let me tell you about breakfast. this morning, sitting at my desk and watching last night’s episode of masterchef online and writing this — how’s that for multitasking? — i have before me a slice of buttered and vegemited bourke street bakery soy and linseed. i also have another slice slathered in a big sticky blanket of laduree caramel au beurre salé. and i have milky tea.

it’s mostly back to normal: trying to fit a plate somewhere on my paper-strewn desk, or on the dining table which is mostly a thing repository. sometimes just an empty spot on the carpet littered with crumbs from the kid’s last three meals. oh how i miss that clean expanse of candy-striped oil cloth on an almost awkwardly positioned table in a lounge room in london.

our first day there, i steered the excursion into waitrose, where i found an enormous jar of bonne maman apricot compote. just look at that vibrant orange colour — it was very striking against the green gingham lid. i commandeered a packet of scones then, and a tub of clotted cream, and waited eagerly for breakfast time to arrive.

my sister does not have a microwave oven, so i ate the scones cold in the first jetlaggish light of day. however, by ensuring that the volume of cream and compote was greater than the volume of scone, i managed to counter any cold hardness that an overnight scone might normally possess. in any case, this supermarket scone was moist enough inside, and performed admirably its role as vehicle for deliciousness.

and the fruit compote? my word, it was some kind of wonderful. tangy-sweet with huge chunks of succulent apricots right down to the bottom of the jar. we ate our way through it over the next couple of weeks, mostly on buttered toast, and were sorry to see it go.

now, here’s something completely different: we only made it out for breakfast once, and that was to euphorium bakery. i surprised myself by going savoury; even the counter girl seemed taken aback when i ordered the british pork and apple sauce sandwich. but she grabbed one from the pile and sliced it in half before plonking it down on a plate and pushing it across the counter.

i was silenced. it was as big as my forearm. every mouth at the table dropped open in awe as i set it down — except for the kid who was grappling with a perplexing and sodden (and ice cold and rubbery) blueberry clafouti (tchk. there is really no need to serve such a fail in a cafe, especially one where they make everything fresh inhouse.) i began to eat, and the meat was moist and a little bit streaked with fat. there was soft bread, and salty butter generously spread, a foil to the sweet-tart apples. there was crisp lettuce, and crunchy edges of crackling. it really was a most pleasing sandwich.

it was so good i had in again for lunch, after carrying it around in my satchel for some hours as i wandered through the excellent national portrait gallery (a compact and well curated selection of the permanent collection; a quite mesmerising exhibition of three centuries of indian portraits; and a room of mind-boggling contemporary “miniatures” by the singh twins). though mainly because i only managed to eat one half of it for breakfast.