Thanks so much for all the emails from everyone this week.
I guess this huge cold southerly is making you dream fond dreams of the amazing times some of you have had in Turkey.
I must admit I am dreaming of that nonstop sunshine and those tomatoes that drip what looks like blood.
I'm back in London for a week looking out at the gentle drizzle and eating toast with tomatoes that only leak a bit of insipid watery juice.
Not the same thing at all.
But only a lunatic would come to London for its weather and tomatoes.
London is fabulous in so many other ways - and lots of them are to do with books.
My nephew (he insists I tell you he is more of a honey colour than a marmalade) is a huge fan of the Imperial War Museum.
Right now there is a special holiday programme where they have got together a few authors and illustrators of children's books about war to chat to children about their work.
And what a line-up! Michael Morpurgo is going to talk about his Warhorse, Ian Serraillier's daughter is talking about The Silver Sword, and the illustrator of all the Horrible Histories is going to teach some lucky brats how to draw like him.
There's loads more, and even though a war museum would never be high on my must-do list, I am desperate to get along there this week.
War books are great to read with children as they are so interested in learning about justice and their thoughts on these big issues are so fresh and passionate.
London is a different place right now after the riots.
There are police everywhere and it's hard to see any of those stroppy, surly youths with the curled lip of disdain around.
If you do see any, there's usually a policeman having a little chat with them.
Everyone else seems happy to have such a huge police presence and I've seen all sorts of people thanking them and shaking hands with them.
And not just the sort you'd expect, like the tweedy ex-army chaps with highly polished brogues, but the beautiful big African ladies and the excitable little Indian newspaper agent as well.
So many people have moved to Britain from difficult, dangerous places, and most of them have made themselves a much better life here.
My sister always gets a cab service to meet me from the airport and their drivers come from all over the world: Somalia, Poland, Afghanistan, Libya and even one from the United States.
This week's driver came from Japan and it took me a while to find him in the crowd of drivers holding signs with names that look like a tipped-up Scrabble board.
I finally found a man holding one saying "Milada Spilay", and realised he meant me.
While I am in London, my darling has run away to Bulgaria again.
He is holed up somewhere in a casino playing poker like a man possessed.
Even though I am (according to him) a very difficult and demanding wife, he hates me leaving him on his own.
I know many of you know him, and will be surprised to hear he is not the easiest husband in the world, either.
Most husbands admit they don't really know when (or why) their wife is getting grumpy, and only get an inkling when a pot whistles past their ear.
Mine is much less observant than that, and I am thinking of buying some special tantrum shoes and a tambourine, so he knows that when I'm wearing/playing them my temper is getting close to boiling point.
I nearly needed them the other day while I had been cooking on the boat.
When the temperature is 35degC, and the oven is on 180degC, our tiny galley gets very, very sweaty.
Luckily for him, John and Ginny Foster pulled up in their fine ship Rose.
From your emails, it seems I am the only person in the Wakatipu who didn't know the Fosters.
And if you don't know them, you should.
These are seriously intrepid sailors and I will never dare to complain about the size and sweatiness of our galley ever again, or anything else! They have spent part of the past five winters sailing around in their Scottish-built catamaran, and, if there were ever a perfect example of New Zealand's No 8 wire mentality, their boat is it.
Everything has been made out of something else and they are almost totally self-sufficient.
The beautiful thing about boats is that whether your boat is a tiny wooden yacht or a massive luxury ship with a helipad, you are still having the same amount of fun and living in the same place.
And the best thing about boats is the time they give you to lie around reading books, especially if you are the sort of boat person, like me, who doesn't like doing any boat work.
I am happy doing kitchen things and cleaning things and shopping things, but I never throw ropes or help with fenders or any other boat jobs.
My darling yelled at me a few times on a boat, and now I am on a permanent strike.
So I read.
And this week, I want to tell you about David Abbott's The Upright Piano Player.
It has a beautiful cover - a painting by Denis Fremand - and the inside is even better.
Henry Cage has had an enormously successful career, but it's ended.
And so has his tidy life.
Horrible things are happening to him and he has to learn to change his orderly ways and be more conciliatory.
It doesn't come easily to him, and it's almost too late.
I love a novel with tension, and this is very, very tense.
There's a menacing feel throughout and from the very first page, you know how bad things have got.
It's a first novel and a really fantastic one. I hope he writes more.
