Back in Australia, I enjoyed three weeks of sunshine and beach. Only when I came back to London did I realise how quickly I had tanned. Once I had put on my foundation for my first day at work, I looked in the mirror to see a white face attached to a brown neck!

Just kidding, it wasn’t that extreme. In certain light, though, the difference in skin colour was noticeable.

Joan at the beach

I came home with something on my mind to ask Damjan. Picking up the phone, I dialled the familiar sequence of numbers and waited.

Beep beep… beep beep… beep beep…

‘I hope Damjan’s home,’ I thought. ‘He should be back by now.’

Suddenly, a girl picked up the phone.

‘Hello, this is Joan’s voicemail. If you leave a message…’

Wha-?!

Oh… When I dialled the phone number I know best, I had called myself at work.

I haven’t been paid by Specsavers to advertise for them. However, it is relevant to this post to say that I am delighted that I was able to get two new pairs of glasses for £69 (AUD122).

The one good thing about the simultaneous crash in the British Pound and the rise of the Australia Dollar is that it is now cheaper to buy things here in the UK than during my annual visits to Melbourne.

I’ve been walking around wearing either my sleek red glasses, or my chunky caramel slice glasses. Sometimes, the sides of my head would hurt. I started thinking I would have to go back to the store to get my glasses loosened. Obviously, my head was being squeezed like I had a koala wrapped around it.

After a few days, though, I realised that actually my head was scrambling to cope with an explosion of stimulation. I can now see further ahead and more details. It was this cubic growth of information was that was hurting my head.

Thankfully, the pain was temporary. I seem to have adjusted and now I miss the extra information whenever I am not wearing my new glasses.

My new caramel slice glasses. I’ll try to get a photo of me wearing my sleek red glasses.

Last weekend, I went to Dublin with Damjan and a friendly group of volleyball players.

After all the formalities of the volleyball were done, we went out on the town to celebrate. I had a bit of Guinness, a bit of Baileys. In short, it was a good time.

It was 1 AM and we were walking back to our hostel when something strange happened. A man came at Damjan and barked, ‘Stab!’, jabbing a cigarette towards Damjan’s face.

The stranger continued passed us. When I shook off my surprise, I realised he was too far away to be reprimanded.

So I whipped my hands out of my pockets, made pistols out of them and shouted, ‘Pow! Pow! Bangbangbangbangbangbang!’

The stabber turned around, looking confused.

Fancy that. As if I were the freak.

Here I am in Dublin. Like my new glasses?

I heard a skid, then a loud thud, angry car horns, and three different sirens.

There is a big smash at the intersection near my flat.

Now there is an ambulance and a crumpled red car parked on our curb. It is flashing blue into my bedroom window as I am trying to sleep.

A few days ago, I cut my left index finger with the back of a knife. How this happened, I do not know. The back of a knife isn’t meant to be sharp. Two blades for the price of one — bonus!

The finger is healing nicely. It’s at that itchy stage, which signals that the body is knitting itself back together.

I have been wondering if this cut has changed my fingerprints. Where do fingerprints come from? What layer of the skin is responsible for these whorls and loops? How deep do I actually need to be cut before there is slash across my fingerprints?

I have some friends who work at London Olympic Park site. The security is tough. You can only get in if your hand print scan matches a print stored in the database.

My friends were telling me about one woman whose hands expand in hot weather and shrink in cold weather. On a cold day like today, she sighs and factors in the extra time it will take to get on to site. Her cold-shrunken hands always fail to pass the security test.

A a man who works at the site has no fingers. This stumps (ha ha) the hand print scanner, so his security clearance is based on a retina scan.

This seems unnecessary to me. Surely a fingerless hand (a palm?) is a unique identifier? Seems much more secure than scanning a common garden-variety fingered hand.

Today, I discovered a new way to torture myself.

It’s snowing here in London and I was very good. Straight after work, I stomped through the slush to get to the gym.

Then I spent 45 minutes on the elliptical trainer… watching Nigella’s Christmas Kitchen. Did my stomach growl and growl! Oh, the pavlova!

At work, they announced a baking competition. There would be four categories: cakes; biscuits; Christmas; and savoury. Home made baked goodies would be displayed and people would pay for those most enticing. All proceeds to charity, of course.

I am not a competitive person but as soon as I read the announcement email, a fire was lit inside me. BAKE OFF! I must win!

Strategy was important. I quickly decided that I would enter a savoury dish. It would surely be a less crowded category than cakes, biscuits and Christmas.

What to cook?  Damjan, I knew, had a crowd-pleasing recipe. I called him in Melbourne to get tips on baking gibanica.

Gibanica (Cheese Pie, Serbian recipe)

500g  fillo pastry
5  eggs
600mL  cream
~150g  fetta cheese
1  tub of cottage cheese
100-150g  grated cheddar cheese
milk/water

Mix the eggs, cheeses and cream in a big bowl.  Reserve 4-6 sheets of fillo pastry for the top and bottom layers.  Add the remaining sheets of fillo pastry into the mixture one by one, ensuring that each one is thoroughly covered (wetted) with the mixture.  If your mixture becomes too dry, add some milk and/or water.

You’ll need a large baking tray.  Grease the tray with a little oil or butter.  Place 2-3 sheets of fillo pastry (depending on thickness) on the bottom.  Pour the mixture into the try, on top of the bottom layers of fillo pastry, and spread evently.  Place the remaining 2-3 sheets of fillo pastry on top of the mixture, this is the top layer. Pour and spread a little water over this top layer until it is thoroughly wet — this is very important!  If the top layer of pastry is dry, it will burn in the oven.  Don’t worry if it seems too wet, just make sure every millimetre is wet.

Bake in the oven on high heat (I think this means 190-200 C, I think I always use something around there).  Baking can take up to an hour, but check it regularly to make sure it doesn’t burn.

I made the pie in time for my weekend dinner party guests to try some for entrée. My efforts had not turned out as nicely as Damjan’s pies. The layers were packed too densely and there was distinct pastry taste. Perhaps it was undercooked?

My guests loved it, though. ‘You’re going to win, we know it!’ They were emphatic.

After they left, I put the rest of the pie back in the oven for another 15 minutes. Better safe than sorry.

On the day of judgement, all the closet cooks came out. We were astounded by how many entries there were. Orange cakes, cup cakes, rocky road, Olly’s hangover recovery chocolate slice, mince pies, German cookies, chocolate chip cookies, dark chocolate brownies, white chocolate brownies, truffles, ginger biscuits, Christmas tree cookies… The long bench full of baked goods was beautiful to behold.

In the savoury category, I was up against sausage rolls and steak-and-ale pasties.

In the end, my strategy worked. I was declared the winner of the savouries!

Paul won the Grand Baker of them All. He must have spent all weekend cooking because he arrived on the scene with five dishes, including the most impressive iced cupcakes I have ever seen. A worthy winner!

On the last day of our seaside ‘mini-break’, we visited the town of Marazion for fish and chips.

Marazion has something that I consider rare in the UK: a real sandy beach.

These kids were riding on a stream that emptied in the ocean. I was bit concerned. There was a distinct smell of sewage about that stream. Either the stream was fed by geologically active groundwaters (doubtful) or it was carrying the outflow of some kind of water treatment plant (more likely).

There must have once been volcanic activity in the area, though. There was slate and granite everywhere.

Besides fish and chips, the other reason we came to Marazion was to see St Michael’s Mount. The Mount is its own parish with residents. The population peaked at 300 in the 1800s. Its castle is the official residence of Lord St Levan. He doesn’t live there anymore but his nephew supposedly does.

When we arrived at the beach, we saw people being ferried to and from the island on small motorised boats.

Some, though, came in on their own paddle power.

Around half an hour after we arrived, I spotted someone in the water, seemingly wading towards St Michael’s Mount!

It turns out that there is a man made causeway to the Mount, which can be crossed at mid to low tide.

Soon there was a highway of foot traffic between Marazion and the Mount.

Baked potato, an hour in the oven.

Salt.

Pepper.

Butter.

Cheese.

Nando’s Hot Peri Peri Sauce.