I have just one week in London, exchanging the harsh Perth winter for the UK’s summer evenings. I am surprised at just how warm it is; the decision to pack shorts pays immediate dividends for this traveller, though not for the locals who must endure the inelegant sight. There’s something comforting about the fact that one is greeted at Heathrow by a giant picture of Moira Cameron, resplendent in her Beefeater uniform. It’s a quintessentially British sight – and far more interesting than that postage stamp-sized image of the incumbent President that American airports display.

We embrace the triumph of the sharing economy by eschewing hotels in favour of Airbnb, which has delivered itself of a very pleasant apartment, complete with private roof deck. The local area is euphemistically described by residents as ‘gentrifying’, but it’s handy to transport hubs. Within our travel party, I am considered the London ‘veteran’, a title which confers significant responsibility, chiefly for trying to explain to the uninitiated how the byzantine world of the London Underground works. No one disappeared during the course of the week, so the effort was not in vain.

The highlight of the visit occurs early; an opportunity to meet my new nephew, Rory Gavan, who lives with my sister and brother-in-law in Chesham. He’s coming up to four months now, but elections and other commitments at home have meant that all our interactions heretofore have been via Skype. His proud parents have told me the the name ‘Rory’ was chosen because from minute one, he seemed like a strong little chap, and that’s my first impression as well. He holds himself upright constantly, smiles and chuckles readily and, if the power with which he grabs my finger is any indication, will have a fine handshake in years to come. Rory’s second name was chosen in honour of my late grandfather, a man who embodied enormous strength of character and possessed an infectious sense of humour. This little chap is showing evidence of both traits.

For over a decade, I have promised myself that ‘next time’ I’m in the UK, I will make the pilgrimage to Chartwell, the country home of Sir Winston Churchill. It never seemed to happen, but this time, with sunshine in plentiful supply, there was no excuse. A train from Victoria bears us into the stunning Kent countryside, and it’s just a short taxi trip from the station to the property, which is now under the auspices of the National Trust. The house itself is imposing, to be sure, but not particularly arresting in an aesthetic sense, though the magnificent grounds are another story. No photographs are permitted inside the home, and this is an enormous relief. During every other museum visit, it felt impossible to appreciate anything without some interloper stepping up with an iPhone and snapping a photo of every object before them. What is the point of visiting great cultural artefacts if all you’re going to do is look at them through your phone screen? Do us all a favour and stick to catching Pokémon…

The evenings on the trip are spent catching up with friends at various places. Of particular note was a trip to Effra Social in Brixon, a hidden gem that previously did service as the local Conservative Club which first nurtured, among others, Sir John Major. The Three Stags, opposite the Imperial War Museum, was the site of a long-overdue catch up with my old mate Alex Deane, who was able to share tales of the Brexit triumph, in which he was an active player.

Through pure serendipity, I discover that this visit to London coincides with the opening of Barry Humphries’ Weimar Cabaret at Cadogan Hall, just off Sloane Square. I readily confess to knowing precious little about cabaret, but the opportunity to see an Australian legend perform material banned by the Nazis, backed by the Australian Chamber Orchestra in a grand London venue, wasn’t one to be passed up.

This is material that plainly means a great deal to Mr. Humphries, as did this opportunity to showcase it. Even from our seats at the rear of the house, it was still possible to discern several moments where he quickly wiped away a tear. Although there were moments of merriment, the evening still had a darker edge. Some of Kurt Weill’s more haunting material reminds us all of the threat to free expression that emerges when, as Barry Humphries intoned, ‘a great nation votes for a loud-mouth with a bad combover, who is promising the restoration of national pride’.

It turns out we were not the only Australians in the house for opening night. High Commissioner Alexander Downer was present, along with Geoffrey Robertson, Kathy Lette, and members of the star’s family, including Oscar Humphries, who served as the inaugural editor of this august magazine. In fact, there were many Australian accents audible amongst the crowd.

This staunch support for a fellow Australian in a foreign capital was especially notable, coming in the week when Kevin Rudd discovered – contrary to his unrealistic expectations – that such experiences are not universal. No doubt he would have clapped along heartily with the evening’s opening number, ‘It’s All A Swindle’.

But now, the Oyster Card must slip back into desuetude, and it’s through the gates at Heathrow for the long flight home. The farewells that festoon the walls come not from Moira, but from Tim, of the European Space Agency.

Perhaps someone in authority will need to re-think that one.