The shuttle back to the airport picked us up at 0420 and we took our seats on the fluorescently lit bus among equally zombified Victorians, returning to Melbourne after their own dalliance with Cyclone Oswald.
Under normal circumstances I can handle the odd early start but my reserves are so depleted at the moment that doing so leaves me feeling more than a little dicky.
Coffee at the airport helped but my disorientated state was exacerbated by a showing of a Premier League fixture:
Steven Fletcher playing for Wolves? Scott Sinclair for Swansea?
Wolves in the Premiership?
Terry Connor in the dugout?
My brain struggled to compute so many inaccuracies until it finally determined that this was a rerun of a match from last season.
The two hour flight was spent listening to Jasmine's take on life, the universe and everything in between and we were soon touching down in Melbourne with an almighty thump and seeking a ride into the city.
The options are limited: taxi at $65 or $17 per head on a shuttle bus which the mathematicians among you will soon realise equates to 68 dabs.
Standing around looking vacant, we were approached by a dapper looking gent who asked if we were looking for a ride downtown and if so he could take us by limousine as his client had failed to show.
We readily accepted and were soon speeding down the freeway in a shiny black Holden, chatting amiably with Peter and learning that Melbourne traffic wishing to turn right waits in left hand lanes and other such riveting nuggets of information.
We were staying bang in the city centre but no sooner had we checked in than we were bidding a temporary farewell to Jasmine who was returning to Chinatown to work.
That left India as our sole charge and she lapped up all the attention, squeezing and loving that we could muster.
Parents that ran away for nearly a year and indulged a lifetime of wishes we may be, but parents we primarily are.
Connor and Jord had better prepare for our return to England - we're going to squidge you until you beg us for mercy.
Being in a western city centre with two Premiership standard shopaholics left me vulnerable and no sooner had Jasmine gone was I standing in yet another shoe shop. I performed reasonably valiantly for around two hours, only emitting audible winces on crossing boutique thresholds, but finally suggested we go back to the room for a kip to help get over our painfully early start to the day.
After this refreshing nap, India had still to buy school shoes so my torture wasn't quite yet over.
In a case of "if you can't beat them, join them", I bought something myself next day as we punctuated window shopping with a tour of the city.
There's a great free tram service around the city centre so we made use of that and then, with India heading back to home territory to work, Kerry and I had a few hours alone before going to meet the girls off their train at 2230.
When they returned to us India presented us with some gifts, having taken pity on us for our post travelling state. I received a couple of outfits including shirts, strides and shoes and Kerry a rather fetching leather bag.
We were really touched.
On Friday we did the tourist thing, visiting the ANZAC war memorial, the cottage where captain Cook's parents lived (it was shipped here from Blighty in 1934 and rebuilt), a couple of parks and a rather pitiful model village.
Then both girls went home again, India for work and Jasmine for that most important of beautifications to the fairer sex, to get her barnet dyed.
Saturday was a big day for Jasmine for she was to introduce me to her slice of four months, Andrew.
That wasn't until 1800 though so before that we made for a classic car museum, only to find it closed, amusing ourselves with the nearby road sign for "McCrae Street" instead.
On recovering from that hilarity we went ice-skating where we all learned that we have at least one weak ankle joint but, in Kerry's case, sufficient strategic padding to protect her in the case of over-exuberance.
Kerry and India were sufficiently tired and/or bruised to decide not to accompany Jasmine and me to the Museum of the Moving Image, opting to pass out on the grass of St Paul's Cathedral among the ne'erdowels and the discarded apple cores instead.
It was lovely to spend an hour with Jas on her own; it's definitely what she responds best to and appears to have been missing for far too long.
That evening we put our gladrags on and prepared to meet young Andrew in Nandos. It must have been a nervy encounter for him but he conducted himself impeccably and with his primary interest being football, meeting his girlfriend's hairy and scary looking old man would turn into a breeze.
A committed follower of the Premiership, a Scottish father, a grandfather who actually played for Rangers and a mutual first-hand experience of the 2010 World Cup saw us monopolise the conversation, regaling each other with our thoughts on Soccer City and demonstrating our geeky knowledge of facts and figures which saw the ladies reduced to spectators, revenge of sorts perhaps for the past two weeks of "lobotomy by shopping".
I hope to meet Andrew again one day.
For our last few days together we took a tram out to St Kilda, a relatively bohemian and arty beach area in the south east of the city.
We had booked an apartment, almost in disbelief that this would be our last accommodation, and took the tram with seemingly enough luggage to be
moving house straight after breakfast on Sunday.
India was in charge of navigation and duly instructed us to hop off at the necessary stop when the time came. We found the the EasyStay Apartments easily enough, though there was no sign of reception.
I called them up and was informed that reception was at another site just five minutes away and a complicated set of instructions to reach them followed which included a U-turn, a puzzling requirement of a party approaching by foot.
Slightly testily, we set off on what would be the ultimate journey for my case and I, another sweaty and unfortunately hilly trek which, fifteen minutes in, was looking less and less like a five minute journey with every step.
Only then did it dawn on me that matey on reception had assumed we were driving.
We finally reached our goal but were told that not only could we not gain entry to our apartment until 1400 hours, in two and a half hours time, but that it could be found on the site we had just walked from.
In addition to that, it would not be possible to make that journey by road due to the annual Melbourne 'Pride' march, the celebration of all things non-hetero-sexual which would see all nearby roads closed.
Though the type of situation that gives the returning traveller a story or two to tell, at the time this felt like being slapped around the chops repeatedly with a halibut, then being kicked up the jacksy for good measure.
We were very tired and we just wanted to get into our room and then get to the beach.
The last thing we wanted was to wait for aeons and then have to negotiate hordes of trannies, ladyboys and dungaree-wearing women as we retraced our sweaty steps from earlier.
We felt a bit more relaxed about the situation once we'd eaten lunch and decided to watch the Pride march before taking a cab across town once the streets had reopened.
We grabbed a drink and sat on one of the temporarily decommissioned tram platforms to wait for things to begin.
It was boiling hot and we had no shade so in an effort to cool down somewhat I unzipped the legs of my trousers to get the air flowing about me.
Seeing an opportunity to administer a tiny amount of padding to her position, Kerry purloined my trouser halves and sat on them while we finished our coffees and continued one of our many chats about how the girls see their futures panning out.
A few minutes later we realised that the parade would come down the other carriageway, behind us, so we shifted position and were soon treated to a tremendous display of anything and everything that Victoria could offer.
Proceedings began with "Dykes on Bikes" and progressed through "Out Footballers", "Aussie Bears", men in spangly thongs, transvestites, political parties in favour of same sex marriage, Thai ladyboys, a bearded lady (think Julia McKenzie and Brian Blessed merged) and, probably the highlight, four chaps in their 50s dressed as nuns on their top halves and in stockings and suspenders, buttock-revealing thongs and high heels down below.
There were thousands of people marching and the overwhelming feeling was one of happiness and unbridled joy so it was a great spectacle.
Along with half of Victoria, we retired to the grass near the beach and found a palm tree to sit under for shade.
It was here that I asked Kerry for the bottoms of my trousers, a request that elicited a gasp by retort and pleading apologies for her having left them at the tram stop.
I walked back to look for them but someone had inexplicably made off with them, items more useless, unless you have the other half of the trousers, than shoes are for a mermaid.
Our apartment was no comparison to that enjoyed on the Gold Coast but it was perfectly adequate for us.
Just to be able to make a cuppa in the morning is a joy after ten months of travelling and the gratis breakfast hamper was much appreciated too.
The drill for St Kilda was pretty simple: enjoy the anticipated good weather for a couple of days, laze on the beach, periodically adjourn for food, drink and ice-cream and make the most of our last hours together.
All of the above was achieved in spades and the only disappointments were that the beach could have been a lot cleaner and that Luna Park, a dilapidated fun fair, closed for winter the day before we arrived.
We spent two full days on the beach, a much appreciated rest for both these weary forty-somethings and my wallet.
Having time to just sit and chat with the girls was so lovely, even if I didn't always necessarily like what I heard.
All too soon our fleeting time together was almost up but my girls are growing up fast and hooray to that.
I look forward to the day they're making their own decisions and that isn't very far away at all.
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