Because they never listen.

"Yeah, whatever large man, I'm tired."

"Come on Bagel. Walkies!"

"Yeah whatever, I ain't movin'"

This episode of scandalous canine defiance occurred at one of Sydney's iconic seaside suburbs, Bondi Beach.

I ended up carrying the stubborn pooch.

Technically I wasn't feeding the animals and no kookaburras were harmed during the filming of this picture.

Smoking causes beak cancer

I was at a holiday house in the Blue Mountains about two hours drive west of Sydney.

There was food involved.

I vaguely remember leaving some cheese and crackers on the terrace and someone had left cigarettes on the table.

But Polly didn't want a cracker.

He wanted a smoke.

Once again, it seemed like a great idea at the time ... happy days ...

At least it was warm and toasty

Come to the party they said.

Never one to give up the opportunity to slip into a costume, the obvious choice to attend a Sound of Music party was to go dressed as bread and jam.

It all went swimmingly until the neighbours, on account of a particularly raucous chorus of 'My Favourite Things,' called the cops. It was spectacular.

The police constables were less enthused.

But when I answered the door thusly attired they were powerless to reprimand me and instead advised us to party hard.

We obliged.

And continued with our tribute to Julie Andrews and the iconic 60's movie.

This happened while I was in Sydney but it doesn't matter where you are travelling around the world, party hard and dance like no one is watching, even if you can hardly move because you're trapped in a huge slice of glittered bread.

Go hard.

It's a truth universally acknowledged that if you ask someone not to do something, chances are they're likely to do exactly that which you forbade.

Don't touch the costume cupboard .... sorry I can't hear you.

Such was the request and subsequent naughty defiance during a vacation to Byron Bay.

A theatre group had once rented the property and a substantial costume collection remained.

Red flag.

Bull.

The door to the costume room was locked but no match for a Phillips head and few gentle taps.

Honestly, what did you expect?

Costume parties are fun. At home. While travelling, sometimes less so.

When all logic abandons you and colouring your hair with white house paint seems reasonable. 

Back home, outfits are well-planned, thoughtfully executed and usually shed before the witching hour.

Costumes on the run, when you are travelling, are more complicated.

What to wear?

Such was my quandary when visiting a friend in Sydney.  

The taxi was fast approaching and 'Plan A' to spray my hair with temporary white colour had resulted in my having a consumptive, sickly appearance covered in what looked like dead skin.

Drastic action was required.

I disappeared into the workshop and came back with a more permanent solution.

Logic said no.

But the six dirty martinis screamed yes. 

I bent over a drop sheet and painted my head white.

And then just for good measure, sprinkled a small fortune in glitter all over my head.

The next day it did not seem like such a good idea.

Three weeks later, even less so. 

Inside every reporter, journalist and travel writer is a budding novelist.

Wilson: your only friend while you write that illusive novel

I travel a lot.

But even when the anchor of domestic normality grounds me and I decide to settle down, I usually end up moving somewhere remote.

One of my bright ideas was to buy a house on a tiny island off the coast of Queensland.

Sound idyllic?

I thought so.

Not.

Replace the white sand with mangroves and mud and fill the ocean with Bull Sharks and Great Whites and the occasional Tiger Shark. 

I lived there for a full year, in isolation, writing my travel diaries.

It should have been ideal.

I should have written that bestseller.

What actually happened was I bought a lot of crap off the internet, spent hours rubbing calamine lotion into the countless sand fly and mosquito bites and extracting ticks from my unmentionables.

Power cuts and burst sewer mains kept me distracted too.

Finally, my mother sent me a present: a Wilson ball to jolt me out of my self-imposed exile and remind me that my only human contact was with a piece of spherical sporting equipment. 

The thing about travelling. You meet a lot of people. And sometimes you need to walk away.

This is just a random picture I found on the net. Any resemblance to Margot is purely coincidental.

This is a bit hard when you're trapped on a four-day Sydney to Perth train trip. One of the guests took an instant dislike to me. Or rather to the fact I was a "freeloading" travel writer. On day two she hunted me down...

As with so many things in life, it seemed a good idea at the time… ignoring the signs and feeding the wildlife at Lake Burley Griffin in Canberra.

Do not be fooled

But hindsight is a wonderful thing. No sooner had I flicked the aspic off the pate than a swarm of geese attacked.