

“Mr. Lester?”

“Yes. Have I found Google HQ? I’m here to tell you what you’re doing wrong.”

“Of course. Please be escorted to the executive suite.”

“I appreciate the opportunity to correct the course of the USA’s fifth-largest company.” [By market cap]

“No - thank you! Hey - it’s a new red carpet, make sure you don’t slip.”

Thus, I began my journey into the heart of corporate America. Sorry to disappoint, but due to visa restrictions I will not be bringing my millions back to the UK. Perhaps I’ll give it another shot some time, once I’ve sorted the correct paperwork.

Looking forward to seeing everyone before Christmas. Returning to London on 15th Dec.

Actually, this is a slight misrepresentation because I do not have a job, not least because it would be contrary to the visa waiver arrangement. (Not having a car does not stop me complaining about parking however - it looks like it would be a nightmare for anyone who has to do it.) So, to keep up the illusion, I employ myself in various capacities around the city. My usual routine is to leave the house before those who really do work (this is utterly convincing as long as I can keep up the early starts) and sit in the park until the coast is clear. Lunch sitting on a bench - every other day, at least, since the portions are big enough to go days between meals. One park bench encounter with a gym owner led to a seven day free pass to the local gym, so that has been my afternoon activity for a week (not sure what I’ll do tomorrow).

As I wrote home a few days ago, I am sharing a flat with a lady from Alabama who laughs at my jokes but doesn’t understand them; and a Frenchman who gets my jokes but doesn’t laugh. Things have improved since then and the Frenchman let out a slight smirk when I made an off-the cuff remark the other night (completely unrehearsed, honestly). He claims he was just reminded of something that happened elsewhere, but in my mind it was an unmistakeable breakthrough.

This relaxed lifestyle affords some time to think a bit harder about what I might do on my return to real life scheduled for January 2008. I’ve even experimented with some internet-based projects which could lead somewhere. (I’ve since been advised that browsing the BBC News website is not a possible career - although the two long-term jobs I held in London were evidence to the contrary.)

Remarkably, given the time I’m spending on internet research, I failed to secure a flat with an internet connection. Luckily the neighbours have fairly reliable wireless (don’t worry, the illegality of this set-up is easily overshadowed by my continuing use of cryptographic software). Surely great things must come out of this situation: Bay Area immigrant, lugged his laptop around the world, no-mates, makes internet history using a flaky pirated internet connection - it would make such fantastic newspaper copy that I can’t possibly fail. The likes of such a triumph from adversity have not been seen since Hewlett-Packard grew out of a garage in Palo Alto - and I went to see that too; my garage is dingier.

Just to avoid your possible complicity in an illegal act, I’ve given the neighbours a break and I’m typing this in a cafe. On account of their free wireless, the place has all the ambience of an exam hall. I’m not complaining - I bloody love exams!

Tourism is a major part of the economy there, and we did our bit - on an organised trip to a village primary school, we took some pens and pencils as presents. It turns out they teach lessons exclusively in English - apart from Fijian language lessons, I suppose - which I think is a good idea. The best jobs are working with tourists, after all.

The final few days were spent on the smallest island. It was basically a lump of sand sticking out above the sea, complete with a few palm trees as per the caricature. It takes about five minutes to swim around the perimeter.

Flying to Fiji tomorrow.

“Don’t worry,” I assured the group, “we’ll soon come across some Callendar-Hamiltons which will be far superior”. We’re now much further south, at Queenstown, and we have passed only cheap-looking bridges all the way down. Some or most of these, I am forced to conclude, must be Grandpa Hamilton’s. I really find it a bit much that someone spends four years demanding oversized bedroom furniture when his own grandfather wouldn’t even build bridges large enough for two-way traffic.

Of course, I’m ignoring the history here, and Mr Hamilton no doubt carved a little-used passage with limited funds and assistance. Now the road he pioneered is overflowing with traffic. I must admit we found his constructions very useful, so I shouldn’t complain.

Queenstown was described as one of the most beautiful places on earth (by the travel agent), and is known as the adventure capital of New Zealand. I was signed up for an early morning skydive today, and was very nervous (that I would miss the alarm clock). Unfortunately, bad weather means it has been postponed until tomorrow, but luckily I was able to arrange it for the afternoon this time.

I am sorry to report only limited success on taming the natives, although I have had better results in reversing the corruption of third parties. For example, Herman the German, who spent a year working in Brisbane, will no longer greet you with an irritating “g’day mate”, instead politely shaking your hand while asking “how do you do?”. It seems the Europeans are far more amenable to change, and I will suggest to Her Majesty that we push abroad closer to home, perhaps establishing some form of empire from there.

The fun bus took me from Adelaide, through Melbourne, then on to Sydney. On the way, we passed through various national parks, and drove along the Great Ocean Road. The Grampians, so-named because ‘Grampians’ means ‘mountains’ in Scottish, provided some pleasant walks with interesting scenery. We even managed some cross-country skiing on the Snowy Mountains, so-called because… well, you really don’t need my help with all this.

We had made three overnight stops on the way from Sydney to Brisbane, each time the mix of people on the bus changing a little as others spent differing amounts of time in each location. To avoid having to learn names, we just addressed each other as characters from Neighbours. Responding readily to calls of ‘Karl Kennedy’ is an exhilarating experience I can tell you. Most self-respecting young ladies refused to respond to ‘Helen Daniels’ or ‘Mrs Mangel’ - and in the case of one girl from Essex, ‘Bouncer The Dog’.

Presented by the travel company as though it really existed, our first overnight stop had been at ‘Surf Camp’. As you can guess, this was just a contrived way of making money from a worthless piece of coast, but my scepticism faded as the relaxed and friendly staff taught us how to run into the sea with surf boards and splash about with them. One self-proclaimed “surfer dude” told me he’d been born on the moon, and I think he really believed it.

Fun though the lesson was, I thought it was sorely lacking a demonstration from a professional, so I offered my surfboard to a reluctant ‘Brad’ (not sure of his real name, but that will suffice). It turned out he was just as unable to stand on the thing as we were - apparently the waves weren’t quite right that day.

Off we went to Byron Bay, which had the distinguishing attribute of actually being on the map - and put there by none other than the grandfather of our own Lord Byron (these two men also known as Jim and Paul Robinson respectively). The daytime entertainment options were to further one’s surfing capabilities; to walk to the lighthouse (the eastern-most point of mainland Australia); or to take a trip to a town called Nimbin. I chose the lighthouse trip, being careful not to step too near the edge since legend insists a man called Harold Bishop lost his glasses there many years ago. The trip to Nimbin was eliminated as soon as I heard that it is famous for its tolerance of drug-taking - there is only one road in and out of the town, so a lookout post can call ahead in case the police are coming. It was ruled out as much on account of this blog’s anti-drugs stance as for my disbelief that such incompetent policing is possible in a supposedly civilised country. Undercover cops, anyone? This really is not the sixties.

After one night in Surfers Paradise (so named precisely because it is anything but), we looked forward to the final leg to Brisbane and the long-awaited stay with Auntie Madge and Uncle Lou. The charming hospitality of this family cannot be overstated, and I must thank Todd [Andy] for inviting me to stay with them - even if it was because he couldn’t be bothered to talk to his long-lost relatives himself. We both agreed that it felt like we’d been hanging around each other forever, so I booked on a plane to Adelaide to get the hell out of there.

I met an English chap called Andy when I was on the west coast of Thailand a month or so ago - we had been the only western people in town so we decided to strike an alliance. Our paths parted, but when I was in Bangkok a few weeks later, I occasionally thought I saw a figure with his distinctive gait in the distance along the road. It turned out to be him as I eventually bumped into him face-to-face - although actually, his face is less recognisable than his walk. You can never be sure it’s him unless he’s on the move. Anyway, he would be arriving in Sydney a day after me, and we arranged to meet up there.

With a lack of sleep, and various illnesses between us, we managed to turn a few days in Sydney into a fairly miserable experience - made worse because we didn’t seem to be able to leave. The plan was to head up the coast towards Brisbane where Andy’s Auntie Pauline would greet us with open arms. But in our lethargic state we couldn’t decide between the choices of public bus, tour bus, or hiring a car. Realising we weren’t going to break the deadlock, we thought that signing up to an organised pub crawl might shake things up a bit. This turned into a perfectly pleasant, if slightly raucous evening, and on our way back into the hostel we showed our key cards to the night manager and tried to engage him in friendly conversation using some hilarious jokes no doubt time-worn by the Austrailian customs officials - crazy banter concerning our intent to burgle the place etc.

Anyway, in the morning we knew we didn’t have our Sydney escape plan ready, so we asked to extend our stay. We were told politely that the night manager - an American, it turned out - had been slightly unnerved by our hilarious gags, and recommended against our continued custom. Well, our retaliation to this unfortunate decision was two-fold: (1) renounce our YHA membership, and (2) invoke everyone’s favourite legal weapon, the race-hate laws. I’m not at all familiar with Australian law (and forgot to demand my copy of Hansard before customs) but I presume they have something similar to the UK’s, intended as a bit of a catch-all. Of course, the trick to this as a white male is to be ready with your patter so they don’t have time to question exactly which race has been persecuted. Believing we had left the power-dizzy employee to have an embarassing conversation with his manager about the difference between US border patrol and the YHA reception desk, we spilt onto the street with an intent to sort out our journey plans more hastily.

Once we put a bit more thought into it, we managed to narrow down the choices fairly easily. Hiring a car was written off (and the pun here will jump upon you quickly) when Andy remembered that in the UK he had crashed cars as though it was a hobby - in fact, he was under a self-imposed ban. We looked into the public bus network, but when we started to plot a draft itinerary it turned out that we were completely unable to reconcile the place names on the timetable with anywhere on the guide book’s map. So, we signed up for the slightly more expensive organised tour pass especially designed to take young English tourists up and down the east coast. Before we knew it we were on the happy bus sailing north towards the sunshine, and hopefully to somewhere more welcoming to the ethnic majorities.