This is going to be a different kind of Christmas.

We're at home, for a start. Haven't been at home for Christmas since 2003. Christmases since then have seen us setting out on the Queen Charlotte Track in New Zealand's glorious Marlborough Sounds (which were actually pretty damp that day); sadly divided between Auckland (New Zealand) and Madurai (India); enjoying a barbie on a beach in Viet Nam's Ha Long Bay; camping with the kookaburras in Victoria's spectacular High Country; being cosseted by my wonderful in-laws in Nottinghamshire (UK); and enjoying the temples and culinary opportunities of Siem Reap (Cambodia).

But this year's "Christmas holiday" is over, and we went to Sri Lanka in it. It's now a working Christmas, and there's a thesis to finish.

It's also weirdly cold. I keep having to hunt for socks in the evening, and the doona's back on the bed. OK, the forecast is good for Christmas Day, but it's not looking so perky for our planned trip to Ballarat on Boxing Day.

And my computer has also decided to go on a special Christmas-season work-to-rule (and, unfortunately, we have yet to fathom which rules it's working to). This has turned out to be serious. The intended Pavlova has had to be postponed, because computer-fixing this morning absorbed all the time that was destined for ingredient-buying at the market.

Still, we're not grounded at Heathrow, with half the world, so that's good.

The fridge is well stocked.

And there are mince pies. Best eaten hot, with cold Greek yoghurt on the side...