My bucket list is long.
It is also varied (or for the educated amongst us, eclectic).
And very expensive.
Last year was a big one for me despite the cost of travelling to yet another overseas wedding.
Because it just happened to coincide with the staging of the Edinburgh Military Tattoo.
So we went to Scotland for a day and a bit just so I could see the show I had admired from afar for more years than I cared to remember.
But wouldn't you know it, in this shrinking world, that no sooner had we anonymously sat down amongst an audience of thousands than the next person up the steps was a stock agent we knew from Birregurra in western Victoria.
They're like cops aren't they?
You can always find one until you actually need them.
But that unexpected encounter aside, the night was all I dreamed, and more.
More because it had rained all day, as you would expect in an Edinburgh summer, but it held off from the time we reached our seats until we returned to our hotel.
Which brings me to another item on the list from the old country.
A seat at the Last Night of the Proms.
If this all sounds a bit soppy for an aging coot rusticating for most of his life in the backblocks of the antipodes, those of you around my age think should about it; there is some rhyme to my bizarre reasoning.
After all I (and I am guessing you) knew the words to Rule Britannia and Jerusalem before I (we) did to Waltzing Matilda and before I (we) had even heard of Advance Australia Fair.
As for God Save The Queen, well that was sung at school every week, and at every function I ever attended.
It all came back to me this week with a bit of a rush as I watched the replay of the Proms finale on TV while I was in Geelong.
I spent most of my school days there and over the years have taken assorted children back to show them both my school and where I stayed while I was there.
It is where they also became most convinced their old dad was either a natural born liar or a poor benighted fool suffering early onset dementia.
Because I tried to show them where we rode sheets of corrugated iron (no fancy cardboard for us) down the sides of hills into the creek below.
And did circuits of the backyard on the good old Hills Hoist.
When I told them about catching rides with the milko (with cans to pour fresh milk into billies) or baker (with not a sheet of plastic in sight) in their horse-drawn carts you have never seen such blank looks of disbelief.
And when I added the baker used to simply walk straight in the back door with his basket over his arm to see what we wanted for the day I heard them mumbling about getting their old man some therapy.
So there I sat on my own, the missus having given up the ghost at 9 pm as grandmas are wont to do, sniffling my way through a rousing round of pure mother country.
Make no mistake, I am glad to see us with our own anthem, flying our own flag and marching to the beat of our own drum.
No, I am not a royalist, or even monarchist, but the old Queen has been with me nearly all my life.
Every Australian occasion with which I grew up, and which I celebrated, revolved around the British national anthem and/or a loyal toast.
My first passport was a British one even though I had never been there.
Let's be honest though, that's how modern Australia's story started.
More importantly, how Australian agriculture also began - although it was not long before the apprentice quickly outperformed the master.
Today's techno-kids may never share, or feel, that heritage.
I think they will be the poorer for it.
But looking at the way some of them are growing up, I would just be happy to see one or two hurtling down a grassy slope on a sheet of cardboard, laughing their heads off.
Without needing an insurance policy to do it.