It was definitely a sign. The second one, in fact.
As I sat in the taxi, stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I noticed a familiar design on the car in front of us: Sunshine Coast number plates.
I’d left the warmth of the Coast a few hours earlier and arrived in the congested, noisy, bright and cold environs of Sydney one Thursday evening, well past peak hour - and we’d barely progressed beyond the perimeter of the domestic airport terminal.

“Have you got a cold?”
“No, I just sneezed.”
“You’d better go to the doctor and get something for it,” dad insisted.
I rarely get sick and I avoid running to the doctor every time I sneeze or cough, despite dad’s suggestion; but during this past week my body has felt as if it’s been systematically falling apart.
In fact, I’m amazed I haven’t dislodged any internal organs with the prolonged and relentless amount of coughing I’ve endured!

“Here,” said my uncle, passing his keys, “take your aunt to the supermarket.”
“Um… okay, sure…”
“I thought you said you can drive a manual.”
“I can,” I replied, “I just haven’t driven on the other side of the road..."

Hine Hukatere was an adventurous young lass who loved climbing in the mountains and persuaded her lover Wawe to climb with her. 
Wawe was a less experienced climber, but he faithfully accompanied Hine Hukatere on her hikes, until one day an avalanche swept Wawe to his death. 
The broken-hearted Hine Hukatere cried and cried; her tears flowed down the mountain and froze to form the glacier, Ka Roimata o Hine Hukatere – the tears of Hine Hukatere.
Heavy tear drops continued falling from the sky, as Shaz and I stared disconsolately out the window. Rain was forecast for the next three days and we were literally grounded.

“What! Only three hours?” my Japanese students hollered in protest.
“Surely that’s enough time,” I replied. “Why on earth would you want to spend more time at the plaza?” 
I hate shopping. The only thing I hate more is waiting around while others do their shopping.

Whack. “Speak English!”
Whack. “Shush…please listen when someone else is talking.”
Whack. “Hurry up.”
Whack. It was the most effective way to get the students’ attention.
If only I’d discovered the leather fly swatter a week earlier.

“I imagine my husband will walk in one day and find a pile of ash on the floor where I’d been sitting.”
“I know what you mean,” said the other woman, “it’s like an intense heat that surges from your belly.”
“Yes,” they all agreed, “sometimes it feels like you’ll just go up in flames.”
“Well, that’s something to look forward to,” they wink at me, chuckling conspiratorially.
Surely, I thought, there’s a way to avoid spontaneous human combustion when I get to that age.

I’m a mature age Olympian. 
While I began my bid for gold much later in life, my competitive spirit, ruthless determination and single-minded focus enabled me to attend one Winter Olympics, two Summer Olympics, two Paralympics and one Commonwealth Games.
As with all elite athletes, though, the rigorous training, constant traveling, early mornings, all that adrenalin, the shouting, cheering and back-to-back Games appearances have taken their toll on my body, so after six years of intense Olympic attendance, I reluctantly announced my retirement. I’ve since been an armchair spectator, watching subsequent Olympics from the comfort of my own lounge.