I am an expert straddler. No, I don’t mean boudoir Olympics, you cheeky devils. Nor am I referring to my prowess on the gymnastic vaulting horse. I’m talking hemispheres. Moving to London for love in the late ’80s, my children ended up putting down roots here, which means I now find myself boomeranging back and forth between Britain and Australia on a regular basis. Straddling two hemispheres means I get to have two summers a year. Yes, I’m doubling my chances of a melanoma, but it also means twice the fun.

Yet despite dual citizenship, I remain 100 per cent Aussie: I don’t feel completely myself until pushing my trolley out of the Mascot terminal and inhaling that heady fragrance of frangipani and eucalyptus.

To cure jet lag, my three sisters invariably whisk me straight to the national park for a bushwalk. Australians feel an affinity with the bush, which is ironic as the vast majority of us live in cities. Sure, I can start a fire by rubbing two sticks together – as long as one of them is a match. But there’s something about being out there under that big, easygoing sky, surrounded by all that space, that acts like psychic penicillin; a calm balm for the soul. Sipping “Kardonnay” on my sister’s balcony overlooking the Port Hacking River, as the night sky illuminates, there are more stars popping out than on the Oscars red carpet.

Of course, in England they conquer the Great Indoors – theatre, galleries, museums, castles… There are a number of props that increase sexual arousal, but chief among these would be a mansion complete with moat and maze. Then there’s the Georgian market towns with their butterscotch houses as pretty as puddings. All that’s missing is the treacle. Britain is casually strewn with listed buildings. Mind you, as it’s always beer-o’clock in Britain, after a local ale or two, you’ll be listing also.

Living part-time in England means putting up with many quirky national characteristics. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the upper-class habit of allowing dogs to “assist” with the washing up by encouraging them to leap up onto the dining table to give the plates a good lick before clearing off with the lamb bone. The lack of sensible clothing also constantly bemuses. While I’m layered up in thermals like the Michelin Woman, my English female friends will be in a bodycon mini-dress, strappy heels and no stockings. I’m also sick and tired of stubbing my toe on those ubiquitous statues of white blokes who have beaten the hell out of foreigners. And then there’s the constant pessimistic moaning about the weather.

Sipping “Kardonnay” on my sister’s balcony as the night sky illuminates, there are more stars popping out than on the Oscars red carpet.

In fact, I’d say that pessimism is one of the chief products of England, along with puddings, pinstripe, sexual perversions and TV murder mysteries set in Oxford. Australia’s chief products, on the other hand, are optimism, good humour and hedonism.

But it’s our beaches I miss most. Thanks to decades of Tory mismanagement, sewage laps every British shoreline. Deprived of vitamin Sea, diving into the warm, silky waves of the big, beautiful Pacific is another priority. All summer, I’m in the water so often I could be declared an environmentally protected wetland habitat.

At night, I dine on what I was swimming with earlier. Aussie seafood is my favourite feast. When I first moved to London, the food was so bad my tonsils were no longer on speaking terms with my intestines. Thanks to an influx of antipodean chefs in the ’90s, British restaurants have greatly improved, but nothing beats our homegrown cuisine. From barbecued barramundi in Broome to kangaroo carpaccio in Kalgoorlie to smashed avo on toast at a Tassie brunch, it seems impossible to get a dud meal. Same goes for the excellent coffee. My Aussie mates go into meltdown if they’re more than five feet from a macchiato.