Legally blonde

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

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.

Britishness

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.

Fingersmith

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

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.

Legally Blonde

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.

The North part 2

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

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

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.

Wisdom Teeth

SInce september, apart from the internet, my other ongoing saga has been my impaceted wisdom teeth (yes not one, not two, but all of them).

My teeth are the bane of my life. By the age of 14 I had already had 8 teeth out (my mouth is really quite small).

I then got braces. Full blown traintracks.

Now, there are some people who kind of look ok with braces. Those people who you don't really notice have them. I was definitely not one of them.

In fact I was the opposite. They REALLY looked bad.

So after that three year (yes THREE YEARS) torture I thought all would be well.

But no. So at the age of 21 I went into london bridge hospital to have the bastard teeth. All out. So never again will they bother me.

I opted for the general aneasthetic. I am a big juicy wimp. And I'd never had one before so why not?

So after I go to sleep and have teeth out I wake up.

I really did feel fine. And thought I would try to stand up. I completely fell of my bed. and ripped the drip out of my hand. And two nurses had to lift me back on.

Then I was wheeled back to my bed, and, as told later by the Wiganer, who, bless her came to look after me, looked HORRIFIC.

Apparently i was whiter than white except for the substantial amount of dried blood completely covering the lower half of my face (really good Wiganer had sense to bring face wipes).

Then, as if i was not disgusting enough they then, without any explanation at all, handed her a small pot. Which contained my teeth (not washed or anything - one was stil surrounded by bits of my gum; the others, all fairly bloody).

So that was all gross.

Eventually got home (having been convinced that i was fine, and subsequently fainting. twice)

Had to wear flat shoes. made a bit of a fuss about that. am only 5'2.5 (rounded up to 5'3) and so have never to date been out in public without at least 4inch heels). Was probably quite a good idea though. was really very unsteady.

But after a day was fine. Went shopping. had a little dance. cooked an entire christmas roast for a party. (Party atmosphere greatly enhanced by the constant display of my now removed wisdom teeth).

So all in all, removal of wisdon teeth not as bad as people make out.

London Transport

Before I moved to London, my expectations of the transport were low.

But having been here for nearly two months I have yet to see any real problems.

It's expensive. I'll give you that. And today I was sat outside Neasden station on a met line train for 10mins. But thats not really all that bad.

It seems to me that Londoners have been spoiled, and in the way that a child can become bratty and selfish as a result of overindulgence, it seems that many Londoners have too.

I went to Warwick Univeristy, and because I would rather have had bamboo stuck down my finger-nails rather than live in Coventry, I lived in Leamington Spa.

For those of you who don't know, that left me with a daily commute of approx. 1 hour. More at rush hours, less at 3 in the morning after a night at the union.

And it was worse than the tube. If you missed a bus, you had to wait. And not just 3 mins. Sometimes 10. Sometimes, even 20. 20 whole minutes. Outside (none of this underground, sheltered malarky - outside, open to the miserable elements of the west midlands).

And so now, being in london I love the tubes. And the buses (90p for a trip to anywhere - amazing!) are even better. And I know that the tubes can be busy and stuffy and smelly and hot, but at least they are there. And if there are problems, there are so many alternatives. And if people really want to winge about transport, they should try the wonders of leamington spa.