Yesterday I was summoned to John’s house (about an hour from here) to have my hand filmed. A three-year-old boy had already been filmed playing with a toy van, but now a specific closeup was needed - and grownup sisters with small hands are much easier to direct than toddlers.

While I waited for John to edit and check what he had shot, I used Dad’s iBook and did some translation work. We ended up staying at John’s all day and I began to see the advantage of being able to carry my work around with me on a laptop. My iMac may only be five weeks old, but all of a sudden I find myself considering buying a MacBook too.

John summoned us again today. This time Mum and Dad ran errands for him, collecting cameras and returning equipment while I burned DVDs and designed disc labels. Although I was busier than yesterday, there were still quiet periods when I was able to do some of my own work on a laptop again.

I began to translate this interview from German and then finished it off in truly mobile fashion in the car as we drove along the dark motorway. There was, of course, no wireless internet connection to be found on the M25 (it’s only a matter of time, I’m sure) and so I simply marked the (surprisingly few) words I couldn’t translate without a dictionary in order to finish it off at home.

As we finally turned into our road, various internet hotspots started registering on Dad’s iBook and I found that our own connection is available from the road outside our house. Just for fun I emailed my work to myself while I was still sitting in the car. That way it would be waiting for me on my computer when I got inside.

Feeling pretty pleased with myself and at one with the technological world, I opened the car door. As I started to get out, with the iBook in my arms, my bag tied itself around my ankle. I tripped, falling face first into the beech hedge and emerged with scratches on my forehead and a cut lip. It seems that pride does indeed come before a fall.

The next stop was finally Otavalo - the only place I had actually counted on seeing. Though the itinerary had said that it was not market day, the square was crammed full of stalls, with brightly-coloured fabrics, scarves, hammocks, jewelry, toys and rugs for sale. Apparently if it had been market day, there would have been even more stalls, spilling out into the road in which the minibus parked.

The vendors at the market were so keen for us to buy that they would wrap the scarves around us and we would become embroiled in unwrapping yards of lace with them in order to admire it. Flicking through a few pictures, we would suddenly be presented with another enormous pile (or two) to peruse.

While Suzy haggled over the price of a hammock, I befriended the stall-owner’s daughter. She allowed me to take her photo and I beckoned her over to show her the image on the screen. With “mi llamo Sarah” and a bit of pointing, I discovered that her name was Pamel.

I was absolutely no use at haggling and thus must have been pretty popular with the market vendors. The trouble was mainly that Suzy had taught me “¿quanto es?” for “how much is it?”, but I didn’t really know any numbers in Spanish. Thus my transactions often involved me either handing over a note and waiting to see if I would get any change, or staring blankly until the vendor repeated the price in English. At which point I would give exactly what was asked for. Suzy, on the other hand, beat everyone down on price and ended up with a great deal on her hammock, which I think practically involved being paid for taking it off the woman’s hands.

We spent about an hour and a half at the market before heading off for lunch at a restaurant where local roses adorned the tables. I had chicken with garlic sauce, which came with avocado (culinary discovery of the trip, but I’ve no idea what they did with it to make it so yummy), chips and salad. Seeing my plate piled so high, Stewart said they’d pick me up next week. The meal was absolutely delicious and Stewart was impressed with how much of it I put away - as was I!

After lunch we went for a little walk by Cuicocha lake. I hadn’t expected Sofia to be so knowledgeable about the plants as well as the history of the country, but she apparently went on a lot of walks with her family and learned a lot along the way. She showed us poisonous plants and berries whose juice can be used a dye.

We piled back into the minibus, but we still weren’t done for the day…

So … it really is about time I told you all about our penultimate day in Ecuador. This is the story of the day after we made the mistake of thinking a taxi driver would know where he was going.

After all our early starts on the boat, there was no chance of a lie-in in Quito as our guide, Sofia, collected us early from the hotel for our day out. We had all decided to do the trip to the market town of Otavalo, but the itinerary turned out to be much fuller than that simple title suggested. When we returned to the hotel at the end of the day, I was blown away by all the sights I had seen, the people I had met.

Our first stop was at the town of Calderon, where we visited a shop where bread dough figurines are made. I picked out a brightly coloured bird and also fell in love with a couple of beautiful porcelain pots. Suzy picked one too - one I had my eye on, but she lives close by, so I can always visit it. I bought so much that my wares had to be packed up in a cardboard box. I was working in the mindset of “I probably won’t ever be here again”. The items were being wrapped in toilet paper for protection and as Megan headed off to the bathroom, the shop lady stopped her and handed her the roll.

After stopping at the shop doorway to buy paintings on sheepskin from street vendors, we headed off to a viewpoint, where we could see the snow-capped Illiniza volcano in the distance. In the valley below were row upon row of enormous greenhouses, where you can buy 25 roses for just $1.

The next stop was Cayambe, where traditional biscuits called “bizcochos” are made. We were led into a big dark room, with tiles on the floor. Here a team of men were at work with an enormous pile of dough. There seemed to be dough everywhere I looked - in a huge mass in a kind of trough by the window, the pile on the table, or in strips on baking trays waiting to be put into the big coal-fired oven.

As we drove along the road after visitng this place, there were signs everywhere, advertising “Bizcochos”. We stopped at one shop, where Sofia bought a bag of the biscuits for us all to try. Absolutely delicious, hot from the oven. Having just one of these biscuits is definitely on my list of life regrets.

We stopped at another viewpoint, from where we could see San Pablo lake. We were stood in what was effectively the back garden of a shop, with lots of lovely flowers all around and a llama in the field below.

See what I mean about seeing a lot? We haven’t even reached the market yet … but that’s for another time.

I know. What a tease.

I resisted getting an account on Myspace for a very long time, mainly as a moral stand against the horrific web design that people inflict upon me when I go there. I’m also not in great need of networking to get my music heard by the masses, because I have no music. Sure, I make a lot of noise sometimes, but I’m not actually a recording artist. Neither am I a teenage girl who wants to share too much information with dodgy people and write OMG WTF LOL!!!! too many times with a complete lack of irony.

But then [brag] a musician friend [/brag], Arnulf, joined Myspace and there wasn’t much I could do on his page (like tease him) without signing up to the damn site. I put it off and put it off and then tried to sign up yesterday. Bastard site wouldn’t have me. I know not why. Maybe it could sense my scathing?

Then today [brag] another musician friend [/brag], Marlene, sent me the link for her page and so I had another go at signing up. Suddenly, I was good enough for Myspace and was making my own page. And, I hate to admit it, but it was kinda exciting when I had my first two adds.

Ugh, next thing you know, I’ll be using a PC.

On Saturday I had lunch with Lauren in Tunbridge Wells, excuse me, Royal Tunbridge Wells. Back in the mists of time we were the original Ladies Who Lunch before Suzy joined us for restaurant visits and, finally, Helen. By then, our leisurely lunches had evolved into a culinary world tour through various restaurants, or picnics at each other’s houses.

Having been dropped off outside the station about 15 minutes before Lauren was due to arrive, it was not long before I had my first surreal moment of the day as someone dressed as a guardsman came out of the station, handed me a map of London and walked off down the street. Okaaay.

I shivered in the shade for a while and then went back into the station to look at the clock again. Only four minutes had passed, so I was going to need to find a way to wile away a few more minutes. I decided to count slowly to 100 in my head. I tripped up a few times in the 30s - numbers aren’t my thing - and once I reached 40, I decided to count in German. Things were going fairly well until I decided to speak to another girl who’d evidently arrived at the station too early. Having exchanged barely a sentence with her, I could no longer remember where I’d got to and the counting was thus abandoned.

Before long it was 12.09pm and Lauren’s train arrived. People came piling up the steps from the platform and an older woman greeted her two friends at the top of the stairs, causing a marvellous blockage in the traffic. After a few moments, Lauren came into view - and walked past me.

We walked down the High Street to the Pantiles, an old Georgian walkway, lined with interesting shops. There was a French market taking place, with stalls of fresh produce piled high. We’d barely stepped into the Pantiles when I felt my phone buzz in my bag. Suzy was letting me know that an Italian deli nearby sold delightful pain au chocolat and, were Lauren and I to buy some, we wouldn’t be disappointed and, were we to bring her one later, well that would be just fine too.

Lauren and I wandered around the market stalls and I was somewhat naïvely surprised to discover that the stalls were being manned by real French people. I’d assumed that the market was going to be “French”, but no, real French people had brought over their real French goods.

After buying nothing from the real French people, we went to Trevor Mottram, a fabulous cookware shop. When I first visited the shop a few years ago, it was like stepping into a shop in Harry Potter’s world. It’s a very old building, with wooden floors and is crammed so full of everything you could ever imagine needing, that you could wander around for ages and still not take everything in.

We then headed out of the Pantiles and up the hill to Carluccio’s for lunch. After a short wait, we were seated in the bright and airy restaurant. It was busy, but not too noisy. We ordered a basket of bread and a bowl of olives (must.eat.olives.) to chew on while I waited for my gnocchi with parmesan and tomato sauce and Lauren waited for her lasagne. For dessert I had a lemon tart and Lauren had a melon sorbet. I ate enough melon on holiday to see me through until Judgement Day. We talked and talked as usual and Lauren gave me some good advice. Now, let’s wait and see whether or not I can do it justice. My burning desire to add the word “sometime” to the end of that sentence is indicative of my usual cowardly apathy towards actually doing anything about something I want to change.

We’d been unable to find any pain au chocolat in the Pantiles, so after we’d paid Lauren bought Suzy a gooey chocolate thing while I went to use the facilities. I should write a guide book to disabled toilets. This one was pretty good. It was clean and bright, but its location in the corner of the restaurant made me highly conscious of the fact that should the door fly open of its own accord, I’d have been on display to an awful lot of people. Plus, was the bustle of the restaurant enough to cover the tinkling? The mirror was gorgeous, clean and huge, extending nearly to the floor. You’d be amazed how many disabled toilets have little face mirrors set way above head height (my head height being roughly equivalent to someone in a wheelchair). Once ensconced on the slightly high toilet, however, I discovered a drawback to the bright lighting and the big mirror. You’re suddenly accompanied in your weeing by your twin. And your twin seems to be showcasing quite a case of cellulite. Bitch.

Onward up the hill, we went to visit Suzy at work on her jewellery stall in the shopping centre. It turned out that we’d just missed her parents and Helen had stopped by a bit earlier too, so quite a day for visitors. Lauren handed over the wodge of chocolate goo and we perused the pretty jewellery. I bought a couple of bracelets and we signed up for the privilege club. I’m hoping there’s a secret handshake to go along with the pink voucher.

After a bit of a natter, Lauren and I went on our way, wandering in and out of shops, but not buying anything. I had a few bits to get in Boots and joined one of two long queues to pay. A third till then opened and I joined the new, much shorter queue. Big mistake. The till was being manned by a mousey-looking woman who seemed not to quite know what she was doing. The permanently open mouth should’ve been a clue, I suppose.

Five years later, the transaction was finally completed and we left the shop and wandered further. Lauren took me into Vision Express to try on glasses. I’m not meant to wear my contact lenses for more than 12 hours a day, so I still wear my glasses in the morning (they’re slipping down my nose as I type). My prescription has changed though and I need new glasses. I’ve always hated trying new frames with a burning passion. The biggest problem was being unable to see what the frames looked like once on because I’m as blind as a bat. However, that landmine can now be beautifully sidestepped when wearing contact lenses and suddenly trying on different frames was actually quite fun. I didn’t find any that were quite right, but I’m at least more willing to try again soon. It was, after all, mildly alarming being unable to read signs in the airport when I was wearing my glasses on travel days on holiday.

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