Celebrations

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.

Brighton

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

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.

Countdown to Christmas: Christmas Dinner

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

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.

Masterchef

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.

Lake District

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.

Berlin

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!!!!

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

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.

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.

CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!

This weekend I truly got into the Christmas spirit.

On Saturday I opened my TWO advent calendars (one picture and one CHOCOLATE - was a deprived child and never allowed one before), bought Christmas cards, decorations, planned mine and Wigan's mini Christmas Roast and decorated our tree. All to the the XMAS party classics CD.

And I had a lovely time. It was wonderful and I am truly in the Christmas mood.

Our Christmas tree is a little pathetic looking. Being only three foot tall. And really quite bald.

But we covered it in far too many baubles. And loads of other foil based decorations.

We even topped it off with an angel (homemade by Wigan and I out of our cheese grater with some tin foil wings stuck on the back).

After that I decided that we needed to give the windows a bit of a christmas look. So we made paper snowflakes (and may I just add, Wigan was truly appalling at this. she is being paid an obscene amount of money to look after a couple of kids, and all they do all day is crafts. and yet ask her to make you a paper snowflak..... well after frustrated grunts, angry jabs with scissors and severe snowflake envy, the Wigan admitted defeat)

We have also got very into the festive food. The Wiganer has set a new record for eating. She has managed to get through not one, but three boxes of mince pies.Since december started.

We have a fourth, but it has been hidden, and is only being adminstired under strict supervision.

She is blaming the Tesco buy one get one free offer.

I shall be keeping you all up to date with my festive antics over the next few days. As I'm sure you can tell, they will be extensive.

Croydon nights

Many people think Croydon is a dump. And many bits are. Many also think that Croydon is dangerous. Again, they are not far wrong.

Fair enough, you will without fail see at least six fights, police vans line the streets, you have to go throug metal detectors to enter most of the clubs, and many of the other clubbers represent the crudest cross-section of society I have ever encountered (and I have a friend from Romford).

But there is something about Croydon that I am strangely attached to.

If you want a cheap, fun, cheesy night out, Croydon is probably your best bet. There are pubs where you can buy a round of five drinks, and still have change for a tenner (The Goose). There are clubs where you pay a whole £2 to get in. Mojama's is a good laugh. There is a Walkabout. And a very nice new cocktail bar (Svelte). And almost anywhere you can dance like a complete lunatic, and not get a single shocked/scared/disapproving look (the wiganer loves this).

And while many of the people you meet may have complete potty mouths, they are surprisngly friendly. One girl I met was more than happy to indulge in near acrobatic dance moves with despite not knowing her at all. Another didn't seem to mind at all when my wiganer accidentally spun into her. In fact, the opposite - she grabbed her hands and joined in.

Don't get me wrong, after long Croydon does start to drag, but go there once a month and I guarentee you will start to develop this strange love.

Tea for Two at The Savoy

My Wiganer turned 22 on thursday. And in tribute to her being old, I took her for tea at the savoy hotel.

It was lovely. And very sophisticated. And we had lots of teeny tiny sandwiches. and some even teenier cakes. and socnes. and tea. a lot of tea. in fact, some might say too much tea.

and there was a lovely piano player thumping out some tunes (many musical classics, a bit of whitney, then some britney, and most surprisingly of all, Michael Jackson's Thriller - interesting as a classical piano version)

Now, while tea was lovely, possibly the best thing about the experience was the people watching. Behind was the most upper class woman I have ver seen. She clearly came in everyday for her afternoon tea, and a glass of champagne. Reading her highbrow paper, and chatting with the waiters.

The Wiganer was rather concerned when looking at her, that she had not managed to finish all of her miniture food, saying ratherly loudly "Well. She's not getting 'er money's worff". To which the lady responded by asking a nearby waiter for a selction of tupperware to take home her remains.
On seeing this the Wiganer decided that we should ask for more sandwiches and cake. Not eat them. And take them home in tupperware. Which we did. (Word of warning - don't try it with the egg of or the salmon sandwiches - not only does the bread go very dry, but warm egg and salmon are not pleasant).

Opposite us were a family of six, (four kids including two toddlers) and two very posh parents. After whinging about their daughter's riduculous assortment of "allergies" (posh version of having a fussy eater) they finally got the food. the little boy threw most of his onto the floor and refused to eat anything except for ham sandwiches. Wiganer commented, again in the booming northern tones "that's a waste that. Just take 'em down McDonalds".

After a lot more nosing into other people's business, drinking five litres of tea between us, taking an obscene amount of photos, making a short video tour of the tea room, becoming thoroughly excited by the toilets (you get your own personal towel!), and overhearing a comment from two old ladies ("do you think this is their first time here?") we eventually left, a full three hours after we went in.

It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience. I would recommned it to anyone. But do try and get the tupperware. We still have a whole other savoy tea to enjoy today as well.