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.

Farmer's Markets

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.