Diary of a blondie

Christmas Dinner for the 7th time

2010-12-20T23:38:00.000-08:00

I think it takes at least 3 repeats for something to become tradition. And the Christmas dinner for all our uni friends is now firmly cemented as such. And everytime a new mini tradition is added - secret santa presents, certain drinking games, brownies for pudding, etc.

We never manage to get everyone every year, but there is always a good number and every year there will be someone new (new boyfriends or girlfriend, new housemates, or colleagues) but it never matters - the philosophy has always been the more the merrier.

This year, in true festive spirit the snow came down thick and fast the morning of the dinner. It looked wonderful. But it did make the walk to ASDA a little more problematic. Though not as bad as the day before. When I fell over. Carrying 8 (yes EIGHT) carrier bags of food for the dinner (I had decided to do the booze and mixers on the day, so there were no bottles, however I was carrying all the potatoes, carrots, parsnips, etc - basically everything bulky and heavy) I had carefully balanced myself with four bags of equal weight in each hand. Clearly the planning was not so great as I really did fall totally flat on my back. Carrots went rolling off, broccoli florets were bouncing across the frozen tarmac. And a line of traffic had to stop while I picked myself up. In fact three people FROM SEPARATE CARS (two were the actual drivers) had to get out of their vehicles to pick me and the shopping up. One even got some spare bags for life out of his boot. And to top it all off I still had over half the walk home, and am now sporting a rather impressive bruise on my bum. Great.

The walk on Saturday was slightly less eventful (I only fell down once, and the Wiganer was on hand to pick me up, also a hedge was blocking the view from the road so the humiliation was lessened). And luckily the Boyfriend picked us up in his brand new car (RIP the micra...).

But we were running really late - it was 3pm and the turkey was not even in the oven, and we were apparently eating at 6.30. No chance I hear you snort, but actually we were not far off that. Because we have an ingenious, foolproof, and most importantly, a lazy way of cooking the turkey.

Ingredients:
Turkey
4 Carrots
2 sticks of celery
2 Leeks
3 Onions
4 cloves of garlic
Seasoning
White wine (about half a bottle)
1 1/2 pints of chicken stock
Stuffing

First stuff and season your bird. Then roughly chop all the veg into fairly large chunks. Place in a large disposable aluminium roasting tray and put the turkey on top. Place on the hob and pour in the liquids. Bring to the boil on top of the hob and then cover with two layers of bacofoil and pop in a pre-heated oven (200 degrees) for 2 hours.

That is it. No basting, no need to check it. After two hours take it out, have a look and pierce it with a knife - juices run clear and no one should die. If there don't pop it back in for 20 minutes.

Once it is cooked take it out. Mix together some honey, a little butter/marg and some lemon juice. Using a pastry brush paint it all over the top of the turkey and then sprinkle with thyme. Into a hot oven for 20mins until crispy and brown. Take out and rest for 20mins until ready to carve (or be hacked apart by inexperienced Boyfriend).

We did the usual veggies and trimmings (homemade sausage meat stuffing was my piece de resistance). And rounded it all off with brownies and choc sauce, mince pies and creme fraiche, crackers and secret santa presents. And then we played games and danced and drank and eventually went out (but would not get into the cabs until some people had started a snowball fight).

We went to a club and danced. And got in at 3am to turkey and stuffing sandwiches and leftover brownies. Another tradition. Yum.

NYC....

2010-12-20T23:12:00.001-08:00

....is my new favourite place in the world (apart perhaps from my sofa with the Boyfriend and Elf on TV).

We were there for 5 days. In that time we did as much as is humanly possible.

It was -8 and really cold. Bone chillingly cold. But the good thing about New York is that there are coffee shops and cafes on every corner, between every street, in fact every other place sells some sort of caffinated beverage.

We went to the Top of the Rock (amazing, much smaller queue than the Empire State Building and you can look at the Empire State Building - you can't see it if you climb it!) and Grand Central Station, New York Library and Times Square.

We walked across Brooklyn Bridge and got the Staten Island ferry. We drank in a speak easy and ate in a diner. The Boyfriend drank buckets of beer and ate greasy chicken wings. I went to the Magnolia Bakery and re-lived Carrie's Sex and the City cupcake eating. We went shopping and saw Elf The Musical on Broadway.

We stayed with a friend, who is still a true Croydoner, but is also slowly becoming a New Yorker. He took us to some hidden gems (Whiskey Town - free shot of whiskey with every drink and truly delicious whiskey sours, PDF - old speakeasy hidden behind the wall of a rather scrubby looking hot dog stand, ESS Bagel - best bagel place in New York and when we went inside were accosted by a local asking us how we knew about the place and that we were lucky as it really was the best bagel place in the city).

We got the ferry to Ellis and Liberty Island (FREEZING) and saw the Statue of Liberty up close. And watched a very informative film about the history of New York immigrants and Ellis Island. We also went to the History of New York Museum (bit rubbish apart from the BRILLIANT film about the history of the city, starting with the Native American tribes that lived there, then the Dutch settlers, right through to the modern day).

We wandered through Chinatown and the Boyfriend nearly went to the Chinese McDonalds. We went for dinner in Korea Way (apparently containing the highest number of Koreans outside Korea). Dinner was a BBQ sunk into our table and platter after platter of raw, marinated meat and fish were bought over for us to cook ourselves. It was delicious and also such a novelty!

We wandered through Central Park, went ice-skating, but avoided the extortionately over-priced horse and carriage ride. We went to Bloomingdales (Bloomys) and had frozen yogurt and tried on stupidly expensive outfits. We visited wall street and saw the big bronze bull from the film "Hitch".

While the boys indulged in the constant sport shown on every TV in every bar I wandered the streets of Soho and Greenwich Village, trying on vintage one-offs and restraining myself from buying 101 trinkets. In fact it was the wandering of the city that were perhaps my favourite part of the trip. It is just the best city for that - not too big, easy to navigate thanks to the ingenious grid system and just FULL of amazing things at every step.

The tree!

2010-12-10T00:42:00.000-08:00

The Boyfriend and I have put up our enormous tree. It is a 7 footer (not as big as Louise's at 8foot but the Micra was not going to cope with another inch, let alone foot). It comes with a state of the art stand (the Boyfriend was possibly more excited by this than the actual tree, demonstrating its merits to me a total of 4 times) and the Boyfriend got a LOT of lights.

The tree decorating got off to a wonderful start. We twined the lights round, taking the time to place them the correct distance from the centre of the tree, but not too close to the edge, evenly spaced as they ascended the tree, and finally twirling the last few around the top. We switched them on and.... nothing. We tried everything (including changing a fuse, and checking every bulb) until 30minutes later when I suggested that perhaps they were broken, and needed to be returned.

So back to Homebase, who were very obliging and even gave us a further £5 off (the already half price lights - bargain!). And set two worked perfectly - twinkly and multi-coloured and magical looking.

On went the decorations, and tinsel, then off came the tinsel as I disagree with it on the tree and despite the Boyfriend's attempt to sneak it on, it is not inconspicuous enough to be overlooked. It went over the picture frames and the window. Much better.

It looks amazing. Though it is minus an angel at the top. This is partially due to the argument of angel (me) versus star (the Boyfriend). And the result has been the purchase of neither. And also, as we are off to New York tomorrow, I'm harbouring a secret hope of getting a statue of Liberty wearing a Christmas hat to pop on the top.

Christmas shopping

2010-12-06T23:30:00.001-08:00

I'm doing rather well on the Christmas shopping front so far this year. And not just because I have completed a fair amount, but also because (given my dire financial situation - reconciling lifestyle and salary has elluded me for the last few months) I have managed to not pay full price for a single present.

It could just be me noticing for the first time, but I really don't think it is. Every high street shop seems to be offering some sort of discount. Our Christmas decorations, courtesy of Debenhams were 3 for 2 AND 10%. All department stores seem to be having weekends of 20% off, or matching the cheapest price elsewhere. Even smaller shops have discounts if you can be bothered to do a bit of hunting, or do day specific shopping (much easier if you finish work in central London by 2pm I know, but hey, I need some perks for the rubbish hours and low pay)

Online discount codes and free delivery has also helped me out, as has internet checking for the cheapest deals. All in all I'm feeling a little smug. And ready to totally NOT be frugal on my upcoming trip to New York City.

Festive baking

2010-12-06T00:52:00.001-08:00

I have found a cheap, quick, low fat and practically fool proof way to make mince pies.

All you need is a pack of ready made filo pastry sheets, a jar of mincemeat and some milk.

Get a sheet of filo pastry and fold it in half. Cut it into 4 and place a teaspoon of mincemeat at one end. Flatten it out and then roll up the pastry like a cracker. Pinch the ends and repeat until all the pastry and mincemeat are used up (should you run out of mincemeat substitute with jam - especially if the Boyfriend has recently purchased some fancy stuff from Borough Market).

Place on a baking tray and brush with milk. Bake for 8-10mins until golden brown.

Leave to cool as molten mincemeat is hotter than the sun.

Perfect weekend

2010-12-06T00:32:00.000-08:00

I have been ill for the last three weekends. It has been rubbish. And this weekend was the first one I felt like a normal person.

Friday - had friends round for a drink and a catch up.
Saturday we bundled up nice and warm and went to Borough Market. It was fun and festive, and we had a chippy lunch (warm chips, cold hands, equals perfect match). We returned home with beer and jam (both chosen by the Boyfriend - how quaint!).

Went to coffee house The Black Lab in Clapham to see my sister. We drank tea and gossiped, and laughed and laughed and laughed. Friends came to meet us, and they laughed (mainly at us I think) and then it was time to go home and even though it was dark it wasn't late and the walk back was chilly but not freezing thanks to a bellyful of warm tea.

Train to Wandsworth town, and appreciation of a beautiful Christmas tree accompanied with a gin and tonic. Dinner was Thai and then drinks at The Ship (big bizarre and beautiful pub right on the edge of the river). And then things got hazy and there were cabs and shots and dancing, unexpected friends and a broken tooth (not mine). And then home and bed and a long long sleep.

Sunday was lazy. There was tea and scones (a McDonalds for the Boyfriend) and a walk and some baking, christmas cards, fajitas and then X Factor.

Everything just came together to make the weekend exactly what I needed

Tree Envy....

2010-12-05T23:52:00.000-08:00

The Boyfriend and I have come to a disagreement regarding the Christmas tree. He wants to get it now, I want to wait until we return from New York (is there much point having a tree when we can't see it? Especially when we risk returning home to a tree with no needles?). He however, is adament that it is vital to get the tree as soon as December commences.

This weekend we went round to our friends' house. They too have had an argument regarding a tree. Needless to say it was won by the female, and there is now an 8 foot (yes EIGHT!!) tree wedged in their living room. The furniture has had to be moved, and you can only see half the TV but this tree is actually one of the most beautiful I have ever seen.

It is red and cream and twinkly. There are little wooden decorations, big glass baubles, and glossy silk stockings. There is even the odd poshy chocolate. My moral stance on Christmas trees has totally vanished. The minute the Micra is rescued from snowy Croydon we are going straight to Homebase, home of the festive tree.

Festive preparations....

2010-11-30T23:33:00.000-08:00

Obviously, any of you that actually know me either in person or via this blog will be aware of my potentially unhealthy obsession with all things festive.

Being ill has meant that my unwillingly forced pre-crimbo detox has only heightened this excitement to new levels. I have two advent calendars. One choccie courtesy of the Boyfriend who pitied my father's choice of a picture only calendar (which I secretly LOVE - a remnant of our mother's incredibly strict views on confectionary). The Boyfriend and I have bought a lovely selection of Christmas decorations (thanks to his sister's generous housewarming vouchers) and even looked at Christmas trees this week.

I'm currently putting the finishing touches to the preparations for the annual Christmas dinner with us and our friends (secret santa organisation takes time!) and have just invited some friends round to ours for an evening of festive songs, mince pies, mulled wine and (a newly discovered favourite last year) Winter Pimms (normal Pimms but with wintery clove flavours and a lot of brandy served warm with apple juice - AMAZING).

I shall be making my own mince pies, and found a lovely Delia recipe using filo pastry and making the mince pies into mince crackers! For me this sounds very exciting and shall be debuted next week. I shall let you know the results.

I am also going to attempt my own Yule Log (basically a swiss roll surely?) and although I have missed stir up Sunday, I may even attempt a Christmas cake.....

Oh the possibilities are endless!

Cake Boutique

2010-11-30T00:45:00.000-08:00

Sundays should be exactly as mine was this weekend. The Boyfriend and I got up (hangover free! as we had gone straight to bed after dinner - me recovering and him jetlagged) and got all wrapped up in coats and jumpers and hats and scarves, and even dug out some (rather grotty looking) gloves and then we went out.

We wandered down to Battersea Park and went for a big walk round the whole thing. It is a gorgeous park - big, wide, tree-lined avenues, bits of landscaped garden, a boating lake, another lake, a sub-tropical garden, outdoor gym and even a zoo (didn't go in as it was closed). There were also of lovely dogs (one of which we tried to adopt as it did seem to prefer us to its acutal owner).

The park is the perfect size to walk around in the cold - by the time we were starting to get seriously chilled we had done a full circuit and headed back homewards (via a newsagent - the Boyfriend got a paper and also some pic and mix).

We bypassed the flat and carried on up to Lavender Hill and went into the Cake Boutique.

I've walked past numerous times, and even popped in but never actually had anything. It is a lovely little cafe that sells cakes, both homemade and ready to eat, or you can commission them to make personalised baked goods from cupcakes to muffins to gateaus and birthday masterpieces. They also, a little oddly though lovely nonetheless, have a beautiful selection of rather grand mirrors for sale.

The Boyfriend and I spent a good 10minutes surveying the gorgeous range of homebaked cakes. I opted for the carrot cake (moist, sweet and very big slice - cream cheese frosting was a little cheesy and at first it put me off, but acutally was quite nice as the cake was really sweet) although deliberated for ages between that and a lovely looking apple crumble slice. The Boyfriend went for a full english, but swapped the egg and mushrooms for extra bacon and sausage (which they took very well - often places seem a little peeved at all the swapping that inevitably happens when people personalise their great english fry up). He also had a coconut macaroon on the side (his sweet tooth never ceases to amaze me - nor his ability to consume so much and yet never gain weight).

My earl grey came in a teapot with a tea strainer as the tea was real loose leaves - for me a real treat and something so hard to find! The English Breakfast was really good - proper sausages, good quality bacon and some proper farmhouse toast, served with butter NOT marge.

The prices were reasonable for somewhere so nice, and so close to the catastrophically expensive (and rather pretentious) Northcote Road. The service was quick, but not too quick to make you suspect microwaves instead of proper cooking, and the atmosphere was calm but not dull. All in all if you are in the Clapham vicinity check out this South London gem.

Tom Illic

2010-11-29T23:52:00.000-08:00

Tom Illic is a restaurant literally around the corner from the flat. It is at the end of our road, and since we have lived in the flat for a month now we felt that it was definitely time to try it.

It seems to have won every award going, from Square Meal to Toptable, to a Michelin recommendation. It was a surprise dinner from the Boyfriend as part of my weekend of spoiling. We got there at 8pm on Saturday and it was packed. With a lively but not obnoxious crowd of all ages - there were elderly couples, big families celebrating birthdays, several tables of young couples and even a family of four with two kids under 10.

The atmosphere was fun. The service was swift, polite but unobtrusive. The menu looked a little pricey, but there was also a very reasonable set menu that looked just as good.

I started with chicken livers pan fried with caramalised red onion and artichoke. It was delicious. Flavoursome without being overpowering and the chicken livers were tender and rich and perfectly paired with caramalised red onion. The bread which came to the table meant that I could spread some of the chicken as a pate - and it went wonderfully with the nutty walnut brown bread.

We both had the sea bass with crushed new potatoes and broccoli. On the face of it this sounded a little dull (fish, mash and greens). But it was far from that in reality. Covered in a well seasoned and mildly spicy dressing the whole dish worked brilliantly. The broccoli was firm and not over cooked, the sea bass steamed to perfection, and the crushed new potatoes were well seasoned and a little crispy on the outside - just perfect.

The Boyfriend had pudding - pineapple tarte tatin with coconut ice cream. He loved it, though it was a little tangy for me (I don't really like pineapple so it was never going to a winner). Being nosy however, I had a good gander at the puddings around and would definitely have gone for the assiette of derserts - a mini portion of each.

Being full of antibiotics meant that alcohol was off the agenda, but the wine list was a good'un. I would have pushed either for a bottle of the Chablis, or, as we were celebrating a nice bottle of prosecco.

Being spoilt

2010-11-29T00:41:00.001-08:00

One of the other upsides to being ill is being spoilt. For the first few days I was not really with it (mixture of a lot of painkillers and a general aneasthetic meant that poor sister had a lot of the same conversations, mainly focussing on Christmas. She was extremely good humoured and didn't seem to mind answering the same question umpteen times).

But after the first few days, when my brain started to function a bit more normally I fully managed to enjoy the spoiling.

I missed seeing Harry Potter due to surgery. And so was taken to the poshy cinema near Queen's Park with the uber comfy premier seats to watch it one afternoon.

My dearest Deeks popped over to see me and brought me some lovely jammies (M&S - must be sensible when you're ill) which were exactly what was needed (big tum meant expandable waistbands were a must).

My aunty brought me cake and yummy edible treats.

Pearse bought me good books and flowers and a lovely card.

Lovely step-mum Jennie took me to Bicester shopping village, and while shopping was slow, we did have lots of yummy coffee/cake/soup stops.

And the Boyfriend planned a low key but fun packed weekend of activities all designed with me at the centre. We went to Battersea dogs and cats home to look at potential kittens. And pottered round a little farmer's market. And got me a treat in Topshop. And watched X Factor. And went out for a lovely dinner. And had a yummy Sunday brunch with papers. Almost worth him being away for the illness for the pure pleasure and cosiness of the past weekend. Absence really does make the heart grow fonder.

A small pause

2010-11-28T23:50:00.001-08:00

I have been ill. And not the sniffly, feeling chilly, want to snuggle up in duvet and a bit sorry for myself ill, but going into hospital ill. And on top of it all the Boyfriend was in Mozambique until two days ago. Poor him - he nearly flew home and had a thoroughly miserable and stressful business trip. Poor me - he wasn't there.

I've never really been ill before, and the whole experience has been a bit alien.

Poor Pearse (extremely good red headed friend) had popped round for a glass of wine and found me curled on the floor calling a cab to take me to A&E. Without hestitation he packed me an overnight bag, jumped in the cab with me and sat with me in St Thomas' A&E for over 3 hours.

I discovered that the best way to be rushed through A&E is to faint in the middle of the floor and that dry shampoo is the best invention EVER for a hospital stay.

After suspected appendicitis and a laparoscopy (camera in tummy) I was diagnosed with PID (Pelvic Inflammatory Disease - extremely broad umbrella term that seems to cover A LOT) and after 3 days was sent home.

I also learnt how much I use my tummy. Having any sort of surgery in the abdominal area is horrible. Coughing, laughing, sneezing, breathing, sitting, moving, EVERYTHING seems to use those muscles. And causes pain.

3 days on and I managed to dress myself (it did take the best part of an hour but I DID IT!). 5 days on and I managed a shower without my sister hovering nearby, and 6 days on I managed to wash my hair unaided. The dependency issues made me appreciate having a sister practically my own age, as any remnants of dignity disappeared the first time she had to help me put on clean knickers.

It was a fast forward to what old age must feel like - feeling tired and fragile, being a little slow and being unable to have proper independence.

I lost my appetite. They pump your stomach full of air so that the camera can see your insides - and it takes a while for the air to come back out ( "oh, you'll be windy" my dear Wiganer informed me) and it also gives the appearance of being in my thrid trimester of pregnancy. On top of it all, your stomach feels full all the time, and squeezing meals in is a struggle. I have however, lost an impressive amount of weight.

I'm still rattling with various pills, and will be until the end of the week. And they all have big scary warnings about mixing with alcohol. And so by the end of this week I will have been sober for the best part of 3 weeks.

So all in all, illness has got its positives - I've had an enforced detox in the run up to the festive period, and an enforced temporary gastric band, and so feel fully able to overindulge as of the end of this week. One must appreciate the small things in life!

Italian eating

2010-11-17T02:34:00.000-08:00

San Gennaro. Another near-flat eatery, recommended by fellow foodie and highly esteemed friend Irish redhead Pearse (whom incidentally we bumped into as we left).

It is a little Italian place on Battersea Park Road. They do a half price offer for those early enough to make it (not us) and the staff are all Italian (very authentic, although some confusion over ordering).

We started with bread (big chunks of warm ciabatta with oil and balsamic - YUM). The Peroni comes in the authentic Italian brown bottle, and the wine menu has some of my faves on there (Gavi de Gavi - delish). I had the seafood linguine, and it most certainly did not disappoint. A big steaming portion of tender linguine in a tomatoey herby sauce absolutely choc-a-bloc with seafood. Mussels, clams, prawns, squid, a giant prawn like thing (head, claws and all).

The Boyfriend had the Diavolo pizza (minus mushrooms to the confusion of the waiter - hence having to send it back). Once it arrived as he requested it was lovely. Properly Italian - thin crispy base, fresh tomato topping, flavoursome without being greasy.

Being the nosey so and so that I am, I couldn't help having a good look at the other dishes surrounding our table (and for a Thursday, the place was packed, and had a steady stream of takeaway customers). All the pasta dishes looked lovely - fresh and decent portion sizes. The risottos looked equally good, and the calzone was nothing short of impressive (nb. you need to be HUNGRY to go for that bad boy - it was enormous).

Too stuffed for a desert (the tiramasu on the other table did almost tempt me) we got the bill (again, very reasonable) and toddled the short distance home (bumping into aforementioned redhead).

Italian number 2.

For our dearest father's birthday (actual day, not weekend prior to) we found ourselves in the strange position of being a three (me, my sister, and the Birthday Boy). The Boyfriend has abandoned me for Mozambique (a work trip, and possibly abandoned is a little unfair) and my stepmother is off in France.

So Lucy and I were meeting our dearest Pa at 6pm sharp to try, once again to get into Jamie's Italian in Covent Garden. Now, I have tried and failed a number of times to eat there previously, always giving up on the queue (you can't book unless there are more than 6 of you) and so was rather excited when we got ushered to our table.

We started off with two antipasti boards (one meat, one veggie). They were delicious, but not big. Better value at Browns round the corner. But the bread was really lovely (unstable container though - managed to knock it on the floor at one point) and it meant we still had space for the mains.

Sister and Pa both had the Pasta of the Day (spaghetti with roasted veggies) which was lovely. Not too greasy, the spaghetti was nicely aldente and the veggies cooked but not soggy. I had scallops (one of my FAVOURITE foods). I got four, and they were delicious, but at nearly £16 it would have been nice if they came with a bit more (accompanied by a tiny side salad, and some tasty, but not liberally added tomato salsa - a bigger salad wouldn't have gone amiss). But yes, all in all the food was very good.

Perhaps the best part were the puddings. We had two with three spoons. Awesome chocolate and Espresso Tart with glazed figs and orange creme fraiche (totally wonderful, coffee prevented it from being too sickly, figs were ripe to perfection and the tangy orange again cut through the richness of the choc) and baked walnut tart with espresso creme fraiche and hazelnuts (possibly the best pudding I've ever had. It was slightly chewy, but crunchy with the hazelnuts, crumbly with the pastry and the cool creme fraiche was tangy and a great accompaniment.

I dashed off to the "loo" and paid the bill behind the Birthday boy's back. I think that was the best part of the entire evening - he was so touched, I felt like we were in a mastercard advert - look on Daddy's face: priceless.

Le Pot Lyonnaise

2010-11-14T06:33:00.000-08:00

My Daddy is turning 54 on Tuesday. To mark this grand occasion the boyfriend and I were due to go to Rye for the Rye Fawkes Bonfire Night. However, both being struck down by a dreaded winter lurgi, we had to bypass the trip and spent the weekend lying pathetically on the sofa, downing lemsip and watching a bizarre selection of films (culminating in Bedknobs and Broomsticks - the Boyfriend really surprising me by singing along, word perfect to "Bobbing along, singing a song").

Instead of a yummy Italian lunch as the Tuscan Kitchen in Rye, it was decided that en route back to Queen's Park, my parents and sister would stop off at the flat, and we would go for birthday lunch at the Parisienne style bistro across the road.

Le Pot Lyonnaise. DO NOT GO.

We turned up for our booking at 12.45. And were seated in the emptiest, gloomiest and coldest part of the restaurant (we didn't realise this until we went to the toilet, and wandered through into a far livlier area). We specified that we were in a bit of a hurry (haircut for the Birthday boy back at Queen's Park at 3.30) and so promptly gave our drinks/food order.

Our waitress was new and had not the foggiest about the menu. After looking blank at the third question she disappeared off to "ask the chef" never to return. In her place we got a surly looking, yet far more capable waitress.

So we ordered at approx 12.55. By 1.30 there was no sign of our food. By 1.45, having mentioned the considerable chill, and being met with the response of "Oh, yeah, it is cold in here - the radiator is a bit old" a glass of ice, ordered with our drinks an HOUR before turned up.

An hour after ordering, and we were starving, cold, and getting grumpier by the second. Birthday boy went to investigate. Surly waitress came to tell us, not how sorry she was for the wait, but that it was our fault for ordering the duck - it takes the longest (yet there is NO mention of this on the menu).

Finally, in dribs and drabs, the food started to arrive. The corn fed chicken was delicious, as were my Moules Mariniere (though the side order of crushed new potatoes with aioli was most definitely a form of instant mash potato). The duck was fine, if a little greasy. Sadly, Birthday boy's steak had a similar texture to old leather. It was cold, dry, and so tough that even the steak knife was making little headway.

He went to take it back, and the previously full restuarant appeared devoid of any staff. So he went into the kitchen to be met by a torrent of abuse from the authentic French chef.

By this point we had been there over an hour and a half, and my father had no food. Dreading another hour wait, he just picked off our plates, paid the bill (minus the discretionary service charge, and the fee for the untouched steak and chips) and we left.

The apology from Miss Surly was pathetic to say the least.

On return to the flat, we had lots of cups of tea, and a slice of delicious homemade coffee and walnut cake, and this seemed to successfully salvage any overhanging ill feeling.

My only advice is to avoid Le Pot Lyonnaise, unless you have buckets of time to spend in a freezing resutarant eating tough, dry and tasteless food. And if you do risk it, make sure you have a good homemade cake back at home.

The Book Club

2010-11-11T01:07:00.000-08:00

My lovely Deeks has upped sticks and moved from ultra poshy Vogue House, to working in an artist's old workshop in Shoreditch. She is doing a dream job, and I couldn't be happier, not only for her own well being, but for the new opportunities that have opened up for lunch.

Finishing work at 12.30pm yesterday, I was one of the lucky (well, if it's considered lucky to get up at 3.15am!) people to have finished work and still have at least 4hours of sunlight left. And due to Miss Deeks' new location, coffee at our favourite Starbucks followed by a mosey round Topshop was out, and so I walked to Holborn, and hopped on a bus to Old Street.

Now east London is not somewhere I pretend to know. I have been a number of times, but to specific locations which I have got to by following strict directions. Yesterday was the first time I've wandered through some of the little streets in order to find a friend.

I met my Deeks outside an Eat. There was also a Pret at the other end of the street. And in between were a medley of wonders.

We settled on The Book Club. It was warm (delicious compared to the practically sub-zero temperatures outside), looked fun inside (randomly collected tables, chairs, stools and sofas) and the menu was perfect for a cold November day.

I had a jacket potato with chicken fajita pieces and a lovely green salad. Deeks had brocolli and cauliflower cheese with maple glazed ham. Both were big and hot and delicious.

After nattering/gossiping like old ladies, we soon had to part ways. As Deeks wandered back to her office, I decided to walk towards the city as it was a lovely day (sunny, but chilly) and I could have done with walking off some of my enormous lunch.

Wandering the streets of Shoreditch I cannot claim to now know the area, but I definitely feel less of an alien there. Give it a few more Book Club lunches (or after work drinks - a very impressive cocktail list including one Garden named one with elderflower and prosecco YUM!) and I will definitely be feeling more at home.

Books

2010-11-10T01:24:00.001-08:00

I have always loved books. My family are readers. So much so that every holiday there is one case purely dedicated to literature. Even if it takes us over the baggage allowance, as a family, the Howes will not back down.

I have always loved stories. One of the first things I learnt to say was "tell me a story". My poor father has told me more or less every single significant (and many many more insignificant) details from his childhood, adolescence, university life, even life as a parent to my sister and I. And despite having heard them umpteen times (indeed, despite living through a lot of them) they never get old.

The first book I ever read by myself were the Milly Molly Mandy stories by Joyce Lancaster Brisley. Absolutely nothing happens in these stories - the stories are entitled things like "Milly Molly Mandy goes for a walk" or "Milly Molly Mandy earns a penny" but I LOVED them. So much so that when told I could name our cat, I chose (you guessed it) Milly Molly Mandy.

I read everything as a child - the Narnia books, everything by Enid Blyton (the Magic Faraway Tree - oh the joy!) Jacqueline Wilson, Joan Aitken, Roald Dahl, Lynne Reid Banks, anything illustrated by Quentin Blake or Shirley Hughes, Peter Pan, Swallows and Amazons, Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass, any stories by Louise M Alcott, Mark Twain, E. Nesbit, I could literally go on for pages. Even now, if I'm ill or homesick the only things that can really make a difference is a Harry Potter or One Hundred and One Dalmations.

Since going to university (to read English) I not only accumulated a LOT more books, but I also became much more restricted on space. Student houses are not renowned for their size or grandeur, and nor are books known for their mobility - in fact they are the most difficult things to move due to their volume and weight.

So over the last few years more and more crates have appeared at my parent's house, and I have managed to keep the amount of literature in each of my various flats to an almost well-controlled minimum.

But now I have a flat with the boyfriend. A whole flat, not just a room in a flat which is our home. And (after many an evening of swearing and sweating) he has lovingly put up shelves, and driven crate after crate of books from Queen's Park to Battersea and finally, after nearly 6 years I have been able to unpack my little library.

It filled an evening (I don't have THAT many - I just kept getting distracted by things I hadn't seen or forgotten about) unpacking them, and ordering them to my satisfaction. The Boyfriend did try to help with this bit, but seeing as my sorting process follows no traditional method (alphabetical, chronological, etc) and is all down to personal preference, the poor boy was on a losing side.

The shelves are now done, and filled. And the living room, my living room finally, finally feels like home.

The flat

2010-11-08T23:19:00.000-08:00

So we have been living in the flat for just over a week. And it acutally looks like a home. Even the second bedroom (previously not dissimilar to a scene from Baghdad) looks like a normal (if rather messy) bedroom.

We are still missing a lot of stuff (wardrobe, curtains, bin and bathmat for bathroom - you know the things) but perhaps the main thing we (well, I) am desperate for are shelves. I come from a family of readers (and 4 literature degrees, including my own) and accumulate approximately 4-8books a month. I literally have crates of books (21 to be exact) and at the moment they are the main culprit for the state of the second bedroom.

My father's DIY skills rival those of a meerkat. They are non-existant. And should he ever attempt anything, the mess and destruction and temper that follows really do not make it worth it.

On the other hand, the Boyfriend's father is some sort of DIY diva. He can do anything, has a shed of power tools, and the patience of a saint (this is clearly the main component lacking in my own father).

So on Sunday the Boyfriend's dad popped over with several crates of scary looking tools, and settled down to teach the Boyfriend the ins and outs of shelf building.

It took a LONG time. After half an hour, with still absolutely no prospect of getting out the big drill (they were still measuring and drawing piddly lines with a special pencil and holding a spirit level (?) - sounded like something out of cheerleader film Bring It On) I got bored and started to watch X factor on catch-up.

Another hour later, and STILL no drilling. Patience is definitely a virtue in DIY.

By about 7pm the Boyfriend's dad went home, leaving the Boyfriend alone with the power tools. By 8pm we had no shelves, a lot of holes in the wall, and just three out of a potential 12 brackets hanging precariously out of the wall. The aura of calm had disappeared.

We have done nothing since. So the visually pleasing aspect of living room is no more. Although the Boyfriend does have today off, so they might be up and finished when I get home. Or I shall return to further destruction and a boyfriend with a temperament similar to mine with PMT. Wish me luck.

Presents

2010-11-08T23:09:00.001-08:00

Since moving in with the Boyfriend people have been incredibly generous. It is totally and utterly not expected, but absolutely lovely, and greatly appreciated.

We have had gifts ranging from a hoover, iron, ironing board and various cleaning products/potions (the Boyfriend's mother), to a bed, wine rack and chest of drawers (my parents - although a lot of that has been inadvertantly stolen from various unused bedrooms) to rice bowls (lovely girl at work) and champagne flutes (old housemate). We've had flowers and plants and vouchers and cards galore, and the Boyfriend's sister (same age as my own) gave us a significant sum to spend in a well known home store, which really was incredibly touching.

On the other hand, my sister gave us..... the Harry Potter boxset. The Boyfriend has never even seen a trailer, let alone one of the films all the way through. So really it was just a big juicy present for myself. And I am faintly ashamed to say that I think it is my favourite.

Queenstown Road eateries

2010-11-07T23:38:00.000-08:00

Since moving to a new place (albeit, less than 20minutes from my former location) the Boyfriend and I have decided that we must try out as many of the new establishments near us as possible.

On night one, we went to Bangkok Boulevard - a delicious Thai place on Lavender Hill. Despite not getting there until half 10pm, it was still lively. They brought over some really yummy prawn crackers (Thai style, so drier and less greasy than Chinese ones). We shared a starter of steamed pork and prawn dumplings, which were YUM (especially when washed down with Champagne - we had to have something to celebrate with). Then I had a chilli and garlic prawn stirfry with Jasmine rice. The Boyfriend had sticky rice and a spicy beef stirfry. The food was quick, piping hot and full of flavour - totally delicious and exactly what we needed.

We then tested a roast at The Victoria on Queenstown Road. Tender beef, crispy yorkshires, amazing homemade stuffing... the perfect hangover cure.

This week we went to Sultan's Kitchen - a curry house, again on Queenstown Road. Now, in the past we have had a few issues with curry houses, so much so we had given up, and only ever had curry when in Croydon, and could get a takeaway. Well, we have now found one that is not only tasty, but also remarkably cheap (poppadums, curry, rice, drinks = £25. Bargain).

Elephant on The Hill for a roast. Very tasty (but maybe not quite as good as the Victoria) but the staff were HOPELESS. Our food took over an hour, we were asked just once if we wanted more drinks, and it took half an hour to get the dessert menus, let alone the desserts themselves.

I have constructed a comprehensive list of other places to visit, including the Cake Boutique (you can design your own cakes! and they also sell a remarkable array of yummy teatime treats), San Gennaro (a highly recommended Italian) Le Pot Lyonniase (fun looking French Bistro) and the Boyfrind is DESPERATE to go to Santa Maria del Sur (apparently the best steak house in London) although that one may have to wait as sadly, I don't really like steak....

Fireworks. Part 1

2010-11-07T23:25:00.000-08:00

Friday was Bonfire Night. Which, despite being in my mid-20s, still fills me with an inordinate amount of excitement. We got all wrapped up (a little unnecessarily as it was acutally incredibly warm) and wandered up to Clapham Common. It was a free fireworks display, and really rather good. It was over 20minutes and there were so seriously big bangs.

Next weekend the Boyfriend and I are going to stay in Rye with my parents. And we are attending Rye Fawkes - their equivalent Bonfire Night. Apparently it is a little overwhelming as people march through the streets carrying flaming torches. I'm bringing some sparklers so I'll let you know how I fit in...

Domestic Goddess

2010-11-05T00:07:00.000-07:00

Since living with the Boyfriend (ok, ok, I know it's only been 6 days, and this may be very short-lived) but I have really embraced my inner domestic goddess.

I am still messy, but seem to take great pride in cleaning, dusting, wiping down my kitchen surfaces. I nagged the Boyfriend to put together the hoover, even before I had unpacked all of my shoes. I have never before even owned a hoover, and yet for some reason it suddenly appeared to be a vital piece of household equipment.

The other thing I have embraced is cooking. Now, my cooking skills have always been somewhat sporadic. I will happily survive, sometimes for over a fortnight on toast and fish finger sandwiches, and then suddenly get the urge to bake a four tier devils foodcake, with homemade truffles to decorate (needless to say, it never turns out as beautiful as it sounds - but it is always tasty). Alternatively I can swing the other way and turn my hand to a range of complicated and challenging dishes, using exotic ingredients following time consuming receipes, only to have spent hours in the kitchen and then go off the idea and have a yogurt.

At the moment I am in full chef mode. And as it is winter I am embracing the winter warmers. Jacket potatoes with mushrooms, spring onions, bacon and cream cheese, sausage, mash and onion gravy, and the piece de resistance, my absolutely wonderful cottage pie.

The Boyfriend insisted on buying a vat of mince, adament that he would eat the best part of half a kilo of meat in one go (yeah right). He wanted to "cook" his bolognese, which bascially equates to him cooking mince, emptying in a jar of sauce and poking it with a spatula for about half an hour. He then cooks spaghetti (normally 6 times the amount actually needed) forgets about it so it is overcooked and fused together, and then either mixes in the bolognese pan and eats out of that, or piles it onto the smallest plate he can find, therefore dropping bits of mince all over the floor.

But not this time. Oh no. I was going to make a proper cottage pie. So, in the haphazard style favoured by myself in the kitchen, here goes:

400g mince
2 onions
Lots of mushrooms (I LOVE mushrooms, he does not, but if you keep them big they are easy to spot and pick out)
3 small carrots
Half swede
Half a butternut squash
1 1/2 pints beef stock
1 tbsp gravy granules
Some garlic

Fry off the mince for about 5-6mins. Set aside and fry off the garlic, onions. Add a little of the beef stock, and then add the carrots and mushrooms. Once all the veggies are looking softer, add to the mince, and pour in the rest of the stock. Add gravy granules. Cover and simmer for 40mins with the lid on. Remove lid and simmer for a further 15mins. The sauce should be rich and not too liquidy, but with enough gravy not to be dry.
Peel and cube the swede and butternut squash (be warned - this is an almost impossible task and a large cleaver/axe may be the only implement able to assist with this task - at one point a piece of chopped swede leapt from the chopping board, and lodged itself behind the fridge, never to be seen again). Pop into some boiling water and cook until soft.

Pour the mince mixture into a large ovenproof dish. Drain the swede/squash, add seasoning and a little milk and butter, and mash. Spread over mince and brush the top with some melted butter. Pop under the grill for about 7mins until top is a little crispy. Serve with brocolli (possibly the healthiest piece of veg in the world - or at least so my aunty would have me believe).

Eat in front of The Apprentice snuggled with the Boyfriend on the sofa. I couldn't be happier.

Soup

2010-11-04T01:18:00.000-07:00

Last year I realised I was becoming old before my time, having developed a love for soup.

Well, as the winter months come rolling in (and we all know how much I LOVE this time of year - walking through Battersea Park last weekend through the leaves I could BARELY contain my excitement!!) it has become soup season once again.

And this year I have taken my love of soup to a new level. This year I have been making it myself!

It is a great way to use up all the rather mushy looking veg in the bottom of the fridge, it is a great snack, and can literally be made en masse.

My favourite (it took a few attempts, including one batch that was so spicy even the Boyfriend turned an interesting shade of purple on trying a spoonful - but have now got it down to a total tasty art) is red pepper and butternut squash.

My rather haphazard recipe is as follows:

1 butternut squash, cubed and peeled.
2 red peppers
1 1/2 pints of veggie stock
1 large onion
Paprika
Chilli flakes (but be careful - overly liberal use resulted in the purple faced and choking boyfriend)

Put it all in the biggest saucepan you can find and boil it all together for about 40mins. Then grab yourself a handy hand-held blender (got one from ASDA for a grand total of £4.87 - works fine thus far) and blitz it until it is smooth (although if your attention span is similar to my own you may lose interest after a bit, and therefore every serving you have is a bit of an adventure - lumps of butternut squash, large chunk of onion, etc).

It is easy to vary this recipe. I have added tomatoes, parsnips, swede, carrots, even mushrooms, all to a rather similar, but equally tasty end.

Serve with a yummy toasted sandwich (might I recommend a homemade egg mayonaise one - another of my newly discovered culinary delights). Either that or a part-baked baguette with sausage and tomato chutney. The perfect winter warmer.

Work Experience

2010-11-04T00:26:00.000-07:00

At my work we weekly, and at times daily have work experience people come in.

I got my job as the result of a work placement. I cannot praise the value of work experience enough in many circumstances. When I came in I was keen and eager, and offered to do anything, from hourly tea runs to sorting out cupboards or photocopying. I was interested in everything, and asked questions but not too many. And it paid off.

2 years on and it is my turn to look after work experience people. And gosh, haven't they gone downhill.

Just to give an indication of the current calibre....

I go down to reception to meet the newest workie

Me: Hello!
WE: uh... hi.
Me: So are you interested in radio?
WE: Yeah, yeah, I'm really into my music
Me: Oh. Well we are a speech radio station. It's only talking. We don't actually play any music.
WE: What? Are you serious? That's so weird. I've never even heard of a station doing that. You must be the only one?
Me: Well.... there's a few others, like Radio 4, 5 Live, Talksport, most regional BBC stations are predominantly speech.

Work experience the next week....
Me: Hello!
WE: uh... hi.
Me: So do you listen to our station much?
WE: Yeah, all the time.
Me: Oh great! What do you like about it?
WE: I love how new it is - so original and fresh. Have you been here since it started?
Me: Errr... no. The station started in 1973.
WE: Oh. Are you sure?

In the studio, the presenter wants a cup of tea in the middle of live breaking news and it is MANIC....

Me: Do you mind popping to the kitchen and getting a cup of tea?
WE: Actually, do you mind if I don't? I am here to learn

In the studio the presenter wants a cup of tea....

Me: Do you know where the tea and coffee making facilities are?
WE: Oh, I only drink water, so no thanks - I don't need a tea.
Me: Oh. I meant could you get one for the presenter?
WE: You want me to go?

During a show taking live feeds from Westminster. We have various TV screens showing live news so we can time when to cross to, for example the Prime Minister's speech.

WE: Wow! Look at the size of that TV! Can we put the cricket on?
Me: Well, um, not really - we need that TV for the breaking news.
WE: OOohhh. Spoilsport.
And then promptly got out his i-phone and put in the headphones.

This is just a snapshot of the wide ranging and varied levels of ineptitude. I'm hoping that this is just a dip in the quality, and in all fairness, some of the kids that come through the door are great - informed, intelligent and eager to learn/help out. But those ones are getting less and less. And instead seem to be replaced more and more often with total drongos.

If you are going on work experience it is not hard to get on well. You just need to do some simple things....
1. Listen/watch the output, even if it's only for half an hour a day the week before you go
2. Google the company - it literally takes seconds
3. Be eager and friendly and polite.
4. Always offer to do things, regardless of how menial.
5. If it really is that bad, it is only for a finite amount of time, and a bad impression is remembered much more than a good one - so it's just not worth leaving that behind.

Warren Evans

2010-11-03T00:46:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in previous blog, we got our bed from Warren Evans. It is the only bespoke bed shop in the UK and there are a variety of branches across London.

Originally we went to Dreams. Do NOT, under any circumstances even set foot in any of these establishments unless you are desperate for a pee (very nice customer facilities in at least 3 of the branches we went to). On first impressions it seems fine. We even found a bed we rather liked, and was affordable. But then it came to buying it. We were told we could upgrade the slats for £40 to their "Luxury" bedbase. Good idea we thought. Until we saw this "Luxury" base.

Now, a little back story. When I first moved into my flat in Stockwell one girl had a brand new leather bed. We were all a little jealous as it was lovely, and had a memory foam mattress, and was really comfy. Yet on the first night, my housemate woke in the night with a thud. Half the slats had fallen through. So at 3am she slotted all but one back in (that one didn't seem to fit at all). And then was awoken an hour later with a similar problem. As the weeks progressed you stopped being able to sleep, sit, even place light objects on the bed without the customary "thud" following. She tried everything - gluing them in, placing things under them, but nothing made a scrap of difference. In the end the landlord provided an enormous piece of MDF to put over the bed base. It worked, but my god is it uncomfortable.

The "Luxury" base at Dreams was this exact base. You can see why we walked out.

On the tube I noticed an advert for Warren Evans, mentioned it to my Dad, who confirmed that he and my step mother got their bed there. Fearing the expense the Boyfriend and I popped into the one in Clapham Junction (looks terrible from outside but is cosy and inviting inside). We spent over an hour bouncing, napping, and spooning on the vast range of beds.

The prices are as varied as the frames. There are basic platform bases from about £150 or you can get full super kingsizes for about £1000. They also sell mattresses, again across a similar price range.

You can pick the bed frame, and also the wood you want it made in (we went for a double Cottage in Elm - it is gorgeous). We didn't need a mattress, but we did look at some of the other things we could get. Underbed storage made to fit/match your bed looked good, although at the rate we are haemorrhaging money, they can wait. You could also get bedroom furniture.

Please note, this is not our bedroom, but it is the bed/wood we have chosen. It looks even lovelier in our room.

You order the bed and it takes a week to make, and then they will deliver it and put it up. They recommend that everytime you move house you contact them to help dissemble/reassemble the bed as apparently everytime an amateur does it, the bed ages by several years (which probably explains the state of my bed, now relegated to the second bedroom as it is so shakey and unstable the Boyfriend refused to move in with me unless it was replaced).

When delivering they were prompt, expert and polite. And the bed gives us a wonderful night's sleep, with none of the lurking potential nightmares of Dreams.

Moving 3.....

2010-11-03T00:33:00.000-07:00

By Sunday, the flat actually resembled somewhere to live (except the second bedroom, which even now still resembles a war zone). We had an enormous sofa and footstool (courtesy of Ebay - £89. Total bargain as from Ikea more like £550) and a TV that rivals a cinema screen (first thing the Boyfriend bought - even before a bed).

The kitchen looks lovely. Our bedroom is beautiful (bed is AMAZING - Warren Evans bespoke made. Inexpensive, incredibly comfortable and the staff were truly wonderful) chest of drawers and wardrobe courtesy of my parents.

The garden is in a similar state to the second bedroom. But it's November and therefore dark early (can't see the mess) and cold (don't want to be outside).

Pictures following (once we have found the camera, and also the computer).

We rewarded ourselves with a yummy roast with good friends in our (new!) local. Roast beef with all the trimmings, some good wine, and a lunch that turned into an afternoon, turned into an evening with takeaway pizza, and suddenly it was 11pm and our friends had to leave, and we went to bed. In our amazing bed.

Moving 2....

2010-11-03T00:16:00.001-07:00

So I went into work. And obviously could not concentrate. And also had an incredibly busy day. It was not good, and by midday I could barely contain myself, and practically ran to Waterloo to get on the train to MY NEW HOME!!!

Seven minutes later and I was at Queenstown Road. 6minutes later I was outside the new flat. The Boyfriend was nowhere to be seen, and for some reason there was an Estonian lady industrially cleaning the kitchen. I then realised the the whole flat was distinctly dusty, grubby, and definitely in need of a good clean.

I rang the boy, and waited outside. I then heard what sounded like an army truck, turned, and saw the Boyfriend driving something enormous. Apparently the van he hired looked a little small, so he had upgraded. To something not dissimilar to a small lorry. It turned out to be a good decision as all my stuff filled it to bursting. And he had left some bits behind.

We unloaded, but had to leave everything in the second bedroom as nothing had been cleaned. And then jumped back in the van and went to my parents. And then to the Boyfriend's to get the rest of his stuff.

By the evening we were exhausted. And hungry. And grubby. And tired. The Boyfriend was determined to bring his hideous leather armchair (think Chandler and Joey's from Friends) into the house before we went out for dinner. Sadly the damn thing was too wide to get through the gate. So we lifted it (all billion kilos of it). And then it was too wide to get through the front door. Did this put him off? No.

After nearly an hour (yes an HOUR) I suggested it might have to go back. The response was a little frosty. So on we went.

We eventually got it in by putting it in the recline position and literally dragging it through the house. It is a little dusty, has a little gloss paint on it and several small rips, but the monstrosity is now happily planted in the second bedroom. Oh joy.

Moving 1.....

2010-11-03T00:10:00.000-07:00

Packing up my stuff and leaving the girls was sad. And also rather impressive. I seemed to have accumulated so much extra stuff in the few years since uni that I not only filled every single box/suitcase/bag for life in the house, but when piled up, my belongings took over my room, the kitchen, and the living room (including under and on the table - also mine, and on all the sofas).

I made little fairy cakes, spelling out "I'll miss you" in tiny smarties. Sadly the Boyfriend ate three not realising they actually spelt anything, so it then read 'll iss yu. Not quite the same.

I finished packing at approximately 11.20pm. I then had to be up for work at 3.20am. And realised I had packed my bedding, pillows and pyjamas. So slept in my clothes with a towel for a pillow and a throw that could definitely have done with a wash.

Oh the excitement for tomorrow!

I have to live with a boy.....

2010-10-20T23:40:00.000-07:00

I've been bad again. Although it is not an excuse, but the last couple of months have been a bit hectic. Work, holidays, work, house hunting, work, work, a bit more work, and house furnishing.

So to give you all a quick update... Househunting got progressively worse. I had seen EVERYTHING on the market, and it was all rubbish (too expensive, tiny, not what we wanted, ex council - just to give you a flavour, we were looking for a two bed flat with a garden. I was shown a 1 bedroom with a "study". Said study was a conservatory with a table in it. When I asked where the chair was I was told that there wasn't space. And they wanted £1350 pm. What a joke).

So the boyfriend and I abandoned the search, booked a wonderful holiday (5* Rhodes Spa Hotel - I read 5 amazing books, got a fantastic tan, and ate/drank/slept far too much). On our return I reluctantly went to look at ANOTHER flat, totally disinterested and prepared to hate it on sight.

Oh, how wrong I was. I LOVED it . It is in a lovely place (off Queenstown Road) it has 2 proper double bedrooms, a garden, living room, kitchen, bathroom and as none of my homes have ever been complete without at least one idiosyncracy there is one problem (only access to garden is through the bathroom) but it is not so bad that it becomes a dealbreaker (the toilet is in a separate room - and as I pointed out to the Boyfriend, how often do you decide to shower when having friends round for a barbeque?).

So we move next week. It is unfurnished and so we have embarked on a beg, borrow, steal mission from both our long suffering families (and have been rather successful - chest of drawers, wardrobe, mattress - although my stepmother keeps trying to fob us off with frankly, rather useless/unimportant things - a gravy boat, and large box of, mainly broken, Christmas decorations to name but two).

The other fascinating thing was how much the Boyfriend and I differed on flat necessities. Without delay, the Boyfriend immediately bought a 42" plasma for over £500. I went to Lom Bok, got a lovely mirror in the sale, got a hand knitted throw, and some lovely prints to frame. Neither of us felt the immediate need of getting a bed, sofa, pans, shelves. But at least we will be warm in our throw, sat on the floor watching an enormous TV.

The main thing we are now currently lacking is a sofa (and gosh, aren't they expensive!). Even Ikea are asking upwards of £400 for one! Don't even get me started on DFS - hundreds for a hideous, overstuffed monstrosity, that is not only an eyesore, but less comfortable than a park bench.

The Boyfriend suggested getting one from Tesco. He sold it to me wonderfully, telling me "they look a bit weird, and the reviews say they are all really uncomfortable, but they are only £200". Great.

So we are resorting to Ebay. Fingers crossed. I promise I shan't leave it so long to give you the update.

Celebrations

2010-08-20T23:00:00.001-07:00

I am back up in the North. I am not working the weekend for the first time in a long time. And yesterday The Wiganer and I celebrated my belated birthday and her new job by going to a spa, courtesy of Dragon Mr Bannatyne.

I'm not good at spas. I can't sit still, get easily distracted and often a little bored. Plus I am incredibly ticklish and never having had a massage, shy away from the idea because they are a lot of money to spend to feel uncomfortable because you are desperately trying not to wriggle.

But The Wiganer and I put all this aside, and went. We went to the gym (I sweated, The Wiganer did not). And then we went for a swim, and then into the jacuzzi and then steam room and sauna (as predicted I lasted approximately 90seconds before I started fidgeting, getting too hot, annoying every other resident of said hot room, and I had to leave).

And suddenly it was time for our massages (The Wiganer had bought two for both of us - BEST PRESENT EVER). I really was a little nervous. I am REALLY ticklish, and whenever I have a pedicure there is an uncomfortable few minutes when I really do have to wrestle with myself to keep from kicking the poor pedicurist in the face.

I went in, lay down putting the my face carefully in the hole (not like The Wiganer who rammed hers in with such force that she had an interesting red ring around most of her face) and the massage began.

It was wonderful. It wasn't tickly (well, there was a little wriggling at one point) it was relaxing and therapeutic and wonderful.

Afterwards it was all I could do to get up. And as we showered and got ready for dinner I felt light as air. I am getting one again, and for those of you that are in similar financial straits as myself - look at the London College of Beauty Therapy and you can a full body massage for £20 from a trainee therapist.

After spa the celebrations carried on with dinner at Wagamamas, and cocktails in Deansgate (may I recommend the beautiful roof terrace in the Deansgate pub/bar). We had Lychee and Prosecco martinis and bellinis. Perfect.

Being a grown-up

2010-08-12T09:11:00.001-07:00

After several weeks of fighting my freezer, this weekend I came to realise that my freezer was not just too full, or on slanted floor, or that the door had changed shape - I has to face the reality as to why it wasn't closing properly. It needed defrosting.

Having consulted housemates, we realised that none of us had any idea how to do this (a phone call to a helpful mother, and a quick google consultation rectified this) and that we would also have a vast array of frozen food that would need to be dealt with.

The first thought was party. But we had to defrost it mid-week (the situation was near breaking point - we could not wait til the weekend). So the next option was a mass cook-a-thon, as we realised that we could cook frozen chicken into a curry, and then freeze the curry - genius!

The next day I had totally forgotten about the cook-a-thon and was happily preparing to watch Inception (totally brilliant - really really recommend it). I got in the front door, ready for a 45minute turnaround and was confronted by a mountain of frozen chicken and nearly a kilo of frozen prawns. And I had bought no sauce of any kind.

Now, my family are very evenly split when it comes to cooking. Both my mother and father are two of the worst cooks, possibly in the history of the modern world. my grandmother, while a good cook, hated it with a passion, and sadly this did sometimes feel apparent in her food. Yet my sister, aunty, Deda and my step-mother are all truly inspired chefs, and not only does the food look and taste great, but they geniuinely love it.

I am almost exactly in the middle. I oscillate wildly between loving to cook, and getting irritated and angry and frustrated, until I eventually abandon the whole thing to the bin and get a takeaway. Some concoctions work wonderfully, others, less well (note - do NOT subtitute oil for butter in cake - it does not work).

Luckily last week I was blessed with a good humour, and some even better inspiration. I cooked up the prawns with veg and thai green curry paste and made a vat of the stuff (keeps in the fridge - ate that a lot for lunch that week). And with all the chicken breasts I was a little more adventurous.

First I chopped two red onions and a load of garlic. I softened them over a low heat with some olive oil, and then added the chicken. I then added about two tablespoons of paprika, a pinch of sugar, some seasoning, two chopped peppers, and a tin of tomatoes. I may have added other things, but was limited to the minimalist contents of my cupboards.

I left it all bubbling away while I showered, dressed and made myself presentable for said date with the Boyfriend. I finally turned off the heat as I was pulling the front door closed.

When we returned from the cinema, we were starving (Inception is a great film, but a long one) and so I heated up some of the stew, made a healthy portion of cous cous (fast food of choice as it takes approximately 3 minutes to cook and is less hit and miss than rice) and I may have made it myself by god, it was DELICIOUS.

Enjoy it while you can

2010-08-09T01:42:00.000-07:00

At the weekend the Boyfriend and I did what we normally do. We got up late, read papers, had a brunchy type meal to help the hangover and then went for a walk. Due to a sudden torrential downpour we had to take shelter in a nearby pub (the recently re-furbished Frog in Clapham Old town - v. nice and recommend it).

We sat down with drinks and felt really cosy (despite it being August) watching the rain pour.

And then.... enter family stage left.

A yummy mummy (chanel sunnies, sass and bide skinnnies and a Velvet vest top, complete with Louboutins) came in with two little boys. Being hopeless at guessing the age of anyone, let alone two small people, I can only surmise that one could only just walk, while the elder could walk, talk and throw things.

In she came, and whipped them both into high chairs. While she rooted about in her bag the older one started eating the napkin and stabbing another napkin with a fork. The younger started banging his knife on the table and shouting "wah wah wah". Mummy then gave them both some toy cars; the younger hurled them to the floor, while the older continued to eat the napkin.

They both were given juice cartons, which excited the younger SO much that he drank it all in one and promptly vomited Ribena all over himself and the floor. By this point Daddy had turned up.

Eventually their food arrived. The older one was more interested in the ketchup than the chips. He dipped his finger in the pot and quickly licked it off, keeping his eyes on his father constantly. Just as he was pulling his finger out of the ketchup and propelling it mouthwards his father turned, saw what was happening and said very sternly "DON'T YOU DARE PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH". His son's response.... to quickly suck the ketchup off anyway.

By this point the Boyfriend and I were quite literally in hysterics. Which I'm sure did not help in the slightest. Luckily the parents too had a sense of humour. The father looked over at us, smiled and said "you just wait. Enjoy it while you can".

Playing witness to this hilarious epsiode brightened our otherwise selfish and childless weekend. But as we walked back home it suddenly dawned on me that when you have children EVERY MEAL, EVERY DAY would be like that. And it then seemed much less entertaining.

I'm not sure that motherhood is beckoning quite yet.

Tasty London

2010-08-08T23:55:00.000-07:00

Recently everyone I know has obtained a tastecard (previously Taste London card). It is a card that gives you a 50% discount or 2 4 1 on main meals at a variety of restaurants across London.

I was then emailed a link that meant the card was only £30 instead of the usual £70. So the boyfriend and I decided to invest in one.

We recieved a bible-like catalogue of every restaurant that offers a deal. A lot of them are places that generally have a deal already (Gourmet Burger Kitchen, Strada) but there are also some real gems.

Now, the Boyfriend and I do eat out quite regularly, and don't really need another reason to do it more often. But now that we can potentially save 50%.....

Last week we tested it for the first time. We went to The Loft in Clapham with a couple of friends. The Loft does wonderful cocktails (mojito with pear juice - YUM, as was an elderflower concoction) which were also on offer, and the food did not disappoint.

Two of us had seabass with garlic spinach and asparagus and a sun-dried tomato paste. It was delicious. And I don't even like spinach. The Boyfriend had sausage and mash (you cannot go wrong with that) and James had pork belly (you could have it thin and crispy or thick and juicy... thick and juicy was gooooood).

The only complaint was that some of the food was not PIPING hot, but it was all very tasty and mixed very well with the cocktails. And the best part was getting the bill - it worked out as about £10 a head. What a bargain.

Home sweet home

2010-08-05T03:58:00.000-07:00

So the Boyfriend and I are looking for a flat. I have a horrible sense that it is going to be a painful process.

We want somewhere with an outside, and two bedrooms, in an area we like (Battersea, Clapham, Brixton, Stockwell) and within our budget.

The Boyfriend had some other stipulations, but they have been disregarded as silly - a big kitchen (the last time he cooked was 3years ago and he caused a minor fire) and a bathroom with windows. Yes I know, of all the things to disregard an otherwise perfect house, I do not want to have to aplogetically decline over a lack of window.....)

So far I have had a lot of help from some very attentive estate agents. The only problem is that they all seem to have an IQ rivalled by a peanut.

Over the past 3 days I have received over 15phonecalls and emails.

They all start along the same line:

"We have found you a perfect property"

Great.

Then the problems start. I have been offered places in Streatham (no), Kent (no) and Acton (no) among others. I have been offered studios, 1 bedroom places, and places with not even a sniff of outside space. I have also been offered beautiful flats, in brilliant locations, that are 6 times our budget. Fantastic.

At first my responses were pleasant - it's easy to get confused, maybe they mixed us up with someone else, everything's right except the location and the price, etc. But after correcting the same man from the same estate agent for the third time I have come to realise that all estate agents are either

a. Lonely, and desperate for ANY contact, even from an angry blonde.
b. Stupid.
c. Related in someway to the goldfish, and therefore unable to retain information for more than 3 seconds.

I shall keep you informed of any developments.

Legally blonde

2010-08-05T03:46:00.000-07:00

I have renamed my blog. It had to be done. I was having a think about what defines me the most and there were 3 things:

My shoes (even though I abandoned them in favour of Uggs last winter....)

London (even though I did abndon it for a weekend of camping...)

And being a blonde. Which I don't think I will ever abandon. Even when blonde betrayed me by turning green in an overchlorainated pool, even when in a moment of madness I dyed it Brown, I never ever stopped being a blonde at heart, be it platinum, bleach, honey or highlighted.

Holiday part 2

2010-07-14T01:22:00.000-07:00

I was leaving Croatia. And while I arrived courtesy of BA, I was leaving with Whizz Air (budget budget budget!). They were actually really good and quick and efficient, and being a shorty, the lack of legroom went unnoticed.

So I made it back to London, and had a whistlestop tour of my house, Croydon (to see the Boyfriend) and then on Friday morning I was back up at Euston. To get the train to Wigan.

There was a serious lack of seats on the train and so I ended up next to a Cockney Hen Party on their way to Essex of the North, Blackpool.

After two hours of being serinaded with obscene songs, dirty jokes and a plastic penis straw landing on my foot I had arrived in The North.

Janine picked me up and then we were off on step 2 of the Holiday. A three hour drive to North Wales.

Yes, Holiday part 2 was a camping holiday in Wales. Oh, and the best part

Me: It's so hot in London, whats the weather been like in Abersoch?
Janine: Raining. Constantly. For the last week.

Hurrah! I don't even own a waterproof, let alone wellies...

I also don't own a sleeping bag, camping chair (that everyone else seems to have - I think that is weird) a wetsuit (ha!) sleeping mat (I do have a yoga mat) or a tent.

I did, however bring 4 pairs of shoes (sadly none were waterproof) and 2 bikinis. And some dry shampoo.

When we arrived (I slept the entire way) I realised another problem. We were the first ones. Normally we are the last to get there, and hence all the tents, gazebos, BBQs, etc are set up and ready to go. All I need to do for myself is make a large gin and tonic.

Oh no. Not this time. No no, we were putting up the tents.

There were 5 of us. Four girls and BGI (Big Gay Ian). We were hardly Bear Grylls.

We went for the gazebo first. Eventually it was standing, albeit at a rather alarming angle. It did fall down 24 hours later, but ho hum.

Next came the big tent. Now, one of the issues with being small is that I seemed to be called on often to climb/crawl into the unerected tent to insert poles, hold poles, adjust poles, etc. In the end I lost interest, and decided to appoint myself Barmaid.

By the time we got to tent 3 we had all lost interest. We left it after half an hour. It was still pretty flat, and we seemed to have more poles than tent. But by the time the inhabitants of said tent had arrived, I was well and truly G&T'd up and didn't really care.

It was a bit of a change from Croatia, in that it was cold and rained and really wasn't as cheap. Although we were still by the sea (indeed we even went into the sea! Although left rather quickly when my fingernails turns blue, and I lost the feeling in both feet).

But despite the lesser location and lesser weather, it was by no means the lesser holiday. There was singing and drinking and BBQing and 20 questions (and 54 questions, and even question 33a and b). There were drunken speeches and beach rounders. There were Percy Pigs and Dairy Milk and shopping and surf boards. There was chippy tea (for some there was even chippy tea between bread - chippy sandwich) and morning fry-ups.

At least there was enough sun for beach time on the last day.

Holiday part 1

2010-07-14T01:08:00.000-07:00

Holiday part 1. Off on a plane at the sophisticated hour of 9pm from Gatwick. It was a BA flight. So mid-flight meal. And leg room. And allocated seats and so no mad scramble to get aisles next to each other.

And then we got off the other end in beautiful Croatia.

For those that have never been, you must. It is my favourite holiday destination. Miles and miles of beautiful coast, great climate (sunny, but not muggy, hot, but with a breeze off the sea) cheapy cheap cheap and yummy food.

We had a little villa about 12km outside of Dubrovnik. Perfect in everyway it was halfway up a mega hill (as is everything on the coast) with a pool, lots of sunloungers and just enough space for 6.

Directly below was the sea and a lovely little restaurant/bar called the Hawaii (dinner and drinks for 6 came to just under £35. No I kid you not).

It was the perfect chilled out break. In the mornings we would travel to an island, or Dubrovnik or a little beach. When we were tired we'd drive back and eat lunch (followed by Milka - the novelty of being abroad). And then the rest of the day would be spent tanning and swimming and reading (read 3 books - Winter in Madrid - amazing, Fahrenhiet 451 - hmmmmm, and The Help - totally wonderful).

We then showered and went for more dinner.

One day we hired kayaks (being in the Adriatic made this an infinitely more enjoyable experience than being in the freezing depths of the Lake District). I was paired with my father (who, despite whinging about being put with me, was actually the greater hindrance). We paddled out to a cove, got out, ate sandwiches and went snorkling. Then back in the boats and round one of the little islands just off the coast.

I left on the Thursday. They all stayed until the Saturday. But I was brown and rested and ready to go on to holiday part 2.

BBQ

2010-06-28T23:53:00.000-07:00

Last year I was devastated by the lack of Barbeques. I didn't go to a single one. This was both a mixture of lots of people not having outside space (and lets face it, an indoor bbq is just dangerous) and myself working a lot of weekends.

This year I am determined not to repeat this fiasco, and to set the ball rolling I hosted my first BBQ this weekend. The Boyfriend and I went to Tesco, and instead of buying a few disposable ones, we really pushed the boat out and got a real one, complete with brickets and lighter fluid.

Putting it together was a severe test on the relationship. But a few hours later, after an argument, some lost screws, some extra nuts, an attempt to bend/fuse/force metal and a humiliating call to Tesco customer services (it turned out that we had read the instructions wrong, and not that they had provided us with a substandard BBQ set) we had our very own (if really small) BBQ.

Then came the food prep. Marinating chicken (may I recommend teriyaki - yum and quick), chopping veg and bread, making salads and gin and tonic (no Pimms - too much hassle, and when made en masse it always seems to taste flat), and then people started to arrive.

Pearse brought homemade burgers (the boy is a culinary genius) and we also had more bread, more meat and a lot of juice.

When it came to lighting the BBQ it took a while. I think the flaw was not applying the lighter fluid liberally enough. But once we had reapplied (and moved the table - I was very close to some rather spectacular flames, and one guest was wearing a substantial amount of hairspray - we wanted no disasters) it really got going.

Weirdly, the Boyfriend could not have been more eager to help with the cooking. Considering his last foray into the world of cuisine resulted in fire alarms, a lot of smoke and some very burnt peas (yes it is possible to burn peas) I was impressed (though hardly surprised) at the interest. I think it was more interest in fire than in cooking.

Anyway, the evening was a success. The food was lovely (chicken cooked in oven to prevent any poisoning) the drink plentiful and the company many and varied. Plus one guest did all the washing up (what a treat!) and the Boyfriend cleared up outside (even better treat!).

And at the end of it all, we have our very own love child, in the form of a small Tesco's own brand BBQ. Roll on summer.

The Big Bad Budget part 2

2010-06-23T23:44:00.000-07:00

So Boy George delivered his Big Bad Budget on Tuesday. It was anxiously anticipated, with many fearing a return of the Nasty Party Tories crushing the little man and saving the rich.

As a 20-something single (well single in the eyes of the law) with no dependents and working in the private sector it will not affect me that much. Fuel, fags and booze remain the same and cider duty has gone back down (the Boyfriend let out a cheer).

VAT will obviously make a difference, although it will be as little as the difference it made when they lowered it by 2.5% (depressingly many of the London public seemed incapable of grasping the new VAT rate - I had loads of people claiming that buying something that was previously £100 for £120 was outrageous. I did try to explain that it would now cost only £102.50, but in many cases it seemed to be to no avail...)

It is people that get pregnant, claim benefits or work within the public sector that will feel the effects the worse. Or the wealthier among us paying capital gains tax (I for one hold little sympathy for such characters).

Child benefit and public sector pay are to be frozen (some people claiming this is actually a pay cut as due to inflataion their money won't go as far). Housing allowance is to be capped (although not to a measly, unrealistic amount - £250 per week for a 1 bed flat seems fairly decent to me. Especially in Stockwell; moving down to Tooting and that will get you a palace, and going up to Wigan you could get an entire 4 bedroom family house with garden and no I kid you not).

Start-up costs for those that get pregnant will be cut, and anyone claiming disability allowance will need to reassessed.

Hopefully it will make a positive difference. We are all getting a little tired of this recession. And for all those worried about VAT going up listen closely. Chocolate covered biscuits (eg choc covered shortbread) - luxury item therefore pay VAT. Bakery items (such as cakes, flapjacks, etc) and choclate biccies with choc chips - not classed as luxury item, therefore no VAT.

So lesson learned - buy a Maryland not a penguin.

Oh, and just to settle the age-old debate, the Jaffa Cake is classed as a cake, thus proven because we do not pay VAT on said bakery item.

The Big Bad Budget

2010-06-22T01:50:00.000-07:00

The budget has been looming over us for the last few weeks. Both Cameron and Osborne have been dropping us titbits of how bad it will be, warnings of the potential pain it will cause, and spreading a general dark cloud.

Perhaps optimistically, but I am of the feeling that so much doom-spreading is merely there to make us feel better when the real thing happens this afternoon. By expecting the worse, we can only be pleasantly surprised when things don't turn out as badly as anticipated.

Or perhaps I am too idealistic. I shall have to let you know whether the optimism is spot-on or severely misplaced.

Khamsa

2010-06-20T04:20:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about the World Cup is the sudden awareness it gives us Brits of other countries. Algeria meant very little until Friday, and few people could even place Slovenia on a map, but come Wednesday it will be our arch nemesis.

The Boyfriend has had an entire week off to watch the World Cup. Most days he has not even managed to get dressed properly. On Thursday and Friday I joined him, but by Saturday I was going a little nuts and decided to look at the World Cup Jessica style.

Some friends invited us out for dinner. With new awareness of the African nation of Algeria, we settled on Khamsa, a restuarant on my beloved Acre Lane and Algerian to the max (the decor is mainly Algerian flags pinned to the walls, windows and doors).

It had rather excellent reviews, and although the (extremely short) menu was a photocopied booklet with each one having the pages in a different and varied order, we ordered a range of unpronouncible starters and main courses, and they were all delicious.

It is bring your own booze, and so the cost is kept to a minimum. We shared a vat of hummus and bread, and also a very nice chickpea, tomato and sausage salady thing (it was called chkcoka - and yes the waitress will make you have a go at pronouncing it). For mains I went for chicken skewers with couscous. The others went for rather spectacular smelling (and looking) tagines (order couscous separately though - they don't come with anything) which were also thoroughly delicious.

It is nothing too fancy or over the top. It will not overwhelm you with choice or grandeur. But it will fill you up, won't break the bank and provides you with a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Plus across the road is Brixton's finest bar - The Grand Union, complete with cocktails and treehouses. The perfect end to a tummyful of Algerian nosh.

World Cup Birthday

2010-06-14T10:18:00.000-07:00

So the first England game of the World Cup gatecrashed my birthday. Obviously when the news was broken to me I was devastated, and briefly debated fighting the patriotic spirit. But as the Boyfriend pointed out, if I fought it I'd probably lose, and be sat alone at home wearing a party hat.

So I decided to embrace it fully, booking a massive table directly in front of the biggest TV in the pub beer garden. We got there at 5, ordered Pimms and Gin and Tonic, and got stuck into the barbeque (posh chicken kebab in a wrap - YUM).

By 7.10 I had managed to fill the two enormous tables I had booked and was deeply engrossed in a conversation (obviously non football related) with a friend I have not really seen in 10yrs. And suddenly there was singing and bright lights, and I realised there was a big cake with candles. And 200 England fans singing Happy Birthday.

And then the football began, and the same 200 fans that had sung me Happy Birthday were roaring "Roo-ney Roo-ney" and cheering and screaming, and when the goal was scored acting in a manner not unlike that of monkeys.

I feel that both my birthday and the England game managed to co-exist pretty well.

Britishness

2010-06-08T01:45:00.000-07:00

A few years ago myself and a close friend dedicated a month of my life to making a short documentary about what it was to be British.

The majority of the content (aside from a few interviews) was made up of vox pops from people all over the UK about what Britishness meant to them. The answers ranged from the serious, to the hilarious to the extreme.

Rain, roasts, big red buses, the union jack, a curry, sense of humour, manners, tea, Buckingham Palace, Shakespeare, Tesco, fry ups, Richard Branson, the list was endless.

I hadn't really thought about that documentary for a while, but recently a close friend asked me for help. Her boyfriend is a New Yorker and they are going over there in June to visit his family. It is her first time meeting family and also in New York. While I am seething quietly with envy at the prospect of her spending a fortnight in the Mecca for all city girls, we are also working hard on thinking of good gifts for the parents.

They need to be typically British but without being naff (no tins of shortbread or stuffed Harrods bears). So far my contribution has been my personal list of the best of British:

Cath Kidston

Jo Malone

Lady and Earl grey tea

London

Teapots

Shakespeare

John Lewis

Decent Chocolate

Elderflower martinis

It is currently a work in progress. I shall let you know the verdict.

Alone in Berlin

2010-06-07T10:40:00.000-07:00

I have just read a wonderful book. It has quite literally been lost in translation. Published in 1947 in German, it has only recently been translated and published into English.

Set during the Second World War it charts the actions of an elderly couple taking a stand against Hitler. They drop treasonous postcards around the city, slating the Fuhrer and his actions. They hope that their words will spur other people to take action against the Nazis. In reality Hitler has cultivated such a sophisticated culture of fear in Berlin, and the rest of Germany that the postcards are picked up and immediately handed in or destroyed.

The message of the book seems intially to be a dark one. The Nazis were brought down by foreign powers, not by a German resistance force, and this fact seems to make all resistance efforts even more futile. The Nazi regime was so thorough in its divisive nature that no opposition group came near to getting a firm hold (for more accounts of resistance one only has to watch the Hollywood Tom Cruise blockbuster Valkyrie).

Yet throughout the book there is a theme of good. There is a sense, and it is voiced a number of times towards the end that it is better to die with a good, honest mind and a sense of morality, than to live as a monster, or as someone that did not act against the monstrous.

Very little of our literature in England is translated. But in the last year two translations have come my way, and both had totally blown me away (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo being the other). It seems to me that foreign literature is incredibly rich, and that maybe with our British tradition of expecting everything in English we are possibly losing out.

Chipotle

2010-06-07T09:57:00.000-07:00

Last year I lost my beloved sister to San Diego. It was sad. We are close in age and size and senses of humour and despite picking the furthest possible UK option for university (St Andrews) at least she was still at the end of a very long train journey (see previous blog) or at the very worst at the end of a phone.

So when she decided that teeny tiny St Andrews was really too teeny tiny, she went to somewhere less teeny tiny - America.

And so began the long and tedious negotiations for phonecalls. She was 8 hours behind, we had to use Skype - brilliant invention for any global relationship. Less great if you use my sister's laptop, which, among other things has a broken mircophone (so you can't really hear her) only one working headphone (so she can't really hear you) and a broken space bar (not so much of a problem for Skype, but made reading her emails a challenge to say the least).

The upside to having Miss Lucy in California was that I had a sister in California. Which, after London, is probably the best place in the world. It is hot. All the time. And so everyday you can plan what you want knowing that without fail it will be nice. You can surf in February and not get hypothermia. You can sunbathe all the time and everyone is happy because they are not constantly being rained on. And there is also the food.

San Diego is about 8 miles from Mexico. This means that the Mexican food really is Mexican, but without the potential risks of Mexican food. Plus, as California is the most Western part of the States, if you go more West (you need to go quite a lot more west) you get to Japan. Which means sushi. And then there is good old In and Out Burger - American fast food burgers. Yum.

But the best place (in a week I went twice, in the year Lucy was there she went approximately 70times) was Chipotle. You get a big juicy burrito stuffed with chicken (or beef, or even just veggies) rice, veg, salsa and the world famous chipotle sauce. They are amazing, and when Lucy listed all the people she would miss, Chipotle was near the top of that list.

Returning to cloudy, rainy UK Lucy mourned her San Diego life for a little while. But she saw her old friends and got to love her cashmere jumpers and Uggs again. She even appreciated the snow.

And then the other day, walking down Charing Cross road I walked past some building work. A new restaurant was being finished. And there was a symbol I recognised. It was a chilli pepper. And lo and behold it was a Chipotle. Opening in our very own London town.

Last week Lu and I went. It was a sunny day in May and the food was perfect - we could well have been in California.

Southbank

2010-04-23T04:20:00.000-07:00

As we all know, it has been the most glorious week. The skies have been clear and the sun bright. Granted, it has been a little chilly outside of direct beams of sunlight, but it has been the sort of weather which makes me smile to myself as I'm walking, which in turn means that people smile back (they think you're smiling at them, it gets a bit awkward if you don't actually know said people, but hey, it's sunny and so smiling is nice)

And yesterday I enjoyed the sun in the best possible way. I'd finished work, and was planning a rather mundane afternoon of walking home, waxing (bikini and eyebrows) and packing (for my HOLIDAY!!) and then an early night (starting work at the dreaded hour of 4am).

And then Mini rang. And was in Waterloo. And I was in Waterloo, and so it was too good a coincidence to pass by, and we had to meet. Now, if you do not know Waterloo, it is a maze. You only have to look at the vicinity to get lost. There are exits and entrances hidden away, there is the Eye and the bridges, National Theatre and Royal Festival Hall, the river and some grass...

I am smug in my uncanny knowledge of the area. Poor Mini was not. After 20mins I finally spotted her (she was wearing red, and I suddenly got a sense of being part of a real life, giant Where's Wally). I was on the balcony outside The Royal Festival Hall. She was down by the water. We finally managed to both be on the balcony, with chilled glasses of white wine, sunglasses and a direct view of the river and the sunset. Perfect.

Dizzee

2010-04-23T04:18:00.001-07:00

This week at work Dizzee Rascal came in. I like Dizzee. I like his music. I like his interviews. I like his hats.

And this week I met him. And he did not disappoint. He was clever, and funny and charming. And, best of all he is a man of similar stature to my own

Fingersmith

2010-03-08T12:15:00.000-08:00

Sarah Waters is, I believe, a great author. I have just finished a third book by her. Fingersmith. Set in London, the use of the city is brilliant (she perfects this use of the Capital in a later book of hers The Night Watch) and the storyline is pacy, quick and clever.

The story is in three parts, and follows the fates of two girls, one a Londoner born into a house of thieves in Borough (Susan), and the other a rich little country girl shut up in a strange and lonely country estate, with her elderly abusive uncle (Maud). They are brought together as a result of a moneymaking plot, that turns out to be so much cleverer than your average "rob the rich" story.

Strangely, the first two parts tell the same story, and so run the risk of being repetitive and a little boring. But one is through one girl's eyes, the second part from the other's perspective. And the second part turns the first so wonderfully on it's head, you almost forget that the events you are reading you already know, have already read and passed judgement on; so altered are they when seen from Maud's angle, the story is practically a new one.

Susan's London is grim. From the language they use around the kitchen table, to the dining habits (pigs head and gin), and even the smells and heat of the place. Within the house is a brazier that is always warmed up, and the heat of the kitchen, alongside the constant dirt and fog of London is constantly apparent. Every other word among the thieves is innuendo, and the joking in their kitchen is beyond crude - "cunt" and "fuck" feature heavily in their late night conversations. The house is a channel for stolen goods, farmed babies, and refuge from the law. It also offers a prime view of the hanging scaffold.

Briar House in the country is the other way around. Rather than the crowded, stifling appearance of London, Briar House is barren and cold. It is always grey, lifeless and abandoned, and the silence is oppressive. Instead of people being mashed together, they are kept apart. A brass finger on the floor of the library prevents people coming too far into the room, come night time one can wander the house unnoticed and unchecked, Maud's fashions are outdated, she can neither dance nor play cards so shut away from real life is the estate.

Yet the more you read the more you come to respect the honesty and openness of London. Yes it is vulgar and crude, but the secrets that are hidden there are anticipated. The thieves are thieves, the murderers are murderers. It is the dark secrets hidden at Briar that are more sinister. The Uncle's vast collection of pornography, and his obsession with his young niece reading it to him. The past of madness and madhouses, all hushed and hidden, and the cruel punishments lavished on Maud when she first comes to Briar.

It is a novel that turns on its head, and proves that as a reader, one's predispositions and initial judgements can be as distant from the truth as the characters themselves.

In comparison with her other books, the feelings of displacement and malevolence, and the powerlessness of women when faced with the diagnosis of "madness" is similar to that in The Little Stranger. The use of London is reminiscent of Blitzed London in the Night Watch, and the theme of lesbianism is apparent in all three (although The Little Stranger the least so?) But these parallels aside, the characters, settings and plot stand alone. Fingersmith is a clever and interesting book, portraying a terrifying and yet intriguing picture of Victorian London, Victorian thieves and madhouses, while keeping the veil of secrecy over the scandals occuring in the higher echelons of society.

Weekends

2010-03-08T11:49:00.001-08:00

I am not alone in my love for the weekend. Once Wednesday is clear, one can officially start to get excited about the weekend. By Thursday (especially after answering the phones for James O'Brien's Mystery Hour) I am eager with anticipation, and in many ways, Friday is better than the weekend itself (in the way that Christmas Eve is sometimes better than the big day itself).

But this weekend just gone was not one that was eagerly anticipated. And, I am ashamed to say it, a big reason behind this was that the beloved boyfriend was gallavanting about Nottingham with a gang of university friends. Leaving me alone.

Normally, I would take this as a golden opportunity to go to Bath, Manchester, Wigan, even Scotland to visit the sister, friends, Deda. But alas, I was tied to London because my parents, also away (their chosen holiday destination.... Israel - yes I too was slightly concerned, but touch wood they seem fine) had enlisted my help in the feeding and petting of their two cats (George and Dorrit - utterly adorable, but sadly very determined in their dislike for me).

But I decided that I would make the best of this tiny window (tiny in the sense of the rest of my life, but seemingly huge on Thursday) of opportunity and really just embrace all the nice things to do in the capital.

Friday was spent in the pub with good friends, and then in a tapas restaurant with the friend good enough to stick out the drinking, and subsequently share my great need for tapas food. And Saturday was one of the most beautiful days of the year so far (although fiercely cold). In fact it was, in my head, the proper start of sping, and therefore I started the day with my family's famous poem

Spring has sprung
the grass has ris
I wonder where the birdies is

Not Shakespeare I know, but a tradition all the same.

And then I went and sat in my Aunty's lovely kitchen. She made homemade scotch eggs (I do not like scotch eggs, I really really do not - but my god, these were like eating a little bit of heaven and did WONDERS for my hangover) and homemade bread, and generally spoilt me in a way that seems disgustingly self-indulgent to someone brought up by a singly dad, whose rare cooking attempts often resulted in mass evacuation of the house due to smoke inhalation, apologies to the neighbours for the fire alarm, and serious tummy ache.

And then I had to feed the cats. But they actually let me pick them up. Plus points.

Drinks with a housemate, and more drinks out. Nothing too manic, but just enough mojitos to merit a box of chicken nuggets on the way home. And then bed, not too late, and then on Sunday up, not too early. Lazing in bed with a brilliant book, a mug of lady grey, and a jammy dodger.

And then it was time for the traditional route of the farmer's markets - Brixton (still not as great as many, but it is a new one, and is steadily getting better - Post Office Bakery does the BEST almond croissants in the world) and then Queen's Park. Queen's Park's farmer's market is really up there in Farmer's Market Royalty. It is big, varied, busy and you can definitely get a bargain or two if you are prepared to haggle. And there is a cake stall which is what my own personal paradise will hopefully look like (alongside some nachos, and some of Aunty Louise's scotch eggs).

And then suddenly, the part of the weekend I had been desperate for (The Boyfriend's return) was upon me. And we managed to get be on the same train, him getting on at Victoria and me getting on at Clapham, and I felt so so happy to see him. He was back, and we still had half of Sunday. He was back, and him being away for the weekend was over. Just like that.

Mexican

2010-03-01T12:12:00.000-08:00

The Boyfriend and I were huge fans (to the point of obsession) with a tacky and over the top mexican restaurant on Battersea Rise called Dos Amigos. On arrival you were seated by a man wearing a ridiculous sombrero, a billowing blouse, and with maracas attached to his belt. On sitting down a similar sombrero was wedged on your own head, while you drank luminous coloured cocktails filled with straws, sparklers and umbrellas.

Much to our upset Dos Amigos closed last year. Sigh.

But last week a new mexican opened up, also on Battersea Rise. Hurrah!

Cucurachas has a little more class (when I say class I mean class in terms of Dos Amigos - do not go here if you are expecting suave and sophisticated). It is still hilarious inside - there is faux gold velvet pinned to the walls, and a hand painted purple and gold motif on the wall surrounded by big fake feathers. But the drinks look a little less radioactive and the margharitas are really yum.

The food is good if you want cheap and cheerful - and it is most definitely NOT first date food. It is sloppy and tasty and very very messy. We're talking salsa, beef and cheese covered nachos with no cutlery. But it is great value, and while the waiters are a tad scatty, you'll get everything you need in the end (and probably a little more on the side!) and at £4 each, any situation can be salvaged with a margharita.

Brighton

2010-03-01T11:37:00.000-08:00

Not going on holiday abroad, the Wiganer and I decided to brave the wet and the wind and embark on the traditional British holiday by the sea. Brighton is a mere 45minutes from Clapham Junction, a seaside city with shopping, eating and drinking all within walking distance and with the added bonus of sea views.

So we booked a guest house (Cross Street Guesthouse - really lovely and highly recommended). £45 for the two of us in a double room with a shared bathroom - not that we had to share with anyone, and the perfect distance from the shops, bars and seafront, without being in the middle of a drunken warzone come 3am.

We hopped on the train just before midday. I had barely had a decent snooze when we arrived in Brighton just after 12.30pm. We walked (well, were blown actually) along the seafront to our lovely guest house, dumped our bags, and re-emerged into, in my opinion, the best seaside town that England has to offer.

Having been to Brighton on a number of occasions during my sixth form, I assumed I would know my way around with no trouble. However, most of my time spent in Brighton back then was masked under a heavy cloud of drunkeness, and after about 5minutes we realised that my usually infallible internal GPS system was well and truly off.

Not to worry, Brighton is easy. We pottered to the Lanes, and had some tea and shared a cupcake (Angel Bake House again HIGHLY recommended) and then pottered some more, and had some lunch, and then had some more tea - in fact when we were on the train home we realised that most of trip involved eating and drinking at various establishments.

The second cafe was truly lovely, and truly inspired. Called Tic Toc, it was in the lanes, and yet had a view down a little road to the sea. And right outside was a perfect suntrap - it still had the sun at 4.30. But in case it was a little chilly, there was a big pile of fleecy blankets to wrap up in, provided by the owner. The milk was in an old glass milk bottle, and the victoria sponge was perfect.

After shopping, we headed back to the guesthouse, stopping for warming hot spiced rum en route, and then for wine, and nearly for a wash and blow dry (the dozy Wiganer had brought straigteners but no hairdryer, and this place offered any hair service for £9 - dangerous when drunk we decided).

And we went out, and had a great night, from having those first sophisticated cocktails, to the less sophisticated sambuca shots, and the totally unsophisticated dancing like a pair of loons, and finally the wobbly walk home, supported by a bumper bag of crisps (Kettle Chips no less - not all vestiges of class were lost).

And we were home and in bed, and then in the morning up and had breakfast, walked along the prom, drinking plastic cups of tea, and then headed to the station and then we were Londoners again. All in 24hours. It has made me bump Brighton back up to one of favourite places in the world. And the Boyfriend and I shall be revisiting imminently.

Growing up in Bath has given me unrealistic expectations of urban areas. And living in Stockwell has worked well at stamping out a few elements of snobbishness on my part. But being in Brighton, I realised how much I love being surrounded by beauty and space, and the comparitive tranquility. Coming back to London, and a tiny piece of me really sank when we rejoined the crowds. But the bigger part of me surged back with the excitement that, ever since moving to London, has never fully disappeared.

Legally Blonde

2010-03-01T11:26:00.001-08:00

The Wiganer and I were due to go away at the end of February, but due to restricted funds, and the recent booking of another holiday at the end of April, we decided to save the pennies, and instead enjoy the wonders of our very own England.

When you live in London it is easy to overlook the many and various things that make this city possibly the greatest on earth. And I must admit that I am often guilty of such a vice, and so I was determined to rectify this situation - in doing so I booked the two of us tickets to Legally Blonde, the Musucal.

I am blonde. I have my moments of dizziness. This film very nearly made me reconsider my career and become a lawyer. The Wiganer just loves a musical. So we were happy all round.

Irritatingly the Wiganer had given up chocolate for lent and so a bumper pack of minstrels for the performance was a no-no. Instead we had to settle for some yoghurt covered raisins (really not a bad substitute for others in a similar situation).

And we turned up at the Savoy Theatre, expecting a wonderful performance from Sheridan Smith (we both saw her in Little Shop of Horrors and she was an unexpected delight - funny, great singer, good dancer, wonderful presence, etc).

Sadly both her and Duncan James were not in our performance. Initially this did prompt a little moaning. But once the show started the two understudies were so good that we both agreed we could have asked for nothing more.

It was really really good. Catchy songs, enough laughs, no boring conversations or irrelevant plot developments, they kept close to the film but not too close - I cannot recommend this show enough. It was fun and fast (I must admit I was contemplating having a snooze at the start as I really was tired, and can sleep anywhere - it happened in the first scene of Oliver! much to the Wiganer's annoyance). But the minute the lights went up and the music started I was bright as a bee and even the men in the audience had a great time.

Please go. You will not regret it. Even if there is a lot of pink.

Grooming

2010-02-12T13:05:00.000-08:00

Recently, I've been working a lot of early shifts. And early means EARLY - starting at 4am, so waking up at 3am. It's ok once you're in a routine, the shift is fun, and generally I really don't mind it. I have to be in bed by about 8.30, but at least until then I can have a social life.

One thing though that does take a backburner is the old grooming. Getting up that early, I can only really face a shower, washed hair (not dried - too loud and also means getting up 20mins earlier....er no) and obviously warm clothes and UGGS. I won't lie - I hardly look like a dazzling style symbol. In fact, most of this week at least one item I have worn has been inside out.

Now, the upside to starting early is that I finish early. And it is normally after work that I indulge in my grooming habits, and so one would think that given that I am done by midday I would be looking particularly groomed.

But when it is cold, and you are tired, that last thing I really fancied doing was going to my local beauty salon (Sajna, off clapham high street - brilliant. It is open til 11pm, it is cheap, they will always fit you in, and it is even open on a Sunday) and having a brazilian bikini wax.

But on Wednesday I bit my lip and went. And this is when Sajna comes into it's own. In I went at 1.09pm. Had a brazilian bikini wax (OUCH) and got my eyebrows threaded (amazing, definitel worth doing, and a snip at £3) and was out by 1.24. I spent £15, but felt (to be cliched) a million dollars. Sorting out your eyebrows works wonders for your face, and having a bikini wax always makes you feel a little self-righteous.

I then went and got myself a pedicure (45mins of BLISS) and then the ultimate indulgence of an eyelash perm. If you have never experienced this wonder then find the nearest beauticians to you that does this and go NOW. You will love me forever for introducing this phenomenon into our life. You can throw out those gunky eyelash curlers, and everyone will comment on how well you look.

And that is the extent of my beauty regime. It is pretty basic, but it covers the essentials. And the eyebrow/eyelash treatments are the cheapest way to revolutionise your face.

V.I. Warshawski

2010-02-11T13:19:00.000-08:00

I've always been a reader. Reading and books are my lifeline. When I can't sleep, feel homesick, miss people or places, am overcome with anxiety/sadness/anger/frustration, 10 minutes of a Harry Potter, an Agatha Christie, or Adrian Mole, and perspective is restored and calm resides again.

I have always loved a crime thriller, and while a dedicated follower of Agatha Christie, Sue Grafton, and more recently Steig Larsson, I am always on the lookout for more. And thanks to my step-mother for introducing me to the wonderful Sara Paretsky, and her heroine, the ballsy, brash and sarcastic VI Warshawski.

I have managed to devour two and am currently on a third in recent months. The series is ongoing, and chronological (although reading them as such is not a necessity - I have failed miserably at this and am still addicted).

The stories are fast-paced, at times dangerous and violent, but there is a confidence that you, as the reader, has in the heroine. She is scatty, untidy and disogranised. She drinks neat whiskey, can't start the day without a run, and lives in a permanent state of disarray and untidiness. Maybe it is this that has instilled such great confidence in her. She is a real person, and for all her messiness on the outside, I empathise with her - I am the same. A mess on the outside, yet obsessive and organised on the inside.

She is quick-witted, impulsive (often to the point of regret) and dry. Her sarcastic put-downs make for satisfying reading, and the many characters she has in her life are people one can recognise in one's own life. The interfering and yet well-meaning neighbour, the close, yet judgemental female friend, the ex-partners, some of which remain friends, others that quickly become enemies.

Each story starts feeling a little mundane, and then the pace quickens, the various plotlines are pulled together, and the story climaxes with some near death incident. Everything is explained (often not clear as crystal, but who cares - you know on closer inspection it would hold) and often Warshawski has successfully bought down some corrupt institution or company, and in the process is righting some social ill.

They are, all round a satisfying read; perfect for a sleepless night, long tube journey, or lazy holiday. And because the heroine has no qualms about indulging regluarly in a large, straight Johnny Walker, there is not a hint of guilt to settling down with the book and a large gin and tonic.

S&M

2010-02-11T12:03:00.000-08:00

Having developed a new found love for the North (of London) I have been venturing up there fairly regularly.

And last night, on a particularly cold and frosty evening I met one of my oldest friends. She picked the place (being a native North Londoner) and we met at the S&M cafe on Essex Road.

Now for those of you that are unaware of the London chain of S&M caffs, don't worry. They are not dark lairs filled with chains and leather, but cosy, greasy spoon esque (but cleaner and newer, and making more effort for the retro look) cafes with perspex chairs, and bakelite tables, and hand scrawled specials.

We first discovered this chain on long ago shopping trips to London aged 16. Every half term and holiday Mini, Sophia and I would venture to the Bath bus station and get on a National Express coach to London at the crack of dawn.

And at the other end we would stumble off the coach and it would still only be about 9am, and we would make our way to Portobello Road, to the mecca of all 16yr old girls - the market.

And it was here that we first discovered the S&M cafes. Sausage and Mash Cafes. Where you choose what sausages you want, with what mash, and then pick a gravy, and it all comes over to the scrubbed tables, with an array of sauces, steaming hot.

Or they do incredible fried breakfasts. With the obvious central component being big juciy flavoursome sausages (and fried bubble and squeak mash). Or sausage sandwiches - big slabs of bread, or a baguette overflowing with sausage and sauce.

And after filling up with S&M the three of us would be ready to face the world of markets, and Oxford Street, and Knightsbridge. And shop til we drop, returning to the coach laden with bags and boxes, often filled with useless novelty purchases, but also sometimes containing one of those perfect purchases. Those things that become so well loved and used, that it is not until they fall apart that you realise how important they are to your life.

My lifelong purchase were a pair of shoes from Tom Cat Leather on Neal St. They were wooden wedges, with a 50's bikini babe design, and the wooden heel had a heart shape carved out of it. They were impossible kitsch, terribly overpriced, and loved to the point of destruction (they about a year ago they finally succumbed, and cracked straight down the middle).

Mini, among her other purchases got a lovely black leather bag. It cost £100, which, as a 16yr old schoolgirl, seems like lifelong savings. But now, despite being a little more battered and squashed, and having new zips and a strap held together with duct tape it is as charming as it was that cold morning in Ladbroke Grove. We were both admiring it in the warmth of the Angel S&M cafe, laughing at our younger selves, and reminiscing about nothing and everything.

Visting the S&M cafe yesterday was wonderful. Not only was it with Mini, but it was a place that held so much significance for my younger self - it was the place in London that locals used, that I, as a 16yr old Bathonian, and foreigner to London, felt was a bit of London that I knew and owned. And now, having been a London resident for the best part of 5 years, I often forget that feeling of awe, and fear, and that tiny bit of desperation to fit into London life

Jumpsuits

2010-02-04T00:55:00.001-08:00

I really want a jumpsuit. They are easy (no faffing about with tops and bottoms, and matching things and all sorts). They look smart, and there are lots of lovely ones about at the moment.

Initially I had one concern - that they may look ever so slightly like a one-sey. And I do not want to be turning up for work in what looks like an oversize baby-gro.

Yet on contemplating this in the office, the consensus was not that it might look like toddler nightwear, but the resounding opinion was "you're too small".

At first I ignored this comment (it did come from a boy) but on further reflection, I think that putting my 5'2 1/2 frame into previously mentioned garment is most probably going to make me look

a. like i'm dressing up in my mother's clothes
b. ridiculous

And so any thoughts of the jumpsuit are to be temporarily put on hold. That is, until I find some seriously skyscraper shoes.

Gavin and Stacey

2010-02-02T07:57:00.001-08:00

I was never one for soaps. They just don't appeal, and I find that they leave me feeling a little depressed.

I've never really been one for TV, especially given the dire state of my current one (please see previous blog).

But in the last year or so, the Boyfriend and I have got really into watching series. It all started with Family Guy, and then we moved onto Heroes (but gave up partway through series two). We then discovered the InBetweeners (true comic genius, in its barest form - as a friend said, Skins is what you wished you were at school, InBetweeners is what you actually were), and Enrourage. We tried The Wire, and will try it again as we failed to see the attraction, but have been told to persevere.

And then the other day, the Boyfriend surprised me, by stating that he had got the first two series of Gavin and Stacey. It really had not struck me as his cup of tea, and to be honest had not really featured on my radar.

So we watched the first one, and then the second one, and the third, and then we had watched the entire first series in an evening. We are totally hooked. I find it charming, hilarious, heart-warming and real. I can see elements of my family, and friend's families in all of them. They have terrible arguments which end in laughter, they are selfish and grumpy, with smelly feet and bad breath, they are caring and kind and funny and good. There is no attempt to gloss over the imperfections of normal life, but instead they are celebrated and provide the core for some truly brilliant humour.

We've just seen the first Christmas Special. I want Nessa and Smithy to get together. I want Gav and Stacey to live happily ever after in Wales. I want to find out what happened between Bryn and Jason on the fishing trip, and how Doris's toyboy is. I just cannot wait to watch the last series.

Sunday Blues

2010-01-31T13:12:00.000-08:00

I have always been a victim of the Sunday Blues. Part of it is my fault - i've always been excitable, and therefore have always really looked forward to the weekends, have planned lots of things I love, and packed lots of activities in. And so on Sunday, when it is over, I feel a huge sense of anti-climax.

The other problem is that I have often worked Sunday evenings, and while I now no longer do (more or less) the sinking feeling of having the weekend cut short, of dreading work, stays on.

But today I spent my Sunday as it should be, as, I believe, God intended. I woke up late, went to the gym (hence feeling ever so slightly righteous) and went with the Boyfriend to meet some friends. We sat in a pub, watching football, chatting, eating Sunday food, and drinking good wine. And then we left and went to another pub where we did more of the same.

As we came home on the bus, falling asleep on the Boyfriend, I felt so contented. Full, sleepy, and with not a touch of the usual Sunday Blues. I shall be spending more of my Sundays like this.

J D Salinger

2010-01-29T10:12:00.000-08:00

Wednesday marked the passing of an icon for all lost, alienated, confused and lonely teenagers. Jerome David Salinger, celebrated, yet reclusive author of The Catcher in the Rye died at the age of 91.

Known for The Catcher in the Rye, he also wrote other stories, often looking at life, families and growing up (both literally and emotionally). He was a notorious recluse, his privacy something he held so dear that he entered legal battles to maintain it, and never parted with the rights of his work (hence why there has never been a film version of Holden Caulfield).

I've always been a reader, and so it was inevitable that at the age of about 15 I would read his most well-known book. Often referred to as a Bildungsroman, it traces the events, thoughts and feelings of Holden Caulfield, the main character.

And yet it is strangely opposed to the concept of a typical bildungsroman, which traditionally traces the maturity, and the journey to adulthood from adolescence. The Catcher in the Rye seems more focused on what is lost during this transition, rather than what is gained. Caulfield is in a constant battle against growing up. He is lost, indecisive, always looking back and idealising innocence and youth.

The book represents the confusion and fear of adolescence, of growing up, of sex; it embodies the constant state of flux and imbalance one feels as a teenager. Perhaps this is why Holden Caulfield seems to unanimously appeal to teenagers the world over. There is something about him that actually speaks to the reader, in a way that is so direct, so real that it is impossible not to identify with him. For me it is his superiority, which is actually a mask for insecurity and a form of self-preservation; a quality that I so easily recognise in myself, both in adolescence and at times in adulthood.

And so to Mr Salinger, though you have departed, Holden Caulfield still lives on, forever appealing to the awkward teenager.

Home

2010-01-27T00:07:00.000-08:00

For those of you that know me, you will know that despite having relatively few issues in other parts of my life (touch wood) when it comes to flats and places to live, I seem to have all the bad luck.

When we moved into a flat in Leamington Spa in our second year, the entrance to the flat was down an alley, where all the overflowing wheelie bins for the entire street were kept. This not only contributed to the slightly funky smell, but also accounted for the strange characters we used to find down there (drunk people urinating, old women looking through the rubbish, we once even found a tramp asleep in one of the bins). There was also a bird that died in the alley. It's decaying carcass then stayed floating about in a large puddle (not great drainage down the alley) for the best part of six months.

Our front door down the alley. And one of the many neighbouring wheelie bins.

We then moved to a lovely big house, but it was again a little odd. There were two kitchens but both missing vital kitchen appliances (a working fridge, cooker, table, sink with both working taps). Between the two we had more or less one fully functioning kitchen. There was a bathroom in the kitchen, a mad person living downstairs and a shower with a door that never shut.

Outside the big house on Leicester street.

I then moved to London, and a grotty little flat in Brixton. While I loved it in many ways, it was a nightmare place to live. It was on two floors, but each floor had a separate front door (so going for a wee in the night, you would have to take your keys, let yourself out of one door and into the next, and back again). We also shared the flat with a number of furry, squeaky friends, despite numerous visits from pest control, and the ceiling in the kitchen came down not once, not twice but three times. It was also above some rather shady businesses.

Me painting the kitchen in the hope of making it look a little nicer after the ceiling came down the second time.

Then the brief stay in Clapham South. Not a lot to report other than the sub-zero temperatures inside the flat. It was warmer outside. And no I do not jest.

And finally my flat now. Before moving in we were so excited - a grown-up flat without problems and weird quirks. But alas not. As time has moved on the list of problems has become extensive - the door that leads to a 14ft drop, the badly done electrics, meaning that every fortnight we are plunged into freezing darkness for days, a boiler only comes on sporadically, a bathroom fan that always leaks, a hole where a dishwasher should live. But it has been the events of the last week that have been the most worrying. We have started hearing a sqawking, like a bird (a large bird) in great distress.

Doesn't seem so bad I hear you say. But the noise is coming from under the floor. We have now realised that the decking out the back of the flat is over a big hole, that runs under my room, the kitchen and the living room, and culminates behind our door that leads to The Hole. And this poor distressed animal seems to be running around in this hole. We've heard it behind The Door, under the living room, the kitchen, and off-putingly under my room.

We don't really know what to do. Siobhan's only suggestion was to open The Door. My response was no.

I'll let you know if we have any developments. For now though, I'm looking at new flats.

The North part 2

2010-01-24T07:38:00.000-08:00

So last night I made my first journey into the unknown part of North London - Stoke Newington. Now, believing that I would be leaving all that I know and love, I prepared for the journey as any good traveller would - a book, drink, snack, Uggs (for long distance walking) ear-muffs, and especially re-charged my phone in case of emergencies.

So I got on the tube at Stockwell, preparing to get off at Finsbury park. I promptly fell asleep (a skill that has been perfected over months of erratic shifts) and woke up.... at Finsbury park. A mere 20minutes later.

I then came out of the tube, got some cash out (in case there were no cash machines in the black hole, alternatively known as Stoke Newington) called Mini, got some nonsensical directions, that culminated in getting the 106 bus.

So the journey still had the opportunity for the epic proportions I'd anticipated. But approximately 7minutes later I was at the stop next to her house. And I had arrived. Just half an hour after I had left. It takes me that long to get to the other end of the high street in Clapham.

Her flat is beautiful (except for the building site literally behind her house - it causes very little hassle as the hours of operation are a very considerate 8am-4pm monday to friday) and cheap (due to said building site). And it was filled with old friends. The kind that need no explanation for anything because they just know. And despite not seeing them for months, and one having got a new job, and another having been to four different continents since the last meeting, and one fresh from an 11hour flight from Hong Kong, give it 30seconds, and we are back to being at school, and nothing has changed.

We eventually left the cosiness of the flat to explore the wonders of Stoke Newington Church street - The Three Crowns was first. Good atmosphere, decent drinks, limited seating (unless you were eating, which no one was - so 15 free tables in the "dining area" and about 30 people jostling for standing space in the pub area - but we had a table so were happy), and a bit on the loud side. Fine for a night out, less ideal for a catch-up.

So we moved on (first stopping at a cash point - yes they DO have them!) to the Gold Bar. Which may become my new favourite place. Music but not too loud, beer garden, small interior, but somehow there always seemed to be just enough space, wonderful Caiprinhias and White Russians (Sophia's tipple of choice) and prosecco on tap - the way to any girl's heart. At least, any of my girls.

Obviously by 2am it was clear that I would not be faffing about with night buses, and therefore the epic journey home was a no go. But with a flat as big and nice as Mini's, sofa cushions and duvets was more than perfect for a sleepover.

And the best part - after a lazy breakfast and tea and chats and more tea and more chat it still only took half an hour to get home.

Maybe I shall be venturing North a little more often.... that is, if it'll have me.

The North

2010-01-23T09:28:00.000-08:00

I am a little partial to some northerness, but one area of the North that I generally avoid is North London. Not out of any snobbiness, but I just don't really go there.

My parents live in Queen's Park (lovely but a little dull) and when I first moved to London that was where I spent much of my time. Maybe that is why it has never appealed - I didn't have an unhappy time there, it was just insginifcant to the fun and enjoyment I have had in Brixton.

But after embracing the Northernness of Wigan and Bolton last weekend, the Boyfriend surprised my by taking me to dinner in the Northernness of London (Angel). This in itself was somewhat surprising - the Boyfriend is from the most southern of South London, Croydon.

So off we went, on the familiar Northern line from Stockwell to the unfamiliar Angel. We got off, assessed the situation and went off to find the restaurant.

Some things I noticed in Angel:

1. Not many black people
2. A lot of trendy people
3. Too many students
4. Nearly everyone, both male and female, seemed to be wearing Uggs.

None of these things (except maybe point 3) were a problem. They just seemed very apparent.

We went to a lovely restaurant, Di Monteforte, on Liverpool Road (indepedent restaurants seems to be something that Angel does well - another lovely place is Le Mercury on Upper Street - good, cheap French food). It was Sicilian, and the service was brilliant, it wasn't overprices (2 courses and a Bellini for £14.95) and the food was tasty. I had mussels (YUM) and swordfish (also yum, but the mussels really were wonderful - the creamy white wine sauce had a bit of a kick - unexpected but definitely worth it).

We then headed off to some bars. The Angelic was lovely (though rammed), the King's Head was my favourite - great atmosphere, we found seats, saw someone accidentally set themselves alight, and the drinks were yum and not mega expensive), a Pitcher and Piano (can't go wrong, although they are all rather samey), and another one that I can't remember, but I believe it was good.

Upper Street is great - everything one needs for a night out next to each other and in a row - you just can't go wrong. And posted at either end of the street is a tube station we can use to head home - perfect.

I did enjoy North London, and we shall no doubt venture out there again, but getting off the tube in Clapham, and seeing the familiar Falcon, with its enourmous heated beer garden, and limitless range of random beers (most notably Fruli for the Boyfriend, and the Royal Oak with it's random yet delicious list of cocktails, and it's deceptively small, but cosy interior and I know that despite the draw of the North, it is the South that holds my heart.

Saying that, I'm now off out to Stoke Newington, promised by a friend that this will forever change my mind. I'll let you know

Walking

2010-01-22T04:08:00.001-08:00

It seems that on my race to become an OAP (see earlier post regarding soup) I have also become a fan of a walk.

I remember, when Lucy and I were younger, and happily playing in a warm bedroom, when the parents would utter the dreaded words "Let's go for a walk". Our hearts would sink, and grudgingly we would pull on our shoes, and step out into the cold, normally wet day and trudge along for what felt like hours. And Lucy and I would conspire to never force our children to do the same.

And yet, 15years on, and I have become a devoted fan of the walk. And recently have started walking home from work.

It all began one day when I was terribly tired, but had to stay up, and could not have coffee (as it prevents me from sleeping later on). And the only activity that suitably appealed was the brainless activity of walking. And so I walked. Along to Waterloo. And then down towards the Imperial War Museum, past the Oval Cricket Ground and down the rather beautiful Kennington Road.

And suddenly I was nearly home.

It has now become an almost daily routine (unless I am of course in a hurry, or it's raining, or I have too much to carry - don't get me wrong - given any excuse, and I am happy to jump on the tube).

And as I walk along, I realised that London really is a beautiful place to live. So often I am whizzing past on the bus, reading a magazine, or sitting underground on the tube. But as I walk home I am passing the London Eye, Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament. I get to cross the Thames, and walk over historic bridges.

Sometimes it takes simple things to make us stop and slow down. But I am so glad that recently I have started to do just that.

Bouncers

2010-01-19T05:31:00.000-08:00

I went to the North at the weekend (one of my favourite place after London, containing some favourite people) and while I was there I went to the theatre.

This was theatre northern style. It was in an old working men's club (of which I was oblivious to the existence of prior to the weekend) ni Horwich (small place between Bolton and Wigan) and was an AmDram performance. I went because the money raised helps two favourite people put on a performance of Footloose.

The play was Bouncers. One that I had never seen before, and though I had heard of it, I was little aware of the genius of said play.

Using just 4 actors, it is a series of sketches tracing a night out on the town, starting with the meeting at the hairdressers, the bus stop, the pub, and the club, the taxi home. And it is from the perspective of 4 bouncers, four girls and four boys.

In each of the characters it was possible to see elements of our various friends. Sexy Susan flirting her way through the club, plain Elaine complaining that she was sweating. The boys urinal talk, and attempts to pick up girls, and the sleazy DJ's smooth talking.

The social observations were both acute and hilarious, accurate, but without going too far and becoming farcical. And the northern accent adds a level of comedy in itself.

As it was an AmDram production it was only on for one night, (although after the success of Saturday I believe that it is being performed again on 20th February at Horwich RMI for any that are interested).

A perfect evening

2010-01-14T00:50:00.000-08:00

There is something incredibly indulgent about going to the pub at lunchtime, settling into a booth, and drinking, chatting and laughing with an old friend until suddenly it is half past seven, and you're in work at 4am, and so you must head home.

And then you head out of the cosiness into the cool evening. The tipsiness just at the right level to ward against the chill, but not too much that you dread the morning.

And then coming home to a big bowl of hot soup, toast and bed. One of the plus points to finishing work at midday.

Bruges Part 2

2010-01-09T00:44:00.000-08:00

Well, for those of you that don't like suspense - we made it. And relatively incident free.

My father roused us all at the god-awful hour of before 6am (I say it was awful - it was for everyone except me - one of the few perks of working day shifts, night shifts, early, shifts and really early shifts is that my body clock is well and truly broken, and therefore early starts, no sleep and timezones have no effect on me whatsoever).

We stumbled out to the car (I had already showered, washed my hair and had a bowl of porridge - Lucy looked like a rather unwashed cousin It). And got in the back (with a duvet - best treat ever!). I promptly fell asleep and so missed the drama of moving the car off our street, making it through London, and only woke up when my father's voice and language hit fever pitch.

This was because we were on a motorway (I forget which one) and the car was sliding about, and there was so much snow coming down that looking through the windscreen was like looking at a TV with no reception. And there was a stupid Harvey's furniture van trying to overtake us, but because the snow was so bad, it was impossible to see lane markings, or even the hard-shoulder or central reservation.

We slowed to 20mph, let the stupid Harvey's van speed off and then all took deep breaths. My father then asked my sister (who he had convinced to bring her MacBook) to look up the weather forecast, thus demonstrating naivety on two fronts

a. As Lucy pointed out - It's snowing.
b. Where on earth was she supposed to pick up a Wifi connection (apparently my father, until this moment was unaware that a MacBook, or indeed any laptop needed such a thing to connect to the internet).

Anyway. Once we were back on track, we actually made it to the tunnel in pretty good time. So good in fact that we were able to get on an earlier tunnel being one of just 4 cars that had turned up.

Obviously I slept on the tunnel journey (surprisingly short - only 40mins) and once we were off the other side the roads were fine, the snow minimal, and Bruges a mere hours drive. The gamble had indeed paid off.

Bruges: Part 1

2010-01-08T02:08:00.000-08:00

Now. My father is very kindly taking myself, my sister and my step-mother to Bruges this weekend. We are only going for one night, to a nice hotel, and out for a lovely dinner.

There is, however, a possible hiccup. The snow.

We are due to go on the Eurotunnel (not as many problems as the Eurostar). But we need to:

1. Get ourselves to said tunnel.
2. Which means getting ourselves and the car off the ice-rink, otherwise known as Brooksville Avenue.

We also have a little time pressure (what good scenario doesn't?) as we must be back on Sunday, and so cannot get stuck over there because:

1. I am working at 4am Monday morning
2. Lucy is due to catch a flight to New Zealand, also on Monday, and this flight has cost her an arm and a leg, not to mention her life-savings.

Jennie (step-mother) decided that we needed to be prepared. We then realised we have no thermos, and the biggest spade we have is one Lucy and I used to use on the beach.

So, before even attempting to get in the car, it is off for a trip down Kilburn High Road to hunt out rather more suitable supplies.

I shall keep you posted on events as they unfold.

Snow

2010-01-08T01:55:00.001-08:00

It's been snowing now for three days, and I must say, that I am delighted.

Despite the fact that very little of it has actually reached me (living in Brixton and all - tad too urban to expect that much) I still feel that sense of surreality. Trains are running funny, the buses are going slightly different ways, and some people are really and truly snowed in.

And yes, many people have started to moan, and criticise the train people, and the airports, and the gritters, but I'm just enjoying it. Yes, the pavements are a little hazardness. I have already fallen down once, and yes it was flat on my bottom, and two very helpful Brixton youths helped me up.

And yes, we all look like we are auditioning as extras for this year's Dancing on Ice. But I wish people would just enter into the spirit, and not complain, and pick holes in council decisions and shortcomings. We never see much of the white stuff, and so while it's here, lets just embrace our inner child, and love it for what it is.

Prague!

2009-12-29T05:18:00.000-08:00

The boyfriend and I, every year, in the run up to Christmas, go away for a city break. Last year it was Budapest. This year it was Prague.

Now, I seem to be one of a tiny minority who, until a few weeks ago, had never been to Prague. Because it seems that EVERYONE has been there. Every time I mentioned that I was off there, at least 6 people would bombard me with things and places to do/see/visit.

By the time I arrived I felt that I had already seen bits of the city, and had heard so many tales of debauchery and drunkenness that I was starting to feel a little unsure. But an hour off the plane and I can securely say that I LOVE PRAGUE.

It is just the most wonderful place. Berlin was lovely, but big, and it took a while to find our feet, Budapest is grand but full of old ladies in their furs drinking coffee and eating cake. But Prague...

It's full of bars and beer and students and life. And has a smattering of culture, so you don't feel too guilty about all the beer drinking.

The first thing to mention was Christmas. It was everywhere - markets, trees, nativity, mulled wine - you name it, they had it. At least twice. The Boyfriend made it his mission to take as many pictures of Christmas trees as possible.

I thought we probably needed only one photo to demonstrate....

And one of the many nativity scenes!

We walked up one of the towers at one end of the Charles Fourth bridge (def worth doing - look at the view!)

and the other side....

We also went to the castle (quite good. Though nothing to get overexcited about - except for the grand bridge and marching soldiers).

And obviously I wanted to stand near one, and try to make him laugh, and pretend to be one, etc.

We also went inside the Cathedral (totally worth doing - really impressive and just inside the castle).

And inside, the boyfriend (in a way scarily reminiscent of my father) got a little carried away with the camera.

Another activity that I would really recommend is getting a boat along the river. Now, Prgaue is no Venice, or even a Berlin - the river is not big, and because of the weirs, the boat can't really go very far, but it is a lovely thing to do (just ask one of the guys on the bridge dressed as a sailor and voila - one boat trip with a private guide, mulled wine and gingerbread).

Another fun trip is to get the little funicular railway up the hill to the mini-Eiffel tower (it is a copy but on a much smaller scale). Again, there are lovely views.

Other fun things we did - went on a giant swing

The boyfriend tried to convince me to go to caberet (acutally, it's a strip club)

And, due to extreme climes (-4 in daytime, -9 at night - freezing) we drank lots of beer

and more beer

until it was time to go home. Go to Prague. It's great.

Countdown to Christmas: Christmas evening

2009-12-26T07:27:00.000-08:00

Usually Christmas evening is a bit of an anti-climax. After the big lunch, and all the present opening, and chocolate eating, all that ever happens in the Howe household is that someone puts on a film, and we all lie about like beached whales, gradually drifting off.

But this year, I went over to the boyfriend's, and their Christmas evening has a very different feel.

I arrived at about half past 5 and everything was in full swing. There was not an empty glass in the house, and everyone was full of cheer and merriment (probably heightened by the obligatory shot of firewater given on arrival - they are a family of Poles afterall). The Wii was out, and despite my usual disdain for the contraption (if you want to go bowling, why not actually go bowling?) I thoroughly enjoyed playing on it, as did everyone else, and I now will not hear a bad word against this wonderful console.

We started with bowling (in my excitement at getting a strike I jumped up and hit a light fitting) and then we moved onto a variety of balance games (I was surprisingly good, as was Grandma Doreen, despite her dodgy hip). Uncle Richard was hopeless (at one point the only action his Mii would do was jump up and down on the spot. Richard, needless to say was stood completely still. Everytime he tried this particular game, exactly the same would happen - we never got to the bottom of why).

Aunt Judy loved the Wii. Although on many of the balance games she was frequently heard to shout "Oh it knows I've had my bunions done! It knows! It knows!". Whether it did know, I can't be sure, but it is an ingenious machine, and so I wouldn't be surprised. She convinced Uncle Richard that they were buying one in the Boxing Day sales. Richard was less keen.

Aunt Visia managed some enviable poses during the balance games, and the Boyfriend's dad was disqualified for getting so carried away that he actually jumped on the board (big no no).

Uncle Keith kept up some very amusing commentary (you're walking a tightrope, not dancing in a disco, you're supposed to be on a ski-jump, not on the toilet, and so on) and Tasha's boyfriend decided that real skiing is easier than the Ski Slalom.

Predictably the Boyfriend came out top for everything (3 strikes in a row, top of the leader board, first to cross the tightrope, etc). But it kept the rest of us amused for the best part of 3 hours, removed any awkardness or shyness that comes from spending Christmas with family that isn't yours, and made you feel much better about the grotesque amount of turkey, chocolate, cake, mince pies and wine consumed throughout the day.

Countdown to Christmas: a present for me!

2009-12-24T06:52:00.000-08:00

I have become a recent Ugg convert (see previous blog) and for the last two months the paw-like boots have been permanently attached to my feet. They are warm, and a boot is the ultimate winter footwear.

I was Christmas shopping the other day, and it was not going to plan. So I popped into a couple of shops for myself and suddenly I saw the Mecca for all shoe lovers - the perfect boot. Black suede, slouchy knee-high, and with an obscene spiky heel.

And suddenly my love for Uggs has dissipated. And they have been usurped for these beautiful, graceful, un-pawlike boots.

I have rediscovered my love for heels, and now, two days later, have forgotten any attraction I ever felt for Uggs.

Plus it is also really is nice to engage in conversations face to face, rather than face to chest.

Countdown to Christmas: Snow!

2009-12-22T04:02:00.000-08:00

After the surprise snow in February, I had resigned myself to the fact that we had probably fulfilled our snow quota for this year.

And even though I do not enjoy the snow to play in (I don't like the cold, and really don't like getting soggy) I do love a bit of the white stuff, especially during the festive period.

So last thursday, off I went to bed, fully expecting that when I got up for the 4am shift I would be surrounded by a sea of white. And imagine my disappointment when the next morning there was not a flake to be seen.

And I got into work, and was joined in my upset by the presenter, who overtook my excitement by about 200% (he loves snow because he loves Christmas, and snow is festive - he has been giving out candy canes around the office since August. And no, I do not exaggerate). In fact he was so upset that after the show he wanted to drive into Kent (where there were severe weather warnings) purely to see the fluffy white drifts.

So after a disgruntled weekend (still no snow) and a disappointing Monday (still none) I was walking to the tube yesterday evening and suddenly the rain had more substance, and was floating rather than falling, and I was in the midst of a snowfall. And it settled and I had to trudge through it to the tube, and then off the other end and trudge through it to my front door. And, sorry to be cheesy, it was really magical.

And by then I had had my festive fill of snow, and was starting to feel a bit cold, and soggy, but it was ok, because when I woke up this morning all that was left was wet pavements and some small piles of slush.

Soup

2009-12-21T10:37:00.000-08:00

In recent years soup was always one of those foods I banished from my immediate culinary sphere. It's not that I don't like it, I just always viewed it as a non-meal. As the boyfriend puts it- it's really more a drink.

And yet, after 20-odd years of being soup free (except when you're ill, and obviously Heinz tomato soup is the only possible remedy) I have suddenly embraced my inner pensioner and become soup's biggest fan.

It started in the canteen at work. Doris (wonderful if brisk no-nonsense dinner lady at work. A legend) makes lovely soup. Nothing too fancy - tomato, pea and ham, chicken, the usual, but they come in little pots with the (vital) component of a lid. To prevent spillages. So they are allowed in the studio. And at £1.20 it is a real bargain.

And then my soupping went to a new level. It was one lunchtime, and I was tired (had started work at 4am) and as I was walking home to the tube, I passed a Pret. And their soup of the day was mushroom risotto. And it was also seriously low-calorie (another significant plus for soup). And I went in, and had a cup and OH MY GOD was it delicious.

And then I discovered their other soups, and soon I was branching out to other eateries (EAT being the main one - they do a WONDERFUL tom yum prawn soup with noodles. It is GOOOOOOD) and at home I've been having covent garden soups, and chunky soups and broths, and all sorts, and suddenly I am a fully fledged member of the soup brigade. No longer do I view it as the meal of the toothless, the babies and the pensioners.

No, in this current climate (i.e. freezing) soup is officially the only way forward.

Deda

2009-12-21T04:17:00.000-08:00

I recently had to record an interview with Roy Hudd. He's a comedian, who has been around for about 50 years, and is a tubby, white haired jovial old man, who would not look out of place in Dickensian London.

And the moment he started talking he sounded incredibly familiar. It took a few minutes, but I suddenly realised who he reminded me of.

My Deda.

Now the weird thing is that my Deda (grandad) is called such because he is a great big Serb. And speaks as such. Roy Hudd is a born and bred cockney, from Croydon, so the uncanny similarities in their ways of speech really took me by surprise.

My Deda has had the most extraordinary life. He grew up in Belgrade. English was his fourth language (he can speak approximately 8, but also has an imperssive aptitude to pick up others) as he grew up speaking French, Serbo-Croat and German (after Belgrade was invaded by the Nazis).

During the second World War his father was imprisoned and tortured to death by the Nazis, his step-father was hounded by them, and Deda was signed up to Tito's guerilla army, and because of his privileged social position, assigned a place on the front line (which basically equated to imminent death).

He met my Grandmother (who we always called Maka - weirdly neither Maka, nor Deda acutally translates as Grandma and Grandad, but as aunty and old man) when she came out to Belgrade to work, escaping from her incredibly British and sheltered childhood growing up in a small town in Wiltshire. And when it became too dangerous he escaped Belgrade, coming with her to England on a 6month visa and a death threat if he failed to return. He didn't return until the man responsible for the visa had died.

In Belgrade he had been a member of the higher classes, trained as a lawyer, and was well respected. In England he was merely a foreigner. He got a job sweeping the floor in a meat factory. (Incidentally 10 years later he was MD of the company that took over this very same factory)

And yet despite having lived here for half a century, and more than half his life, he is still in so many ways a real Serb. My Deda still cannot pronounce "th" and instead replaces it with "t" (he lives in Bath, but still calls it "Baat"), has selective hearing and will often, if bored, or tired, or because he has not been listening decide that he can't understand English, and much to the irritation of everyone, will only answer in Serbo-Croat. He has an obsession with meat, and a meal is not complete without a healthy portion of lamb, beef, pork (when we lived with my grandparents I had a vegetarian friend round for dinner - on explaining the concept to my Deda he first displayed shock, then disbelief, and then announced that he would make chicken).

A few years ago Deda took Lucy and I to Belgrade to meet family and friends. After surviving the stress of travelling with an 80 year old Serb we were met from the airport by one of many cousins (Milos). He had borrowed a car to pick us up. He took us to his two bedroom apartment where he lived with his wife and 3 children, and despite the limited space, they were willing for the whole family to sleep in the living room so that Lucy, Deda and I could have beds (we were acutally staying, much to their disappointment, with another relative in her summer house).

And slowly it dawned on me. My Deda, who in England is foreigner, has almost a celebrity status in Belgrade. Everywhere we went people would come over to greet us, restuarants would give us free food, drink, aperitifs, friends would throw parties even if we just came for lunch. In Belgrade, my Deda is revered.

And I suddenly realised that I only ever see him as my Deda, who speaks with an almost comical accent, whose ability to drink neat spirits is unrivalled, even at the age of 80, whose strange dietary habits (a favourite dessert is spaghetti with sugar) are grudgingly acknowledged, but that past all of these eccentricities he is actually an incredible figure. He has achieved so much. And being in Belgrade, with people that genuinely respected and admired my Deda I have statred to see him with new eyes.

Countdown to Christmas: Shopping

2009-12-21T03:56:00.000-08:00

My father hates shopping. And not just in the way that all men hate shopping - it actually makes him ill. Throughout our childhood, my sister and I used to dread the Saturday morning Sainsbury shop. By the time we had left the fruit and veg aisle, my father would be hyperventilating, and turning an interesting shade of red.

And then would get snappy, and then stressed, and then despairing. And when we finally got home, and realised that we had yet again forgotten to buy any toilet roll, he would go to bed for the rest of the day with a terrible migraine.

So on Saturday, the last one before Christmas, when my father (who is currently recovering from a very nasty chest infection) suggested that we might go Christmas shopping, my sister and I debated running for the hills. Especially when he added that so far he had bought nothing.

So at 8 am (and yes, we had told him that the shops don't open until at least 9) Lucy, my father, and I got the tube to the mecca of all Christmas shoppers - Oxford Circus. After breakfast at Cafe Nero (my father's favourite) and promises of coffee at Carluccios when he got tired (his ultimate, special treat favourite) we were off.

We hit the usual places - topshop, H&M, Accessorize, John Lewis, HMV, Selfridges, etc. And the closer to Marble Arch we got, the busier it was getting.

By 12, when we stopped for the promised Carluccios sit-down (my father had the thickest, most sickly looking hot chocolate, as did my sister) we did a count. And my father removed the tattered, crumpled, scrawled list of people and presents, and Lucy and I cross-referenced them with the bags, and HURRAH!!! In 3 hours, yes just 3, my father (with the extreme help of Lucy and I) had managed to get presents for 13 people. Relatively stress-free. He did however still need:

1. Anything for me

2. Something little for Luce

3. Anything for Jennie (aforementioned wife/step-mother)

4. Lots for Grandma

So there was still a way to go. So off we went - down Marylebone high street, and into Daunts. And straight back out again. Too busy. And so into the White Company. And straight back out again. And then my dear father turned to Luce and I and said "I'm going home", and that was that.

End of Mr Howe's Christmas shopping 2009.

I stayed in town until 6pm, picking up this and that, and finishing the majority of my father's slack. But I love to shop, and I love Christmas and so put them together, and I am at my peak.

The Gym

2009-12-11T12:53:00.001-08:00

Throughout my school career I made dodging PE into an art form. I have terrible hand/eye co-ordination and so all team sports were generally a no, disliked running due to the distinctly unattractive red-face I developed after approximately 4minutes, and swimming....well, what teenage girl enjoys stripping down in front of all her peers to a swimming costume at the best of times.

After many years of sick notes, period pain (often lasting up to 6 consecutive weeks) bad knees, ankles, hips and elbows I reached sixth form. And in sixth form you could miss PE, and in return do an afternoon of community service. Subsequently I obviously became extremely involved with my local community.

Throughout school, my friends and I would regularly mock those that took sport seriously. Some of this was probably down to envy, but a large part (at least for me) was the sheer disbelief that any of the sporting activities on offer could actually be enjoyable.

But recently this all changed. Having acquired in the last year my first grown-up job, and it being a job that works on shifts, I have discovered an inordinate amount of spare time in the day. Initially I spent this time shopping. But after a fortnight my bank balance was in such a sorry state that I needed to re-evaluate my time management.

And so I joined the gym. It is very near my house and very nice and big and clean and modern. Each piece of equipment has a TV and there are radio stations and music channels to listen to. And it is empty in the day, bar a few hardcore muscle men, that seem more interested in their biceps than in me.

At first I felt extremely self-conscious. But the other day I caught myself automatically walking to the gym, changing and getting on the treadmill (yes - I run now). It wasn't until 29minutes later, when I got off that I realised that the gym, after many years of avoidance, has become part of my routine. And more than that... I have actually come to....enjoy it.

Just a little bit.

Countdown to Christmas: Christmas Dinner

2009-12-08T14:18:00.000-08:00

Every year since the very start of university we have cooked a Christmas dinner. And every year it is fraught with trials and tribulations; the carrots are not in batons but circles, there is not enough gravy, there is too much gravy, there are brussel sprouts, we forgot yorkshires, the oven is too small, the turkey has not defrosted in time, etc. But every year it all pulls together, and everyone arrives, and sits down, and shuts up, and we have a wonderful dinner til we are full with food, drink and laughter.

And this year was no different. After the necessary disaster (no Christmas dinner is complete without one) of the turkey going off, and needing to get a new one, the Wiganer arrived safely (she was my sous chef), we went shopping, made mince pies (see previous blog) and got ready for the epic feat of cooking Christmas dinner for 12.

The first hurdle was the turkey. It was a beast of a bird, weighing in at 7.4kg. And this year we decided to steam it. So we lifted it into the disposable roasting dish (M&S £1.99 and worth every penny) and I filled it with my homemade stuffing (again, totally worth doing as it was delicious) and surrounded it with onions, garlic, celery, wine and stock. And covered it with butter and bacon.

Turkey was then popped into the oven, where he stayed for 3 hours straight. We didn't need to baste him once, and he was juicy and yum, and not dry one little bit.

While turkey was cooking we peeled (thank God I got the peeler; many of the carrots peeled by knife looked as though they had barely survived a massacre) and chopped (discovering in the process how tough parsnips really are- we bent one knife just trying to hack one in half) and prepared everything else until all we had to do was roast/boil/bake/heat up everything.

Next we did the tree. With an owl on the top (we have no star or angel). Wearing tinsel bandannas/belts. And singing along to Christmas songs, courtesy of the Wiganer (although, along with the classics - Mariah, Wham, etc, we were also treated to Elvis "I ain't nothing but a reindeer" and some very Catholic hymns) until the house looked festive to the extreme.

Lastly we did the table. Now, the Christmas table is important. Everything, from the decor, to the seating plan, to the amount of elbow space allotted per seat needs to be considered. I'd bought a second table - a gateleg (yes, a technical table term - it has flaps and folds out) one from ebay - £7, to add to otherwise inadequate table (which seats 6 at a very tight sqeeze). They were both then covered with tablecloths (easy cleaning) and each place was set with a napkin, and cracker (although not everyone had a knife - we were one short, but the helpful boyfriend managed to supply an extra). And I sprinkled some fairy sequins/confetti over everything (and yes they were fairies, not weird bugs, thank you guests that greeted the table with "Oh! Where did you find mosquito shaped confetti"). And finally arranged the varied assortment of chairs (I drew the short straw and was left with IKEA's cheapest "stool" - otherwise known as an upsidedown bucket.

By the time all of this was done, the turkey was brown (pour on melted butter and roast minus the tinfoil for 20mins), and it was time to move on to the rest of the vast feast. We did the veg, and the potatoes, and the stuffing (3kinds) and sausages and yorkshires, and gravy. And by the time everyone had arrived (the latest arrivals being the ones that lived the closest) and everyone was seated, we served up like mega-glam dinner ladies (bowls of things on the tables would simply not fit).

And then we were all sat down, and it was ready to eat,

drink,

and be merry...

And sitting there, with everyone chatting and eating and drinking and laughing, I really felt a true sense of happiness, derived from the achievement of cooking a roast for 12, of everyone being there, of no major fire-related incidents (granted, there was one, but it was negligible) and of seeing everyone, old friends, new friends, boyfriends and best friends.

Countdown to Christmas: Mince Pies

2009-12-04T12:11:00.000-08:00

Every year the Wiganer and I have made mince pies.

It all started four years ago one April (yes April) when we spotted a tub of mincemeat in the reduced section of Tesco.

Now, before we go on I must add that the Wiganer loves mince pies. And not just in the way that we all do; she LOVES them. To the point that her Grandma stockpiles them at Christmas and rations them out to her for the rest of the year.

So after seeing this tub of mincemeat she insisted on buying it (as mince pies ready made in the shop were long gone).

So we bought it and decided to make pastry (with no recipe, but it was ok) and do the pies ourselves.

After several truly inedible batches (if you overcook mincemeat it takes on a consistency similar to chewing gum) we finally hit on the perfect balance of butter, flour, water and mincemeat.

And from that point in April onwards, we have made it a tradition to make our own mince pies every Christmas.

Countdown to Christmas: Advent Calendars

2009-12-03T00:53:00.000-08:00

Lucy and I have never, ever, in our entire history of Christmas been allowed a chocolate advent calendar.

It was a rule implemented by our strict mother, and after her death carried on by our respectful (and yet chocoholic) father.

We have even been given them in the past, only to have our father THROW THEM IN THE BIN!! (although we so have our suspicions that he may have removed the tray of chocolate first).

And yet as the time has gone on, Lucy and I have come to love our non-confectionary calendars - our father is very creative and we always have really lovely ones covered with beautiful pictures and glitter. And getting them is always a definite indictaion of the impending festive season.

Plus, the boyfriend, after displaying genuine shock at the absence of any chocolate calendar ever, every year without fail makes sure that I have my own little Cadbury's one as well.

Caramel Shortbread

2009-12-03T00:12:00.000-08:00

Lucy and I have always been a fan of baking. And so when we get together it's one of the things we do.

Recently I have become very keen on making caramel shortbread. It is the boyfriend's all time favourite thing, and if you do manage to make it people seem very impressed.

However, my various attempts have not proved particularly successful, so much that recently the boyfriend, on trying another batch, suggested that we just buy it.

The shortbread and the caramel seem to be the two areas of downfall (the chocolate I can cope with).
The shortbread seems to cakey, or stodgy, or rises (that was possibly down to the human error of adding self-raising flour rather than plain).

And the caramel.... Well, i've already destroyed two saucepans (literally NOTHING removes burnt sugar) and the caramel is constantly full of little black flecks (burnt bits) and is lumpy (again, I've attributed this to the burnt bits) and not a good colour (aside from the burnt bits).

So Lucy and I decided to brave it a final time.

Now the reciepe really is extremely simple. There are few ingredients, and very little to actually do to them.

Firstly we actually weighed the flour, sugar and butter for the shortbread.

We mixed it all together and then pressed it into one of the crazy rubber bendy baking tins Lucy had (they are actually really good - non-stick and easy to remove the finished article) and baked until hard and golden brown.

We then melted the condensed milk, more sugar, and more butter for the caramel into a non-stick saucepan, that actually survived the ordeal, and is still looking shiny and new.

And stirred.

And stirred some more. We had to keep stirring until it was no longer all liquidy, but thick.

And then the shortbread was done so we took it out and spread the lovely thick, caramel coloured caramel on top.

And popped it into the freezer while we went and watched Love Actually (a definite part in the countdown to Christmas). When it was all set and hard, we melted the chocolate and spread it all over

Back in the freezer until set, and then cut into sizeable chunks.

And this time it actually, looked, tasted, smelt and had the texture of real millionaire's shortbread. Although the final test is giving a sample to the boyfriend. And sadly it was so good that none of it made it out of St Andrews.

America

2009-12-02T09:54:00.000-08:00

I recently mentioned to my sister that a friend of mine had spent a summer in the Gaza strip doing charity work. Moments before she got on the plane she had to sign a disclaimer detailing that should she contract a disease, lose anything (camera, passport, limb, organ or indeed life) that she was not covered and that the company she was going with could accept no responsibility and provide no compensation.

Needless to say, she could not get any travel insurance for the trip either. She signed the form, went to Gaza, did good things and came home unscathed.

I told my sister this. And I understand why it was necessary to sign such a thing, but I also registered my disbelief at the existence of such a form, and also my awe that my friend had managed to sign the damn thing; had I been confronted with a similar form my overactive imagination would have created far too many dreadful scenarios for me to even contemplate signing away my life.

To which me sister replied, “Don’t be so silly Jessica. In America I had to sign one of those to go on a bouncy castle”

For me, that really seems to sum up the American mindset.

Countdown to Christmas: Switching on the Christmas lights

2009-11-29T00:40:00.000-08:00

My sister is a student at St Andrews. And so this weekend I decided to brave the epic train journey, the freezing weather and the reenactment of student life, and go to visit.

When I arrived Lucy, knowing my soft spot for anything festive suggested we go and watch the St Andrews Christmas lights being switched on. Obviously I was very keen.

So we went outside her house (she lives on one of the three streets in St Andrews) where the rest of the population of the town had gathered. And there were stalls with roasted chestnuts and mulled wine, and those silly wind up light toy things, and carol singing and then there was a speech, followed by another speech.

And then we all counted down for the lights to be switched on. And by this point I am MEGA excited (seeing as every year I miss the London ones, and so finally I was involved with this festive occasion). And then they switch them on.....

Six trees have been adorned with fairy lights. White fairy lights. That have now been illuminated. I was on the verge of being incredibly disappointed.

When I realised - this is St Andrews. It is small. Everything is on a smaller scale. And suddenly it didn't matter that we had chanted and sung and waited out in the cold only to see six trees be lit up.

Rye

2009-11-27T23:14:00.000-08:00

My step-mother, before she was in our family, lived in tiny cottage in Devon. Although it was really quite a beautiful place (it looked like a child's drawing of a house, and was in the middle of nowhere, literally - it was between the moors, and 30mins drive to a shop. That was open for about 2 hours a day) Lucy and I grew to dread going as we got older because of the complete lack of anything to do (thus the basis of its appeal for my parents).

So when we moved to London, and Devon became even further away they sold it. And instead bought a little house in Rye.

Rye is lovely. It is tiny. You can walk around the whole place, at my pace, in half an hour. It has about 8 shops, no supermarket (except for Budgens - an odd, yet popular little chain in the area) 3 art galleries, a church and an incredible number of very good pubs, restaurants and ye olde tea shoppes.

It is also under an hour and a half drive from the Boyfriend's house. And so last weekend we decided to pop down, only for a night, and relax in Rye.

We stopped off in Budgens for orange squash and beer. We got to the little house, turned up the heating, and made a nest. We squabbled over the TV (I wanted Children in Need, he wanted some very unpleasant programme about Burmese slavery). And then we went out for a yummy yummy dinner at a little Italian called The Tuscan Kitchen (although at first the Boyfriend was a little confused - it's an Italian and there's no PIZZA??) where we were defeated by the shear amount of meat in the anti-pasti and then had big steaming plates of pasta and sauce.

And then we went to The George. A cosy, comfy pub and had wine and read the paper and played dominoes (middle-aged I know, but that is what Rye does to you). And went home to bed. And then got up late and had all day breakfasts at one of said ye olde tea shoppes, and bought pick and mix (childish I know, but that's what Rye does to you) and then headed home back to London (not without leaving the fridge door open, and the heating on.... whoops).

And then we were back in the city. And although we both know that this is where we belong, and that anymore than 24hours in Rye and we would be going mad, 24hours itself is perfect. Do go. It is absolutely worth it. But only for 24hours.

One other thing - everytime we left the house it was blowing a complete gale. So back into the house we went and wrapped up even warmer. Only to then boil the minute we went the 3minute walk to the high street. We discovered why; watchbell street (where the house is) is exposed, and seems to be the only windy street in the whole of Rye - just a tip for if you ever venture there.

Ferret Dance

2009-11-20T02:09:00.000-08:00

The other day the boyfriend was having a day off. And I was having the most stressful day EVER.

So he found me this. And it made me so happy.

Having passed on the beauty of this video to many others, it has not yet failed me. And so if you're having a bad day, I suggest you have a look.

Pop Life

2009-11-20T01:44:00.000-08:00

The other day I was starting late at work (oh the joys of not waking up at 5am!) and the boyfriend had a day off. And instead of indulging the boy and spending the morning watching crappy TV, I persuaded him to come with me to the Tate.

The boyfriend is not the biggest fan of art. He thinks a lot of it is a waste of time, especially the pieces that he thinks he could do himself (ie. a white canvas with a blue line, etc). And at times I'm inclined to agree (although as I point out to him, he might be able to do it, but he wouldn't have thought of it in the first place).

Anyway. Off we toddled to Pop Life. It was £12.50 to get in. Fine. Not extortionate. And because it was mid-week, it was fairly quiet.

As an exhibition it is ok. The first half I found a little long. And although the exhibition features a lot of artists, there are almost too many, and you end up feeling that you haven't really got to grips with any of them.

Two things struck me as we went round.

1. The sex. Now, you are warned that some of the pieces are of an extremely sexual nature, but even so, seeing an 8ft tall picture of an ejaculating penis, or the larger than life sculpture of the artist Jeff Koons in extremely explicit sexual positions with his porn star wife was really a little overwhelming.

2. The idea of art, the artist, and the consumer.

There was one piece by Andrea Fraser. To create the piece she had spoken to a gallery, and they had found her a customer that wanted to purchase the piece she was about to create. But the piece would be created with this man. She filmed the two of the them having sex. And it was this film that was on display.

On paper this sounds a little like prostitution. But I think the idea was that in the moment of creating art, you inevitably sell a part of your being. Yes, it is a form of prostitution, but there is no way that you can create art without investing part of both your physical and emotional self. And I guess what she was trying to say was that your work is then sold to a stranger, and a stragner that will then own this incredibly personal part of you. In this film, she just made this parallel in the most basic way possible - using the literal image of sex.

It seemed that all the ideas demonstrated by the artists were that of how life and art intertwine. And how what you as the artisit see, is then recreated, along with your own emotional investment into said image, purely for the superficial enjoyment of others. Hence the prolific use of pornography, or elements of pornography throughout the exhibition.

Purely by chance, shortly after going I started to read Oscar Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray". This too totally focuses on the idea of art and life, and how the two are inextricably linked (albeit in a Gothic and more fantastical way). And the only conclusion that I've really come to, even if it is a little crude, is that all artists must pimp themselves out to the faceless public, because all of us (be it painters, sculptors, draftsmen, poets, authors, even bloggers) have to invest our own personal beliefs, emotions and intimacies, and lay them all naked before the eyes of strangers.

On a lighter note, I think my favourite piece was the silver steel bunny.

Masterchef

2009-11-16T01:36:00.001-08:00

Those of you that know me will know that cooking has never been a strong point, or even much of an interest for me. In fact my culinary expertise stretches not much further than toast. But one of the perks at work is complimentary tickets, and for that reason myself and Wigan were venturing to that district line black-spot of Kensington Olympia, to attend Masterchef Live.

After fighting our way through the frenzied crowds of amateur cooks, we made it into the lofty space of Olympia.

Which is huge. And was totally jam-packed with stalls that were selling everything, from juice to sausages, from cheese graters to lager, from chocolate to curry. And you could try more or less all of it. We saw one of the finalists from this year's Masterchef demonstrating how to fillet a fish, and a range of TV chefs signing books and having photos.

We managed to try a seriously large amount of stuff - Kingfisher lager was a winner, as what the second of the toffee vodkas. St Germain elderflower liquer is a definite must have - it tastes like a garden in spring. Fat free and low calorie curry on the other hand tastes fat-free and low caloris - rubbish. Chocolate orange fudge is nice, as was lavender (surprisingly). The Wiganer nearly choked to death on a chilli jam, and out of the considerable range of chocolate brownies, the best was probably the gluten free one.

The only thing we actually bought was a wild boar sausage sandwich and a buffalo burger for lunch (mega-YUM) and a chocolate owl (for the boyfriend).

All in all, I would not have paid for this event (partly down to the fact that cooking will never be that high on my agenda) but it was definitely worth going as a freebie.

TV trials and tribulations

2009-11-10T02:26:00.001-08:00

Watching TV is not something that really falls into my routine (and no, it's not because I am a do-gooder "I read books type" - my shifts at work change about as regularly as a set of traffic lights, and therefore any hope of following a series is lost).

Although obviously, I am now watching X-Factor. Quite obsessively. So obsessively in fact that I have even had to catch it up on ITV player when I've missed a couple. And it was while watching a catch up epsiode that I had my revelation.

My TV is shocking. I never really noticed it before. But there is no aeriel point in the flat and so we have to use one of those manual plug in ones (our one is from the 90s) and then one of us must stand there and wiggle it while the others to shout "Yes, Yes I can see Simon Cowell's face" or "no, still green". We only have four channels (yes, we cannot even get Channel 5, let alone any of the digital ones) and the other day one of the housemates managed to tune both BBC 1 and BBC 2 to the same channel on the TV (they are both found on number 5) so it really is pot-luck as to which one you get.

And it had never even registered, let alone bothered me until I downloaded an X-Factor episode. And hurrah, the people were not green and wibbly.

Remembrance Sunday and the great poppy debate

2009-11-08T09:47:00.000-08:00

So, I was at work today. And it is Remembrance Sunday. And in the lead-up to this weekend we have had countless debates about the wearing of the poppy - people defacing poppy appeal posters and war memorials, a campaign for the contestants of Strictly Come Dancing to wear one during their performances, why is it still relevant today, how wearing one is a political statement, etc, etc.

And to be honest, by today, I was starting to feel a little tired of the whole sorry debate.

And then a colleague at work hit the nail on the head - I think that the reason for so much fuss over the poppy issue is because people no longer know or learn history. They no longer understand the deeper issue of Remembrance Sunday. For many, the concept of war dates no further back than our invasion into Iraq and Afghanistan. And while any loss of human life is tragic and awful, in Afghanistan so far 228 have died. On the first day of the Somme 20000 died.

And so making a fuss about a poppy for political reasons, social reasons, whatever reason really seems to be a bit self-indulgent. It is not a political statement, but a mark of respect, and to show that it doesn't matter how much or how little you had achieved in your life as a solider, to us you are still important enough to remember.

Imagination

2009-11-07T11:54:00.000-08:00

One of the (many) things that the boyfriend and I disagree over in a big way is films. The boyfriend LOVES a horror, be it Hostel, Psycho, The Exorcist, Don't Look Now, Saw, the list goes on. And I absolutely HATE them. And although it has taken me nearly 24years to work out why, I think I have finally figured it out.

When my sister and I were little my mother insisted on making us a lot of toys. As she (rightfully) pointed out, if money was spent on them, we would only get bored as quickly as we would with ones that were hand-me-downs or handmade. Now, despite the truth in this, it was a source of severe embarassment to have a cooker, not made of plastic, but made from an old box, with felt tip rings drawn on. And yet, my sister and I were only ever embarassed of it in front of other people - with each other it worked as well as a plastic one, wooden one, even a real one.

Looking back on this, and the fact that Lucy and I used to drive my father mad with our imaginary games (the "Anna Game" being one - I couldn't even tell you what was involved, but we could play that game for days and days without a single prop) I have realised that the reason that Lucy and I were never really fussed by the real toy (what an oxymoron) or the homemade one was because really the toy was no more than an aide for our never exhausted imaginations.

And it is for that same reason that I cannot watch horror films, or even read horror books (Stephen King's "IT" scared me so much my long-suffering step-mother made me throw it in the wheelie bin outside) - I cannot help but put myself directly into the situation, however unrealistic. Even watching really dated, and unrealistic to the point of funny horror films, and after a few moments, I am terrified rigid (after watching Jaws aged 15 I was so terrified that I kept thinking my lamp was a shark). And the terror doesn't end there - many the night has my dad, and later on the boyfriend had to sit up with me, be woken up by me, had to talk me through how it is not, could not be real.

The upside to having an extremely overactive imagination is that I can be left unattended, without any props, distractions, or conversation for hours, and still not be bored.

Panda facts

2009-11-04T09:05:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago a book of 100 Facts about Pandas arrived on my desk (I say my desk - I share it with a few others). So each morning I've been having a quick flick through, learning a fact or two, sometimes sharing a fact with a presenter, guest or celebrity paper reviewer, or whoever is wandering around in the office.

The best thing about this book is the lovely pictures, illustrating each fact. For example, did you know that a panda hears with its nose and smells with its ears? Or that agressive pandas were responsible for the injuries of 8 cavers admitted to emergency rooms in China between 1995-2000? And that you are never more than four hours away from a panda?

I've always loved pandas, and so having this book really meant a lot to me. And I thanked whoever had put it on my desk. That was, until I shared another classic panda fact (did you know, a group of pandas is called a cupboard? And they only ever live in even numbers - should another panda join the group another must leave, or they need to find another one) with a colleague. Who burst out laughing. And informed me that the book had been deliberately planted on my desk, and that all these so-called "facts" were complete and utter rubbish.

The thing that upset me most was not the number of people with whom I had shared these facts (although, yes this was a little embarassing - there are definitely a few MPs who may be sharing incorrect panda facts at this very moment), but that there wasn't a little panda hospital, that in fact they do not weigh up to six times more when wet, and that you cannot comfort a baby panda with a fax machine.

St Boris's Hospital for sick Pandas

On second viewing, I am faintly embarrassed that I fell for the book for so long (in my defense, some of the facts are definitely feasible, nowhere on the book is there mention of it being humorous, and it is full of some very convincing photos). Perhaps the most ridiculous (although my personal favourite) fact was that due to a bureaucratic error, the panda is in fact classified not as a mammal, but as a nut.

Jedward

2009-11-03T01:42:00.000-08:00

I must confess that on the X-Factor front I have been a little lax this year. I loved it last year (and was a Diana Vickers fan through and through), but it wasn't until the contestants went to the judges houses that I started to watch it this time round.

And straight away I felt an animousity towards John and Edward. They were cocky, rude and egotistical. And their hair really is ridiculous.

But after they butchered Britney, I have to confess that I came to love them. Yes they can't sing, can't really dance, and are still incredibly arrogant. But they are so entertaining, especially compared to other contestants (who I can only describe as nice - they are inoffensive, have nice voices, nice faces, nice personalities, but they are all just nice. With the possbile exception of Olly).

But Jedward are hilarious. And when they put on a show, yes they are out of tune and out of time (even with each other), but they are the only act that I really look forward to. And it seems that the rest of Joe public feel the same, as despite Jedward's poor comments from the judges, they have yet to be in the bottom two.

I know they seem like the John Sergeant of this year's competition, but in some ways I feel that their farcical entry not only mocks the competition itself, but also the entertainment and pop world - we no longer appreciate talent and talent alone. We always want the drama and the entertainment that comes with it.

Although, in the words of David Frost, television enables you to be entertained in your home, by people you would never have in your home. And when it comes to Jedward, I could not agree more

The power of context

2009-11-02T12:56:00.000-08:00

I've recently discovered (and finished) an incredible series of books. They have been published posthumously by a Swedish author, Steig Larsson, and the first in the series is called "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo".

These books are incredibly good. They are intricate, thrilling, gory, and yet have a depth to them that can often be lacking in crime thrillers. Possibly the weakest part of the book is the title (in it's original language, the book was titled the far more apt "Men who hate women").

Throughout the trilogy there are many literary references that have spurred me on to try authors I had not yet read, or indeed in some cases, had not even heard of. A very rewarding one has been Sara Paretsky, a crime novelist who also favours a strong female loner for her main character.

On doing a little more research I discovered that there were plans for as many as 10 more books in the Lisbeth Salander series, and it seems that the loss of Larsson may well be a profound loss to the literary world (he was named the second best-selling author in the world in 2008)

I also discovered that Larsson never married his longterm partner, meaning that at the time of his (untimely) death, she was not named in his long-outdated will. And because they had never married, she was left with nothing. Yet they never married because (apparently) in Sweden, if you marry, you are obliged to publish your address, and due to the nature of Larsson's work, this was not a very good idea.

Both this fact, finding out the original title, and Larsson's sudden death have all combined to deepen the appeal of the Millenium trilogy. It struck me that by giving this additional context to the book, many aspects of the Sweden that is represented seem darker, and events of the novels all the more tragic.

It's funny what little things can do for the understanding of the whole.

Height isn't everything

2009-11-02T12:12:00.000-08:00

I have a confession. After years of holding out, denying the benefits and refusing point blank to accept any positives about them, I have gone over to the dark side.

Yes. I am talking about Uggs. I remember when I first saw them. They looked like furry wellies. I thought they were hideous. As you may well know, I am a firm advocate of the heel. The higher the better. And yet, in the last few years my opinions have mellowed, and then, this winter, I finally took the plunge and am the proud owner of a pair of tall, black Uggs.

And they are AMAZING. They are like walking on carpet. Or on a cloud. They are like having paws. I can't take them off. I have even managed to reconcile myself to their appearance. And now, after the first true day of winter (cold, clear and crisp) they are about to become permanently fused to my feet.

The only down side has been the number of people that have said "Gosh, you're so small!"

Halloween

2009-11-01T11:02:00.000-08:00

Halloween is a funny time of year. Essentially it involves dressing like an idiot, and then knocking on stranger's doors and asking for sweets.

This year halloween was combined with the lovely Dan's housewarming (he has been in the house 6 months, but who's counting?)

Bit of background on Dan. We lived with him during the undergraduate years at Warwick. In my house there were 7 of us - 5 girls, a camp and a gay (not very PC but a more than adequate description). And Dan was the camp. And also the only one able to save us from the hazards of bugs, electrical dilemmas, plumbing problems, TV tuning situations, and the scariness of living down a very dark alley.

So. Dan is having a house warming/halloween. I am going as a pink santa. Not scary I know, but cheap, reusable, and goes perfectly with lots of glitter. Dan was a scary clown. And given any other day, I would put this down as the scariest of scary outfits. But not this year.

Another friend turned up wearing a suit. And a black wig. Not very scary (unless he was going for the banker look - scary in some contexts I suppose). And then he pulled out the finishing touch. A BNP badge (made himself - for the record, no he is not a racist).

And after that, the scary clown was no longer the most feared person - he had been usurped by none other than Nick Griffin.

Now I say a lot of this tongue in cheek. He did not look like Nick Griffin. Not even a little bit. But the concept was definitely far scarier than any other at the party.

Because Nick Griffin, while held in low esteem, ridiculed, and openly hated by many (you only have to see the riots outside TVC before Question Time to agree) is the head of a legal political party. And it is a party that have got not just 1 but 2 MEPS. It is a party that seems to be enjoying better success than it has done in previous years (although, incidentally, not because it has more supporters, but because of the complacency of other voters. If anything BNP support has declined, but fewer people voted in the last election, hence the entrance of BNP members).

It seems to me that the only people who vote for the BNP are

1. Racist

2. Stupid

3. Seriously disillusioned.

I think that 3 is probably the most likely. At least, I hope so - I'd rather live in a Britain full of lost, and disillusioned souls, rather than racist idiots.

But regardless of the motivation for voting for this bigotted party of racists (and yes, there can be no other label for a party who only allow white, indigenous - whatever that means - Brits to become members. Sorry Ashley Cole, Lewis Hamilton, Amir Khan, Meera Syal, to name but a few prestigious and valued members of the British celeb culture - no, you may hold a British passport, be allowed to vote, be third generation British, whatever, but that is not enough for the BNP to see you as a Brit) the voting has been a success. And this is really frightening.

If indeed, they were voted in by people that feel lost and disenfranchised by the British political system (and sadly a lot of this comes down to those MPs that claimed for bath plugs, blue movies and duck islands) then what can we do? Surely there is an option that is less radical than voting in racist holocaust deniers?

Maybe we need to suspend opinion in our voting system. Maybe the only way, not only to banish the BNP, but also to restore faith in the entire political system is for us all to follow the example of a certain Tony in Norwood - a texter I came across this week, who suggested an inspired approach to voting. We should interrupt our usual voting policy by voting, not for the party and the policies that we believe in, but the people that we feel we trust. For the MPs that didn't swindle the public. For the MPs that truly seem to be in the job to make a difference, to look out for their constituency, to do their job not solely for financial gain, but also on an ethical level?

Although, the one loss for us if we were to lose Nick Griffin is that poor Pearse would have just been another guy in a black suit. And lets face it, compared to a scary clown, that is poor.

A rite of passage

2009-10-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

One of the brilliant things about having a job is

a) having money (at least theoretically)
b) having less free time to spend said money (ok, so not a great bonus, but you should see me with a bit of freetime... topshop ransacked in a day)

It makes me feel better that with my usual shift at work, due to starting at the godforsaken hour of 6am, my break is at 9am. Good time, as there are no shops open (at least no good ones, although saying that, I even managed to spend the best part of £20 in Boots last week).

This week, however, I am having a lunch break at the proper time for eating lunch - 1 until 2pm. And being based in the very central point of Leicester Square, I cannot avoid the delights of shopping. It's only an hour, I can't do much damage in an hour.

Oh yes I can.

Under the guise of getting the father a birthday present I've ventured out every lunchtime this week (don't actually need a guise - my father's list is so appalling that without browsing he will be getting only a card. His list consists of 2 items: Trips to fun and exotic places eg. The Ukraine, Blackpool, and secondly Books about fun and exotic places, eg. The Ukraine and Blackpool).

So three days into the week, and I have managed to buy myself 4 skirts (all black and of a similar style, but essential to my wardrobe - especially as a favourite northerner has "borrowed" my favourite black skirt, hence the necessity of replacements) and three dresses. I have also bought a pair of shoes, three pairs of novelty tights, a pair of earrings and three books.

By wednesday. This is not good.

And so today I reconciled myself to being a responsible adult. And I actually TOOK THINGS BACK!! It pained me. And I did actually snatch a skirt back from the assistant (it has layers of black lace, and is virtually completely different from most of my other skirts). And kept a dress (very practical - has given me an opportunity to wear my new gold belt) and the earrings (can't return those) and some tights (but those are really important, what with the onset of winter and all) and a book (need to keep the mind educated). But aside from that I took everything back.

I felt the need to share this. If only for the congratualtions I'm hoping to receive from fellow shopaholics. It really felt like a rite of passage.

I rewarded myself on the way home with a necklace. But at £7 , and with all the money I made by taking things back, I practically made money by getting it.

Letting the side down

2009-10-28T13:25:00.000-07:00

Apologies. I have been beyond abysmal at keeping up this blogging malarky. In fact, I totally forgot that I had one. Until a wonderful friend mentioned that she was starting one, and suddenly, from the darkest, deepest depths of the memory, I remembered this one.

So. I've decided that actually keeping the blog going was fun. And I will now make a conscious effort to do it more. It also forces me to plan activities that I can catalogue on said blog.

As a brief update on the last 18mnths (gasp!) of my life I am:

1. No longer a student. Sigh.
2. Now in the world of work (getting paid - yay!)
3. Have graduated to more grown up work, and no longer at pub. Sigh.
4. Am still living in Brixton (although in times of snobbery I say Clapham - don't want to scare off potential guests)
5. Still have the boyfriend (touch wood)
6. But have lost the Wiganer to, well, Wigan. Sadly she returned to the northern roots and pie shops.
7. Shoes are still my biggest weakness.

I also live in a nicer, although hazard strewn flat (currently fighting the landlord in an effort to get the 14ft pit beneath the flat filled, and the door to said pit sealed off. Yes, there is a door in my flat to a giant hole. Great talking point for visitors).

Anyway. This is to be the concerted effort to be more conscientious on the old blog front.

Lake District

2008-05-31T01:41:00.000-07:00

I am a city girl through and through. I am actually allergic to the countryside (literally - I get terrible hayfever). So when the Wiganer found out about a certain trip to the land of the lakes, she knew she was going to have to dress it up for me to even consider.

I was told it would be a bank holiday weekend of sunbathing and cocktails by a large lake. And for just £35 I could get all food and board included. I was informed of the trip during the (probably only) really sunny week in May. So obviously the offer seemed pretty good.

However. As time wore on, and I had paid my money, booked a train ticket, and had selaed off all means of escaping the weekend, things started to emerge from teh woodwork.

The first thing to be mentioned was "wetsuit". At first I ignored the Wiganer, thinking, and hoping, that perhaps she had meant to say bikini, and it was just another north/south language confusion. But then she mentioned the word "kayak".

Hmmmm. there was no ignoring that one. So, plucking up the courage, I decided to just clear up exactly what the weekend was about. "Ah yes" said the Wiganer, "we are, um, going on a water sports weekend".

Uh oh. this is NOT my cup of tea. I spent my entire school career AVIODING things like this (hence becoming most avid fan of the soup run my school had ever known).

After much persuasion (and ridicule from pub colleagues) the Wiganer managed to calm me down. To be honest, the weekend was run by a friend of hers who has decided FOR FUN to sail from Antigua back to Britain on a yacht. And not a giant 300ft one. No a teeny peeny 37 ft one. I should have known better.

So the time comes round to pack. I got rather distressed. The Wiganer made me pack an old T-shirt, two hoodies, a bikini (yay!) to go under a wetsuit (sob) and, god forbid trainers. No high heels (I was sneaky and wore some on the train - ha! she couldn't just take the shoes from my feet). No little skirts, or cute summer outfits. It was heart-breaking.

So we got to Wigan. After a long and painful train journey. And were driven up to the Lakes.

Now obviously, as I was in a moving vehicle I fell asleep within approximately 4 and a half minutes of leaving Wigan (much to the enjoyment/wonder of everyone else in the car). And was woken up approximately 4 and a half minutes before we arrived.

And gosh was the scene different. No longer on a Wigan estate we were actually in the middle of nowhere. Everything was green. There were no houses. I even saw a well (as in what people used in the olden days - and sill Coniston - for getting water).

We were staying in an activity centre, which was very nice and quaint. As it was late we had dinner, and a few drinks sat in a FIELD and went to bed. (Might I add, it was freezing after about 9pm, and I was sincerely gld of the two hoodies and fluffy socks the Wiganer had packed for me, and yet Sharples our host was still in a vest, shorts and flip flops.

Next morning we got up, and were assigned our wetsuits. Sadly they ran out of the really small, so my 5.2 and a half inches was given on made for someone closer to 6 ft. And was still wet. That was unplesant. And also made it virtually impossible to get in the damn thing.

So after many undignified bends to get myself in, and we were ready. Went down to the lake (where again - freezing) and was promptly put in a canoe. And then a kayak. And then another kayak. And then we kayaked across the lake, to the other side, sat down and then came back. And I actually did it!

Now I can't say I did it with any style, and was extremely anxious for at least the first hour. But then I saw a 6'4 man capsise, and out came sharples (in her own speed boat - I collect shoes, she collects boats) and pulled him (yes a 6'4 injured man) AND his kayak into her boat. It was nothing short of incredible. Barker, the large man, got back onto land claiming "Sharples is as strong as an ox". After that, less nervous of the old water sports.

Although after the excitement of all that kayaking, did spend about 3 hours having a nap, sunbathing and doing handstands.

That evening we did the usual country thing of a large barbeque and bonfire on the beach. Was nice.

And then we came to the final day. Got up. And was a little more confident that before. Pulled on still wet wetsuit. Took less than an hour, so had improved since day before. Was feeling pretty good about the day.

So we got down to the water. And it turns out that we are building our own (yes OWN) raft. And then sailing it out to a buoy, that frankly was little more than a tiny yellow dot on the horizon.

Now this seemed less fun. Luckily I managed to be on the team with the most industrious looking boys. Who also turned out to the best at knot-tying. So our raft (where the extent of my help was using a vital rope to play skipping) actually looked pretty good and sturdy. Especially in comparison to the other teams. Their's was already falling apart without even being in the water.

So we had built the thing. Then came the time to select a crew. Now I was more than happy to arrange the on land cheerleading for the team. Bt suddenly a finger pointed at me. "You". Er. me? Are you mad? "Your light. On you get".

So plan was not going to order. Due to being small, they (wrongly) assumed I might be an asset to the team (light but powerful).And suddenly I had been given an oar, put on the damn boat thing, and we had left the beach.

I have never ever prided myself on strength. I am positively weedy. Which the rest of the crew noticed about 8 metres from the shore. And as this was a race, and we were losing, do you know what happened? I was tossed overboard. Yes. Made to swim behind. Oh it was a sad moment. (After making a big fuss after about 5 mins some kind boy pulled me back on, and I was allowed to bang a drum, which I might add, I did exceptionally)

We lost the race. And I had finally been in the lake. And was convinced I was getting frostbite in my feet (apparently you can't get it in May). And it was time to go home. But I had done it. I had actually spent a whole weekend in the country, where there are no clubs or bars or shops or people. Where at night, the sky is totally dark, without a hint of orange. Bizarre.

I won't rush back. I am pretty useless at the water sport thing. But maybe next year. Maybe it can become an annual thing. Because while I hate to admit it, for one weekend it was kinda fun to hang up the heels and dresses, and walk around in a wetsuit and hoodie.

Farmer's Markets

2008-05-19T12:58:00.000-07:00

I love shopping. I love shopping for clothes. and shoes. and pretty things. And I love a good tesco shop. In the really big ones. The Tesco Extras. I get so excited by the mass of opportunity.

And now I have discovered a new training ground for my shopping. The Farmer's Market.

Now, me being the true city girl that I am, thought a farmer's market was full of sheep, cattle, old men chewing straw, and hay (hence the wide birth - i suffer chronically from hayfever).

But I have had my eyes opened. Doing research for a documentary I am making about Tesco, I decided to go back to the roots of all great global supermarket enterprises - the market stall.

So, at 7am on saturday morning I got on my rail replacement bus to Pimlico, and ventured into the world of Farmer's markets.

They are amazing. You can get so much stuff; fruit, bread, cheese, juice, flowers, plants, conversation.

Everything is fresh, local and seasonal. And you can ask the people who sell anything and everything about their products. Not like in tesco, where one question of "is this organic?" merits death stares and an angry gesture at the label.

No. These people LOVE to talk food. And see the harder, more probing questions as a welcome challenge.

I was interviewing the wife of a farmer. I met her (very glamorous for what I wrongly assumed was a severely unglamorous job) and immediately liked her. She was lovely, and warm and inviting.

She told me that one of the best parts of running a stall at a farmer's market, was the connection one forms with the customer. She regularly recognises the majority of people who come to their stall, and is known to pop round to offer gardening tips, cooking tips, or just general chat.

She revealed that her family's farm go to 10 farmer's markets across London, and that at all of them, they have a similar relationship with their customers.

Well, having developed a new love for these shopping grounds, I decided that I must right away discover some more.

And so began my weekend of markets. And the slow transformation of the city girl, to country lass.

I went to one in Queen's Park (best cakes EVER - hazelnit and beetroot - yes BEETROOT - was amazing).

Borough market for the best pig sandwich I've ever eaten, and also strawberries - two punnets £1 - sod you Tesco, at that price never again will I grace the fruit and veg section.

Portobello road - already a known shopping ground - but the food market was wonderful. Got a quiche (which although onion and feta, and smelling like feet, was yum) and a delicious brioche).

Finally went to the one in Clapham - got some very impressive eggs, and apple juice. Bloody fantastic.

All the food was wonderful. Although a tad on the pricey side for my humble sutdent budget. But for the research purposes of the documentary - definitely worth it.

And in order to truly embrace my new image of rural living, I am off this weekend, to the lake district. On an activity weekend.

Berlin

2008-01-17T13:51:00.000-08:00

The boyfriend and I went to Berlin just before christmas.

I had never been to Germany before. In all honesty, I had never been very interested in it.

But after a four day mini break there, I have completely fallen in love with the place.

While there I did four v. amazing things:

1. Actually saw all the major cultural things of a city
2. touched a penguin
3. had the best gin and tonic in the world.
4. wore flat shoes the entire time

In achieving all these things I feel I embraced a lot of what Berlin has to offer.

The boyfriend and I went on a boat tour of the city, which was a lovely (and warm) way to do it. And then we walked through a lot of it. Went to the Reichstag, the Brandenburg Gate, the Jewish Museum (holocaust tower was really chilling - being shut outside in a completely lightless, heatless lonely place. very unsettling).

Went to christmas markets. Ate a lot of sausage. Drank a lot of beer. Went on a giant snow slide. Generally embraced Berlin culture.

We went to the zoo. Best zoo EVER. Way better than shitty London Zoo.

In Berlin zoo the animals are so close. and they walk around. and play. In London, you barely see any of them. They are all asleep.

But not in Germany. Knut (who was fat - disappointing) was playing a lovely game with some rope. A rhino came and sniffed me (the boyfriend ruined it by pulling me away). And when it came to the penguins (the ultimate part of any zoo) i leant over and touched one. actually about five.

They were all swimming this way. then that way. then back again. they were LOVELY.

Another major part of Berlin, it seems, is the night life, bar culture and techno clubs (which the boyfriend and I inadvertantly got involved in).

The bars are brilliant. Friendly, great atmosphere, and everywhere. Not expenisve. Best place seemed to be Oranienberger Platz. Good stuff there. Good food, friendly people. It was all great.

And despite the very impressive public transport (way better than London - cheaper, cleaner, more reliable, though a lot of graffiti) we did do a lot of walking.

and i had had four very large and painful wisdom teeth removed a mere few days before. So the boyfriend strongly insisted (methinks on stern advice from the Wiganer) on flat shoes.

And my gosh. They are wonderful. Don't get me wrong. This is strictly off the record. My true position is eughhhh, how vile, flat shoes, me NEVER. But in the sub-zero temperatures of winter Berlin, fluffy boots are heaven.

And just make moving so much faster. As the boyfriend pointed out - i developed (and I am ashamed to admit this) a short person scuttle.

All in all, if you are reading this and are not in Berlin GO THERE. And if you are in Berlin, stop reading this and go outside. It's brill.

SPICE GIRLS!!!!

2008-01-17T13:30:00.000-08:00

Last weekend the Wiganer and I went to the greatest show on earth.

Dressed in truly authentic 90's gear, we headed to North Greenwich and went to the o2. To watch the greatest band in the world. The Spice Girls.

Never wanting to do things by halves, the Wiganer and I looked really quite good. I (obviously) went for baby spice (though truth be told, if i had owned a union jack dress, hands down I would have been geri, ginge and all).

The Wiganer, not wanting to have to wear the tracky bums, not being ethnic enough for scary, or tall enough for posh, went for an eclectic 90's mix, with obscenely short (yet high-waisted) skirt, leopard print tights, crop top (oh, we all had one. I had two) and a side-ponytail.

So dressed as the 90's (and mildly resembling prostitutes) we got on the tube.

That was an experience. Having dressed at home with both spice girl albums blaring, we felt in the zone. Stepping out into the cold January evening in deepest darkest Brixton, we suddenly didn't feel quite so cool.

But ho hum, we soldiered on.

Got to the o2. Little disappointed at the lack of fancy-dress effort. But at least we stood out.

o2 is amazing. Shops, bars, restaurants, nice toilets, a cinema, tutankhamun. what more could a girl want from one venue.

decided to start the night with style and got some cocktails. Met some very nice geordies (Wiganer attracts northern folk).

Boguht a couple of t-shirts (obviously) and then went to find our seats.

So we were sat down. quite far away from the stage. Beady eyed Wiganer has already spotted the Beckham kids.

And the lights go down. and the stage lights up. And then THE SPICE GIRLS ARE ON!!!!

An hour and a half later and all my life goals have changed. I don't care what happens as long as I growup as a spice girl.

The lights, the dances, the costumes, the sets, the banter, everything was fantastic. Wiganer and I danced and sang, and generally looked like fools. But we just had the most wonderful time.

Personally I liked geri's outfits best (being a tart at heart, I can never resist a teeny weeny skirt), though Mrs Beckham did not disappoint. She looked really lovely, and managed to belt out her few lines (definitely couldn't have lasted a whole song, but her catwalk was lovely).

Slightly embarassed by scary's solo bit. she was grinding against a very frightened looking boy from the audience. poor sod, probably didn't bank on that when he gave in to going with his girlfriend).

sporty had (as usual) the worst of the outfits. although at least they gave the tracksuit a bit of sparkle. really has got the best voice.

baby was just baby. same old same old but lovely all the same.

they knocked out "headlines" early. as the Wiganer put it "wanna be getting that shite out way early". Definitely best song - spice up your life. threw out some v. exciting shapes to that one.

All in all it was truly great. And I will not hear a bad word about the girls. they were everything i could have wanted and more.

There was only one unexpected thing about the evening. and that was the number of a) middle-aged women, and b) the number of little kids. It was Johnny Vaughn, on Capital breakfast who cleared this conundrum for me. Spice hits are all over kids party CDs so they all know the words.

And to explain the middle-aged audience, all of them were sprightly 20-somethings when the spice girls first appeared. but now, 10 years down the line, they have all got a little older, plumper and more tame (the ones next to us did NOT apreciate the dancing - low point was wiganer's thrusting).

Wiganer and I swore however, that it doesn't matter if we have to wait 100 years for another of their comeback tours. we will never diminish in our love for the girls.

Christmas Roast and all the trimmings

2008-01-03T06:11:00.000-08:00

Wiganer and I decided to have a Christmas gathering.

We invited 12 people with the intention of cooking whole roast.

All was fine until realised I was having my teeth out two days before. That seemed to instigate a further trail pf problems.

Firstly, getting a turkey. Not that easy. Finally manage to locate one that was a) right size and b) not requiring a mortgage to buy. Sadly it was in a giant ASDA about 10million miles from where we live. and i was by myself.

So had to carry 8lb frozen turkey home. It nearly killed me. And I never believed a piece of frozen food could create so many bruises.

Problem number two. Left turkey to defrost in fridge. Sadly fridge is mal-functioning and therefore seemed, if anything, to freeze turkey further.

So left it in the kitchen. Again, due to negative temperature of flat, really was not defrosting at all. Wiganer suggested putting it in microwave. I vetoed that. Didn't want to poison guests.

Eventually decided to leave it in bedroom. Just hoped it wouldn't amke it smell funny.

Also, decided to name turkey Rosemary (rosie for short).

Morning of dinner arrives. Got up at half 8 to switch on oven (door doesn't close properly so had to calculate extra three hours for rosie's cooking).

Went to set up table. Then realised that we had invited 12 people. And only have 2chairs in whole flat.

Spent hour frantically ringing everyone we know for chairs. Boyfriend came to rescue. Bless him.

Wiganer and I checked on Rosie. Thought oven door looked funny colour. Opened door. Appeared to have rather large fire going on in there.

The flames managed to jump out of thte oven, set fire to a teatowel hanging nearby (NB don't keep flamable material near ovens) which in turn nearly set fire to wooden shelf.

Lucky Wiganer nearby. Managed to get fire under control. And in all the excitement oven door became fixed! Hurrah!

After that, day was fairly accident free. I managed to accidentally get quite drunk before guests arrived (blamed painkillers of teeth) but was just merry, not dangerous.

And dinner turned out marvelously. Was lovely. And as we calculated a bit wrong, there was more than enough of Rosie left of the Wiganer to have many a turkey sandwich.