Around this time last year I seem to remember writing a blog entry about how, after a typically British approach to sunbathing, I'd turned a particularly agonising and bloody shade of magenta.
And, if your recall, I had simultaneously been bombarded by a squadron of mosquitoes, who had treated the crack of my arse like an X-Wing fighter treated the trench on the Death Star. And we all know what happened there.
Fast-forward one year and a few days into my stay, once again, I've already frazzled my shoulder and forehead into streaky bacon and, similarly, and true to form, the mozzies have turned my legs into crimson bubble wrap. Needless to say, word of the day is "ouch".
The place is still quiet. Highlights so far include last night's worst-ever pub quiz performance, enlivened only by a moment where, when teams were invited to tell a joke, Chris took to the mic to tell one of the single most inappropriate jokes I think I've ever heard, eliciting a stunned silence from the assembled throng. Brave man.
Then it was back to the Pink House with our tail between our legs for beers in the back courtyard, just time to hear Richie theorise that Raj's penis must look like "a Twix".
It is time to move on I think. I will remember the Pink House fondly, but onwards and upwards. Or given that it's Melbourne next, onwards and downwards.