My random-ethnic-food-sampling quest continues! I haven't yet cooked up the falooda or laveeza, mostly because both require a litre of milk. When am I likely to have a WHOLE LITRE of undrunk milk in the house?

But, joy of joys, this week I discovered frozen spring roll paper. A packet of 30 pastry sheets, the consistancy of beige felt, with which I could replicate the chocolate-banana spring rolls popularised by Ping Pong.

What fun! Spirita christened it "a uniquely Thursday night experiment", alluding to the fact Calypso tends to visit home on Thursday and thus wasn't about to correct my reckless lack of experience. She also suggested a saucepan with a centemeter of oil was the best way to cook my creations. Ten minutes of dodging spitting oil later (See! me dive tackle Vapilla to safety. Imagine! Spirita imitating Zhang Zhi. Conjugate! dire parental warnings to prevent it happening again.), I had produced a plate of most edible creations. The banana and dark chocolate was brilliant - so was the rice and fake-chicken and, joy of joys, the cheesy wantons I had produced. The only downside was they were all still slimey with oil, and tasted like heart attacks.

Still, it's a learning curve. I think next time, I will brush them with oil and oven bake them, to see if the result is less obviously unhealthy. Perhaps the greatest success so far has been the semi-fridgecake I have produced. I left a darkchoc+banana pastry, uncooked, in the fridge where it cooled and grew stiff. Gorgeous, and possibly replicating this technique will provide a great method for portable lunches. Sandwiches tend to disintigrate in my bag, as do wraps.

Yesterday was dubbed "the day of Faily Mc Fail" by Calypso, as I did a one man rendition of Black Hawk Down. My "coms" went down (well, my mobile battery ran out) and it threw the whole day out of kilter. I spent two hours walking up and down hills in Archway and Highgate trying to track down the rest of my "unit", all while being shot at by native militiants (sort of...). Calypso got stranded in Reading by strafing. Unlike Mogadishu, Highgate resembles a Victorian picture postcard. Little red houses, all it needed was robins and snow. I touched the statue of Dick Whittington's cat, which a passerby told me was "lucky". I returned to "base" at the Strand, and was most fortunate to run into Vapilla, then Calypso. So ultimately, the day wasn't a total disaster.

And today has made up for it by being lovely. I finished "The Power and the Glory" by Graham Greene this morning. I love him - a particularly English sort of quiet despair. All his characters are pathetically human - resignation, betrayal and cynicism all over the shot. No one can quite destroy a man the way he can - depressing, but in an entertaining way. "Power and the Glory" is about a rather sinful Catholic priest on the run in Mexico. I confess I sleepwalked through it, and didn't fully appreciate it, but enjoyed it all the same. The End of the Affair is meticulously constructed, to be unpacked by GSCE level students. The constant interplay of "love" and "hate" is beautiful. It's only let down by a third-act twist which requires a huge leap of faith to buy. The Third Man, Brighton Rock and The Quiet American are three of my very favourite films. I also enjoyed his book of short stories. In his youth, Greene attempted suicide several times by Russian Roulette: I take this as a sign that Art, or at any rate Providence, was taking care of him for a higher purpose. If only to produce books which, later, I would love.

And at lunchtime, I spent half an hour carolling at Bond Street station with Chislehurst Methodist Church. I was early to meet Ajax, and they were singing in a particularly querrelous, high-pitched, Methodist manner. I've missed all the carol services for this year and fancied a sing song, so asked if I could join in. I arrived just in time for all my faves. It was very pleasant - anyone can be Christian at Christmas - and religion has been on my mind ever since reading the book this morning. i feel rather wretched that, having not been raised Catholic, I am spared the depths of angst plumbed by Greene, Waugh, Scorcese and the rest. I think I'd rather have the complication of a confusing faith than a quiet, atheist life, if it meant I had something to write about.