Last week in the Kingdom of Fife we rejoiced in four consecutive days of fine weather. I took my sunglasses out of storage so I wouldn’t be blinded by bare midriffs on the high street. But judging from the long queues at the Tan Stand, they’ll all be orange soon.

Sunshine lends a wholesome air to the toun. I saw a girl walking to the park with a frisbee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Then I saw a peacock stop to pick up an abandonded chip. He fanned out his tail and tilted his head back, chip clenched in his tiny beak. I fumbled for my camera but the posing bastard gulped it down before I could focus.

Speaking of chips, we went out to Anstruther the other night. Nothing says summer like hot grease by the sea! I also wanted photographic evidence of a chip butty for my Dietgirl blog. I’d mentioned recently that Gareth was a devotee and some people were baffled and/or intrigued by the idea of carb on carb action.

Five years ago I would have been horrified, but now I see poetry in the bland, fluffy white roll, lubed up with butter and stuffed with flaccid fries.

Ask for a chip butty at the Anstruther chippie and your butty shall runneth over:

Gareth likes to eat the overflow first, building anticipation for the main event.

I went for the fish supper as usual. I had brought along my special Australianising Kit: chicken salt and a lemon. Back home you get lemon with fish by default, but over here you have to ask for it and they think you’re a freak. The chicken salt, which doesn’t contain actual chickens, was purchased for a ludicrous sum at the Australia Shop in Covent Garden a few years ago. I could take it or leave the stuff when I actually lived in Oz, but now flavoured sodium is a tasty, pathetic way of clinging to my roots.

ARRGHHHH! This weekend, for sure.

At the York Castle Museum.
The weekend was great - cheers for your suggestions!

Recently we were sitting in the car out the front of my dear in-law's house. We were running late as usual, so Gareth had to write on the Mother's Day card before we went inside.

GARETH:  Sorry we're late.
MOTHER-IN-LAW-MARY:  Is everything alright!?
G:  Yes?
MILM:  Are you sure!?
G:  Yes!
MILM:  But you were just sitting there the car for ages! Were you two having a fight?
G:  No!
MILM: You were fighting, weren't you?
G:  Nooo! I was writing on your card!
MILM:  Are you sure you weren't fighting!?

I was somewhat miffed that we've reached a point of togetherness where if we sit in a car for a long time, people assume we're having an argument. As opposed to assuming we're desperately feeling each other up, just one more time before the soup is on the table.

Meanwhile, we're still fixing up the bloody flat. Gareth has spent all weekend painting the doors and skirting boards in the bedroom. My efforts with the gloss were crooked and shite, despite holding my breath. And I really tried hard, as I'm sort of bristling from that incident in January 1998 that I've only mentioned 72 times when The Mothership and Rhi were re-upholstering a chair and I asked could I bang in a few nails and The Mothership said No and I said Why not and she paused and said, Because you don't have practical skills.

Oh yeah? Then how did I come up with the Russian Remote Hat? I brought this fuzzy wonder back from Moscow for Gareth but the Scottish winter has never been cold enough for it. Now thanks to my Practical Skills it has found a noble purpose.

In other developments, my brain went fuzzy. It happened on 2 October when I began my New Job or perhaps it was as far back as 18 June when I handed in the book manuscript. All the clarity and zest absconded and I've been unable to focus ever since. New Job is almost six months old but I still call it New Job as that makes the constant panic still seem appropriate, and nothing to do with any rubbishness on my part. I've also done a lot of writing and talking to pimp Dietgirl and I don't know how I got through that without drooling on anyone. It's been a really mad, wonderful ride and I wanted to bore you with the details, all eleven of you. But whenever I've sat down at the screen I couldn't concentrate so I ended up Facebooking or twitting on Twitter. Result: brain cells further eroded. Witold wrote recently, Oh boy, there are so many places on the web now to say almost nothing in so many ways.

It feels like I'm trapped inside something, maybe a giant plastic ball. It's opaque so I can sort of see the world outside but not clearly and I'm poking and prodding the curvy walls, wanting to shout about my predicament but not being able to find the words. I think maybe I'm a little burned out, as much as I hate to use such a wanky phrase. But overall life is great, just really freaky busy; so sometimes it's hard to figure out what's important and what's to be done. Right now I am reading lots of books, to remind me that words are good and sexy and nice to be around. I hope to form proper sentences soon!

How do we carry on now that Masterchef is over?

For those not in the know, it's basically American Idol with foie gras and fancy knives. It's hosted by two strangely endearing blokes who don't understand the concept of Inside Voices, so they constantly bark at the contestants, I WANNA SEE A NICE PLAYDA FOOD and NOW THAT'S BEWDIFULLY SEASONED!

The contestants are mostly earnest Former Bankers or Ex-Barristers who gave up high-flying careers to pursue their Passion for Food. This intrigues me as I don't think I could sacrifice even my low-flying career until I was 100% certain that the Passion was 100% secure and paid near enough to the low-flying career that I wouldn't need to live in a cardboard box. But on the telly, Passion RULES and people can chuck their jobs with gay abandon.

The final episode was both compelling and insane (and beautifully live blogged by Anna Pickard) Shouty Aussie was reduced to tears by Emily's beetroot tagliatelle and Shouty Bald insisted that EVERY YEAR THEY. JUST. GET. BEDDA AN BEDDA! Curly James was eventually declared the winner of the suitably curly Masterchef trophy.

It was so easy to be swept up in such culinary drama but Gareth brought some perspective to the table:

	"Whoever wins… IT WILL CHANGE. THEIR. LIVES"
	"It DOESN'T get any TOUGHER THAN THIS"
	"They're just COOKING THE DINNER!"

Dr G and I are off to the fair city of York this arvo to celebrate three years of hasty marriage.

I should have thought of this weeks ago but forgot amidst the deaf and snottiness... I was wondering - you guys had so many brilliant ideas when we went to New York - has anyone been to the old one? Gareth's all geeked up for the air museum and the rail museum, but what's in it for me? Mwahaha.

Signs of old age and crotchety-ness:

• We booked our train tickets in the Quiet Coach. Shush, you kids!
• Gareth is bringing a thermos of tea coz we're too stingy to pay £1 for the pissweak on-board swill.
• Although Gareth will say it's more about environmental reasons - all them nasty plastic cups.

If he shows up with a tartan rug we're doomed.

A parcel arrived from The Mothership. It took two months and $90 to come over on the boat. Among the loot - ancient issues of delicious magazine, a random handbag, moisturiser, two fleece hoodies, tiny tins of passionfruit and creamed corn.

As always, Mum had mummified the parcel with a kilometre of packing tape so we had to hack it open with a breadknife. But when I was finally in, I could almost smell home… traces of Bert the dog, Earl Grey tea and chilly Goulburn air, trapped in the fabrics and pages.

Reading the magazines was a strange mix of foreign and familiar. I gawked at a photo of a sheep for ten minutes, because I’d forgotten how beautifully beige and sturdy Aussie sheep look. And all those food brands… King Island Dairy, Devondale, Pauls. It’s pathetic when a yogurt pot makes you sigh with longing.

And that Bill Granger… bloody hell, he’s everywhere, isn’t he? Does he ever stop smiling? They had his show on the BBC but he hasn’t become the same level of culinary god as he seems to be in Oz. Maybe he’s just too smiley for Britain? All that sunshine and salad; we just can’t relate to that. Gareth reckons if he shot a series on a council estate and flipped the bird as he stirred the gravy, he’d be huge.

Recently I sent a parcel to Hollie and James, my wee brother and sister. It cost £30 to send about £5 worth of British sweets and crisps. But that’s the grand tradition of the long distance care package - the postage is always at least five times the value of the contents. The ratio may have been higher for Mum’s parcel - she sent me a bagful of loose change left over from her last visit. I could just hear her voice as I pawed through the pennies, They’re no good to me now, you might as well use them! This 2p coin has had an exciting life - from Scotland to Australia and back again.

"Wherever you were this morning I hope you managed to hear and see the government's apology to the stolen generations. The message was loud and clear. Australia is sorry. There will be no more lies and evasions; the government of Australia apologises for what it did. The first business of the new Parliament was the making of a long overdue forceful and formal acknowledgement of dreadful wrongs and a sincere expression of sorrow for the pain and grief these wrongs caused. It is not incongruous or wrong to feel joyfulness and optimism because the joy is for what might come of what was done so well today."

- Lucy Tartan on an incredible day.

• What Sorry Looks, Sounds, Feels Like - Beth at Sarsaparilla
• He Didn't Fuck It Up - Ampersand Duck
• Some BBC background if you don't know what I'm banging on about!