I wasn't going to be left holding the baby. Oh no! - 10 months of going-away parties, driving friends to the airport, wishing them well and keeping in touch by email has done it for me. And then hearing everyone else lay plans and discuss when they're off served only to strengthen the embryonic notions. Got to get there yourself, boy.
There is Australia. The land of Bruces, barbies and beers. And Sheilas too, of course. Also the home of growing thousands of young Irish people who have been clamouring to take advantage of the wonderful Working Holiday Programme which affords a year of travel, dollars and fun in the land our ancestors helped create. Provided, of course, you're under 26, educated and don't share any of the nasty criminal traits your great grandparents were sent there for.
Estimates suggest that about 20,000 young Irish are in Australia on the programme at the moment with a further 500 applying every weekly. These are not the forlorn emigrants of yesteryear, destined never to return from far-off shores. Instead they are the true diaspora, the products of the cliched Celtic Tiger. And, while the homes of Mayo and Donegal may still ritually hold something akin to an American wake, this is much more of an Aussie celebration as young Conor and Ciara can always come home if and when they want. This is something Paddy and Brigid never had.
You see the Tiger has blessed us with confidence, cash and cheaper airline tickets. It has equally cursed us with over-qualification, restlessness and impatience. Graduates enter the workplace at higher rungs than ever before but find themselves plateauing within a few years.
One is expected to acquire a paunch, grey hair and gravitas before real progress can be made. Waiting for these rewards involves either soul destruction or marrying and settling down. Which is worse?
So, the attractive option is to get out. And, as we are also the generation who enjoyed those lost student summers in the United States on J1 visas, the chance to do a whole year for nearly-grown-ups in Australia is so alluring. We can throw off the shackles of responsibility, do whatever sort of jobs we want, party every night and meet the maddest, strangest and best people in a state of beautiful abandon and semi-hedonism.
This is not an exaggeration. Reports coming back do nothing to dampen the dream.
The American dream was fuelled by the prospect of wealth, opportunity and a totally fresh start. This is what also powers the exodus to Down Under. Having spent my young working life interested in everything but probably not qualified for anything in particular (hence journalism), Australia is going to be my true testing ground.
Not only will I be going armed with sundry accumulated media skills but also with references which will tell the world that I'm an experienced labourer (that Olympic Stadium is bound to need some final touches), a great barman (thirsty folk everywhere) and even the great white hope in the fields of advertising, marketing and financial analysis (you never know - they could be my calling). Pity I can't bluff my way into computers or medicine. Those folk make a fortune wherever they go.
The beauty of it all is, if it goes belly-up we're so far away from home nobody need ever know. We haven't even exhausted the stop-gap safety net of teaching! Ireland is too small a place to make serious mistakes in a career, but a year in Australia looks better on a CV than a similar period spent taking time out in Goa or somewhere. Man.
Are these ramblings flippant? Am I being facetious? You're probably right. But the point is that we need to grow and develop in breathing space away from our native land so that we come back stronger, wiser and more valuable. And it hasn't been prepared for lightly.
I've always had a huge aversion to relying too much on the network of Irish abroad. Being drunkenly interrogated about the new extension to a nightclub at home in Kildare over the urinal of a Bronx bar some years ago only affirmed this opinion.
In America I enjoyed getting out and about, working across rural Pennsylvania, visiting North Carolina, Baltimore and Washington DC instead of going to the traditional meccas of Cape Cod, Montauk and Nantucket.
But how does one do this in Australia, where there is a less transient feel to the whole thing, where the opportunities are in the cities rather than the resorts and where, as I've said all along, they're a nice bunch of people even if they may occasionally slobber sentimentally in bars.
The answer is . . . independence. Be willing to engage with and support the structures already in place while also being prepared to take a chance and get out and about alone. Hang about with the real Australian people. Don't worry about being isolated if you already know Aussies before you go. Trouble is, where to meet them? Well, I was overjoyed to discover that there is a vast reservoir of the creatures currently whizzing their way on a mirror-image trail of self discovery around Europe - all you have to do is tap into it.
Three weeks of solo backpacking last autumn through the Czech Republic, Poland and Hungary set me up with some of the most interesting, wacky and beautiful antipodeans imagineable. Warm meals and great company await in Perth, Melbourne, Newcastle, Darwin and all spots in between, once I decide to make a break from the first base in Sydney.
A delightful by-product of this Eastern jaunt was the number of other nationalities I met along the road too. Auckland, Cape Town, San Francisco and even Buenos Aires sorted, thank you very much.
Three weeks away alone can be quite daunting and I won't admit I wasn't nervous about it. The acid test was going to the cinema alone - something conceivable only as a pursuit for anoraked losers a year ago, but now somewhat liberating empowering and even enjoyable. My friends still refuse to believe I've done it. In the 25 or so nights I was away I spent only one day and evening alone. That was by choice - a change of hostel was necessary to escape five English girls who had seemed nice at first but became intent on involving me in their own self-destruction through an inabilty to make group decisions.
That's why names such as Cairns, Jindabyne, Caboolture and Port Denison are leaping out from my Lonely Planet guidebook. That's why my feet are so itchy and the past few months have been unbearable with pent-up excitement. That's why I'm so delighted to be heading off, why so many of my age group are doing, and have done, likewise.
Because we can. Because everything has conspired to give us the opportunity. Because the country has been so good to us. And because we don't want to grow up just yet. And, most of all, because if we don't do it now we never will.
We don't want to be those people who work so hard all their lives and wish they'd tried things when they were younger. There's no guarantee all of us are going to be around to get old. That's so far away. Now is for living and doing.
So, here's to a year of freedom and fun - to seeing in the new millennium with old friends and new ones friends - to the Olympics, Fosters and Home and Away - to boundless possibility - and, yes, if the truth be known, to a transient, indulgent and slightly selfish lifestyle. Why not, though? There's time for drudge and duty later on. Throw the shrimp on the barbie, mate, I'm on me way. Let the adventures begin.
Further information on the Working Holiday Visa Programme can be acquired by sending an SAE to: WHV, Australian Embassy, PO Box 6558, Dublin 2.