You might recall my eyebrows were waxed into a state of Permanent Surprise back in September. It's taken all these months for them to revert to their usual feralness. Not wanting to risk Lynette The Ripper again, I scoured the Yellow Pages for somewhere new.

I'm somewhat wary of Beauty Establishments here in Scotland. I've not had much luck. Take hairdressers, for example. It took me two and half years to find a goodun. After three lopsided chops from a curly-haired Kiwi, I jumped ship, oddly enough to another Kiwi. He became known as the Nicholson Street Butcher and we must never speak of him again. And then there was a third Kiwi, who was a genius and restored my faith in her people. But she disappeared after three cuts, deciding that the grass was greener back in Auckland.

So I moved on to a Scottish lass, who was quietly spoken but deadly fast and accurate with the scissors. Which suited me fine, because I don't go there for the banter. It was all going beautifully until I showed up for a colour one day only to be told abruptly that she, "No longer works at this establishment". After sobbing briefly that the good ones always leave me, the head stylist assured me it wasn't personal and tended to my locks herself.

It wasn't until a few months later when we'd built up that inane hairdresser/hairdressed repartee that she casually mentioned that my former stylist had been fired for repeatedly showing up drunk. And by the way, she was now in jail for attempted murder! She'd stabbed her boyfriend! How deliciously sordid. But... but... what about all those times she'd asked me in hushed tones, How bout I chop off another inch? What was that? Practice?!

Anyway, there I was last week in the waiting room of my chosen New Place. It was dead charming, like walking into a teenage slumber party. There were comfy old couches, wooden floors, magazines and ladies with cotton wool stuffed 'tween their toes as they waited for polish to dry. I would have been content to sit there all night reading, and was almost annoyed when the Wax Mistress called my name.

She was smiley and she had red hair.

"So what can I do for you?"

"It's the eyebrows. They sneak up on me all the time. They're pale and hard to spot, and they switch from neat and tidy to pure mental overnight. I can never catch the bastards!"

"Tell me about it!" She pointed to her own ginger brows.

Maybe it's true what Gareth says about the Ginger Understanding. There's a scarlet-locked baby living in the flat upstairs that we refer to as the Ginger Bairn (where ginger = redhead, and bairn = baby in the Scottish vernacular). Ginger Bairn recently learned to walk. Actually, it bypassed walk and went straight to run, and spends its days galloping round on the cursed laminated floors.

"Shauna!" Gareth will often scream above the din, "Will you please go tell the Ginger Bairn to sit down?!"

"Why me?"

"Because it will listen to you. Just talk to it, Ginger to Ginger. It will understand its own kind!"

This Wax Mistress certainly understood her own kind. All the perils of gingerism. The paradox of the pale eyelashes yet the crotch so lurid it can be seen from space.

"I had a bad experience last time," I said.

"Oh? What happened?"

"I was butchered. My husband said I looked like the headlights on the new Mercedes. My expression was locked on 'surprised'."

"How surprised are we talking?"

"Like, surprise tinged with alarm."

"Like, surprised like the plot twist in The Crying Game."

"Yes!"

"Well I won't let that happen again," she soothed, "You're more suited to a slightly thicker brow anyway. Now just lay back here and I'll sort everything."

Every other brow wax I've had was over in a minute. A perfunctory brush, a slap of hot wax, a rrrrrrip, then a brief exchange of many pounds. But this woman took her time, all seriousness as she combed and measured. Did she brutally rip the stray hairs with wax, or did she just coax them out with some sort of musical interlude, a la the Pied Piper? I can't recall.

"Your brows have a fantastic natural arch to them," she cooed afterwards, massaging lotion into my flaming forehead, "They're really lovely."

"Oh cheers," I mumbled. Take that, bitches! Finally, something to feel superior about. Bums may shrink or widen, and breasts will rise and fall, but eyebrows are forever!

The whole experience was magic. My brows were tidy but not anorexic. And instead of dismissing me with a bored wave then nicking oot the back for a fag, the Wax Mistress helped me with my coat and waited politely while I fumbled with my hat and scarf. She even held the door open and wished me goodnight!

The biggest shock was that it cost four pounds less than the old place. That's two pounds less per brow! Value for money and stellar customer service in Scotland, all in one day! This was definitely an anecdote I would store up for when I next met up with expat Australians and we sit around eating cake and making bitchy generalisations about our adopted nation.

Yes indeed, my complete surprise would still be registered on my face today, a whole week later; except of course the brows don't do that anymore.

Remember my Nutella Obsession? I have now come one step closer to my ultimate dream of swimming in a vat of the stuff. My friend Julia sent me the most incredible Christmas gift all the way from Italy... a three kilo jar!

That's 6.6 pounds to the unmetric. It even has a solid gold (plastic) lid to remind you that you're dealing with something special.

Nutritional value: Niente!

Observe how the mighty vessel dwarfs the piddling 500g jar.

It's essential to choose the right tool for the job.

Nutella on Nutella action.

Just in case you haven't grasped that this is a honking huge jar of Nutella, here it is beside the Charles and Diana Commemorative Mug for scale.

I haven't cracked the seal yet. I just want to look at it and hold it in my arms. For now.

Actual email received at work today:

Good morning

Thank you.

!!!

I'd assumed going to see a bike race in Australia would be pretty much the same as seeing a bike race in Scotland. Same speedy bikes, same clouds of dust, same hairy bikers, same skanky lassies in lycra shorts. However, there was one major difference: the food.

Last summer at the British Superbikes at Knockhill we had agonised over our options:

- burgers of questionable origin
- chips and curry sauce
- chips and brown sauce
- chips and red sauce

If you choose curry sauce they slap it onto the chips for you, scooping it up from a metal tray, all yellowy brown like toxic waste, the surface stiff and puckered from hours under a heat lamp. If you want Red or Brown it's DIY from plastic bottles with crusty nozzles. And don't ever call it ketchup or tomato sauce. That has to be one of my favourite things about Scotland. It's either Red or Brown sauce. Just like when you're a kid and your Mum asks what flavour milkshake you want, and you say, "PINK!".

When we arrived at Phillip Island a few months later for the Australian MotoGP, I saw the same white vans plonked all round the circuit. My stomach purred in anticipation of being dished up the same greasy slop by the same sweaty-browed ladies.

But while a few served traditional burgers and chips, the majority of the vans were rather... cosmopolitan. There were fresh salad wraps, turkish kebabs, german sausages on fat white rolls, meat pies, baked potatoes, samosas, noodles, wood-fired pizzas and a freaking gelato stand.

They even had Real Coffee. It was bizarre, hearing the familiar schhhhhhh of the coffee machine right next to screaming motorbikes. Baristas fished out Melting Moments and chocolate cookies from glass jars with those dainty little tongs. Biker Types balanced their helmets in one hand while stirring their cappucinos with the other. This was no styrofoam and watery Nescafe stirred with a Paddlepop stick operation. They even had plastic lids! And two kinds of sugar!

"Look at those big Aussie guys there, they're just sooo tough with their leathers and lattes!"

"It's all a bit poncy, isn't?"

"Damn right it is!"

"You want a hot chocolate?"

"Yes please."

I won't bore you with the details of the race, because I know most people aren't terribly interested in MotoGP. But let me tell you it's one of the greatest ways a girl can spend two days, and not just because for once the queue for the Ladies loo is heaps shorter than the Mens. MotoGP is also noise, smells, adrenaline, engines, crashes and slutty chicks holding umbrellas over tiny men in leather suits.

On Saturday we watched the qualifying from opposite the pit lane, peering into the garages through my zoom lens at the mad buzz of mechanics and riders. On Sunday we perched in Bass Strait Grandstand, the race right in front of us and the ocean at our back, as Valentino Rossi cruised to yet another victory.

After the race came the grand palaver of getting back to Melbourne. With tens of thousands of bikes, cars and coaches all trying to escape at once, it took over an hour to crawl off the tiny island. This provided great entertainment for those staying behind. Every house we passed had people sitting in front yards and verandahs, hanging from the balconies with beers, watching the passing parade. Even when we finally reached the turn-off for Melbourne, more people appeared from out of the hills, jumping up and down beside the highway, waving flags and beers.

This strange spectacle continued for almost the entire two hours back to the city. Just people bloody everywhere, grinning and leering and waving; turning the side of the highway into one big living room. The roads were flanked by rows of folding chairs, occupied by beer-bellied blokes, knitting grannies and bikinied teens with mirrored sunglasses. There were dogs and babies and cartwheeling kids. People picnicked on car roofs, in the back of utes and in the middle of roundabouts. Two guys had even brought along a sofa. Life can be pretty quiet in small Aussie towns, so a few thousand motorbikes swarming by all at once could be the most glittering day of the year. At least it's a great opportunity to drink beer and jump up and down like a dickhead.

"What the hell are you Australian people about?" Gareth asked, gawking out the window in amazement.

"I don't know. We're a bunch of idiots!"

And I'd never been so proud.

GARETH'S DAD:  Do you know what I paid for a haircut the other day? Eight pounds! Eight pounds for a haircut. What do you pay for a haircut, Gareth?

GARETH:  I haven't paid for a haircut for about ten years. I wish I could pay eight pounds for a haircut.

D:  Well if you grew your hair back you could go get it cut!

G:  Dad, I don't have any hair to grow back.

D:  Yes you have! If you just stopped shaving it all the time, you could get a proper haircut!

G:  But I haven't got any hair left!

GARETH'S MUM:  He hasn't got any hair left!

D:  Yes he has! He's got plenty of hair.

M:  He doesn't have any hair on top!

D:  Yes he does, he just shaves it all off!

M:  You're dreaming. I'm telling you, he hasn't had hair on top for years!

G:  Yeah, thanks Mum.