I got home from work on the only halfway decent day this week, to a gift from my next door neighbour.

It's a strange squelchy tiny thing that looks like a tiny internal organ, wrapped in some seaweed and served on a scallop shell.

Not edible, and accompanied by a note explaining that my neighbour and my dog had been to the beach but found no interesting dead fish.

Such a lovely little parcel and a lovely surprise.

I've been spending far too much time trawling the far corners and darker recesses of the internet of late.  It's part of my strategy to avoid becoming a homicidal maniac as a result of watching election propaganda on television, and is an extension of my vow to read only the garage sales columns of newspapers. 

Since garage sales are sparse in the depths of winter, I've been reliant on the op shops to cheer my cold heart.  There have been a few bargains to cheer me, a Liberty of London silk scarf, and an excellent book detailing the correspondence between Albert Tucker and Sidney Nolan.  

I love their references to breaking into the Paris art scene and their references to Picasso, who apparently spoke French with a Spanish accent. The descriptions of living in Paris as artists are sublime.

In a week which has not been in my top one thousand of weeks worth living through, I managed to break the adorable glasses which I found in Paris, after walking kilometres and searching every optician. I have broken one pair of glasses in my adult life, and it had to be the ones I loved most.

I hope my eyeglass obsession does not overrun a planned trip to Melbourne, the mecca for deluded Australian eyeglasses tragics. Luckily, I will be able to see, as I have spare pairs, and hopefully I will be able to distract myself, or be distracted, from any optical urges.

In the meantime, I picked up some tres chic classic French sunnies this week, so I shall not be squinting in the daylight as I venture out onto the streets of Melbourne.