I brought a new printer the other day.

Now this earth-shattering piece of information might not make the six-o-clock news, but it's pretty big in my world. My old Canon printer – ten years vintage – finally died a slow, agonizing death while chewing up a draft of my novel-in-progress. With 100 pages still to print, I was faced with a dilemma.

I looked at a printer catalog online and couldn't fathom the laundry lists of doodads and features. "Why don't they make a printer for people who just want to print?" I wailed. The husband came to my rescue. "Its not fair to judge a printer by its catalogue picture," he said as he drove me to the electronics store.

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I'm packing my bags for another adventure – this time, a month in Germany with my husband. We'll be visiting castles, museums, vintage steam railways, galleries, archaeological sites, and music festivals between Munich and Hamburg.

So what does an achromat pack in her suitcase for a long trip abroad? Mostly, the same thing as any person going away – tons of spare underwear, solid shampoo / conditioner, and a pair of warm woolly socks for the plane.

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You might have seen on the news recently that Christchurch, New Zealand, was struck by a serious earthquake. The quake, centered on Littleton and located only 5km beneath the surface, devastated the city centre, destroying the iconic cathedral and trapping many people beneath rubble.

The whole of New Zealand holds their breath while rescuers fight to locate over 200 missing people. The death toll rises every day, and emergency services are stretched to their limit.

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"Excuse me, Ma'am. I was wondering why you were sniffing the CDs?"

Straightening up, I gave the salesman my best glower (it's hard to glower effectively when you've just been caught with your head in a CD rack) and attempted to explain my eye condition. He shrugged and left me to carry on my search, but I knew he was smirking at me from behind the counter.

Admittedly, I must have looked a funny sight, stooped over the CD racks like the hunchback of Notre Dame, nose brushing the merchandise as I squinted at the titles. But he deserved that glower.

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Last night, I burnt the chicken.

This is not - as my husband would have you believe - a regular occurrence in our home. For starters, we don't normally buy chicken. I am head chef – the husband's entire culinary repertoire consists of spaghetti on toast and frozen pork schnitzel – and I can't cook chicken. I won't cook chicken.

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