There once was a Christmas bash....

I've not blogged for a while. I'm not sure anyone reads it really, but I've been a little short of inspiration. Hard hours working and the typical Winter cold has rendered me very dull.

A few things have popped into my mind to share today though.

1) Christmas Parties

Our work Christmas party was more eventful than it should have been. A Leicester Square club was the venue, not the sort of place I'd ever normally go, but it was... interesting. A client had described it earlier that day as a "cattle market"....Certainly an experience. Upon arrival at 8ish, it was already rammed full of packed office-party revellers. At this point we were all pretty sober and gazed bemusedly at the cliche we had suddenly found ourselves in.

It's one of those bars where there's no space really for actual sitting and talking, and our table wasn't ready so we loitered round the bar. I swear that my first glass of wine was 50% in me, and 50% on my coat as I was constantly jostled by people squeezing by. There was what was clearly an office party in one area of the bar, who looked as though they probably started on the festive drinks around lunch time. You think cheesy office party. You think, man with tie round his head (why do men do that?) and girl whose dress has slipped a little further than is professional, (bra, indeed most of her boobs are hanging out.) Dancing provocatively to Britney Spears. Yep, we were living in the reality. We actually discussed how if we'd written this, it would be too obvious. Amusing for us, not for them when they wake up the next day, probably in bed together, and view the photographic evidence on Facebook.

I realised last night that I am indeed a music snob. I try and pretend I'm not. But last night there was no getting away from it. After a few wines, I don't mind some classic cheesy tunes to dance to. But I just can't hack SHIT music. Played just slightly too high, to prevent the clientele engaging in conversation and realising that there's a void where the personality should be in the person they're now finding strangely attractive after the seventh Smirnoff Ice. The music at this level ensures the only communication between people involves dubious bumping and grinding, groping and mimes about "fancy another drink?". I really enjoy having to yell my drink orders to belligerent bar staff over the Alexandra Burke tune that's on for the fourth time and is setting every fibre of my being on the precipice of physical pain.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough for me, I ate my Christmas dinner, engaged with some lovely people that I work with, drank a little more cheap wine, then called it a night and made my way home through the City to avoid the monstrous and inevitable post-office party hangover.

However, upon waking this morning and seeing 16 missed calls on my phone, I realised the evening had not panned out in quite the same way for No'rn Ir'on. I blurrily read a text from a colleague saying No'rn Ir'on had been robbed and they were at the hotel across the road. Filled with a sense of panic that she'd been hurt, I called my colleague to establish that her stuff had gone missing in the club, still utterly shit but she was fine. Just very pissed off.

She returned home late this morning after crashing with another colleague when I missed the doorbell ringing at 5am. In yesterday's make up, party dress, no coat, no bag, no keys. She was in good spiritis considering, and we caught up on the stories of the night before. Still in party dress, she heated some soup in the kitchen, just wanting to have an hour in her room away from the world before doing the hassly things you have to do when all your stuff goes missing. Going to put something back in the fridge, she somehow dislodged an open bottle of sparkling wine, which fell and practically exploded all over the kitchen. Her face fell into mock sobbing and wailing, as she looked down at her dripping party dress and surveyed the fizzing puddle on the floor.

"I smell like a whore!... And I am actually really crying a bit. It's been a rubbish 24 hours."

I tell her to go and chill in her room while I wipe up the wine. And make a brew.





2) Limericks

Office. Christmas. Secret Santa, right? No'rn Ir'on had been beyond excited about Christmas since about, oh, June, so she jumped on the organisation of the event. The spend limit was a fiver and you also had to write a limerick about the person you were buying for. As we doled out the gifts after work yesterday, I genuinely cried tears of laughter at how funny some of them were. I was inevitably embarrased by the fact that an incarnation of one of my many nicknames rhymes with "Spaz", thanks for that, dear colleague. Also the topical inclusion of my earlier mishap on the phone with a very valued client where I made what can only be described as a right tit of myself. Un-PC, offensive and including current affairs, brilliant.

As the team Skyped each other throughout the day, drafting limericks and editing each others' work, I realised I am quite good at limericks. Mainly obscene ones. I attribute this niche skill to a weird habit I have with a long-distance friend, CleverClogs, of chatting on instant messenger services and challenging each other to finishing each other's efforts. I often get random messages simply saying, "There was a young man who was bored..." You'd be surprised at how creative you can get with innuendo through the medium of limericks. Pretty much the geekiest form of flirting you can undertake, as well. I think I have mentioned before how cool I am?



3) Tube-dwelling rodents

As I made my way home last night, through the Christmas party revellers, I found myself close to the edge of the Tube platform at Holborn. I was as always lost in my extremely loud music, pretending I am in a film, when I noticed how many rats and mice were scurrying about across the tracks. I've honestly never noticed this before. The majority of the swarm had stumpy tails, presumably due to ill-judged track crossing in the pursuit of a morsel of food.

One brave animal, either a big-ish mouse, or a little rat, came across a chocolate wrapper that had blown through the tunnel. It attacked the plastic with gusto and actually got inside the wrapper. For some reason, seeing a rodent's bum sticking out of a wriggling sweet wrapper made me laugh. Out loud.

As the dusty, warm breeze started filtering through the tunnel, and the tracks began their low pre-train rumble, I was gripped with a horror that I was about to see a rodent obliterated by a few tons of metal, in a tragic comedy fashion. Thank goodness, this one had obviously learnt to scarper after losing most of its tail last time. I continued my journey with drunk people falling on me on the Central Line, smiling to myself about the comedy mouse.

Perhaps I was drunker than I thought I was.

"Yeah, I quite like James Blunt"

I feel compelled to write about something very close to my heart. I just read an article by David Mitchell in which he confesses to buying his second album ever. SECOND. EVER. This got me thinking, especially since I am currently listening to the delightful Simon Pegg do a guest slot on BBC 6 Music where he plays music he loves. And it's wonderful. Right now he's playing an old Elbow track and it makes me happy.

I don't understand people who aren't passionate about music. I am passionate about a lot of things, and I of course understand that the things that excite us are totally subjective - believe me, I've tried engaging people who couldn't give a shit about horses on the subject of preferred stirrup length, and it's clearly a waste of time. My other passions include photography, art and language, and I can understand that sloppy grammar just doesn't inspire the same rage in others that it does in me. I appreciate difference and I appreciate other people who just really love something and want to talk to me about it.

But how can you not be passionate about music? I can't get through the day without my iPod. Despite the fact that I have a definite idea of my own taste, and a real dislike of certain musicians and styles (yes James Blunt, I mean you. And Bass Hunter, Katie Melua, Celine Dion, oh look I've got started and a bit irate now); I do respect anyone who has a taste. I might not agree that you need to attend every Leona Lewis concert but if you love her, then fair play to you.

What I don't get, is people who just don't care about music. Music is such an elemental, powerful thing. I hear tunes and they remind me of my past; evoking people, heartbreak, happiness, journeys, moments.... How can you not have a soundtrack to your life? A little bit of me dies inside when people respond to the question of "what music are you into?" with a shrug and a mumble of "dunno, all sorts....". People who switch the radio on and don't even register what's playing. I genuinely believe their quality of life is diminished with this lack of appreciation.

Ever since I've had my own money, I've spent the vast majority of it on music. I don't really know where this comes from since the only music I ever recall my parents playing was Elaine Page and Dire Straits. Music afficionados; my parents aren't. Nowadays one of my favourite times is the journey to work, especially when the weather is good and the light is beautiful. Weaving my way through London on the bus with something stirring accompanying me is filmic and rousing and gives me time to think.

I don't think I could ever be with anyone who didn't really care about music. I feel the same way about them as I feel about people who don't think Anchorman is one of the funniest films ever. I don't trust them.

Ok, I concede, it's Christmas

I'm not the most Christmassy person, I admit. Some friends are beyond excited from October onwards and cannot wait to crack out the mince pies and get 'Best Xmas Songs EVER Vol. 17' on loop. I on the other hand, resent having Christmas shoved down my throat as soon as August is over and I firmly believe that Christmas music in shops can legally be cited in court as provocation for GBH. Even murder, if it's Slade more than once in the space of fifteen minutes.

I realise the above makes me sound like Scrooge. Don't get me wrong. I love the idea of Christmas - indulgent and cosy, the time of twinkly decorations, golden and red and green, sumptuous food and endless drinks. I just don't like being sick of it by December. I also feel a sense of anxious stress every time I see the TV adverts showing the perfect Christmas; that the presents I give will be crap and I'm not spending enough money on decorations, and that we're not like the smiling families on tv.

However, now it's December, I am starting to feel a little Christmassy. Thinking about what to get my niece and nephews (ie something I can legitimately play with on Christmas day) and the rest of the family (steady on, I'm not organised enough to have actually bought presents already - I'm not Anthea Turner). Everyone at work is looking forward to the festive break and I actually can't wait to book my ticket to spend the week at home with the new dog, see my parents and hopefully getting drunk on too much wine with my sisters.

I just watched Nigella's Christmas on BBC2, in my toasty lounge, with the fairy lights switched on. I feel officially festive. Whilst debating her hotness with a male friend (we both concurred she totally is, it's a combination of being a great cook, loving her food, being a bit posh and all the cheeky innuendo) I suddenly found myself wanting mini mince pies and her festive tagine for lunch. With a Lychini. Charles Saatchi is a very lucky man. I think women like Nigella because she looks like a woman. A 1950s, hourglass, curvy woman. Anyway, her house is also delightfully festive with its chic ambience, and the set pieces with her glamorous friends tucking into mounds of food in a soft-focus frame just make you feel like it's ok to go and get merry at lunch next to a Christmas tree.

Since I'm suffering from a seasonal cold, I'll make do with a hot toddy and some toast in my dressing gown. Today is a lazy day. No'rn Ir'on just bravely left the flat to go and do some shopping on Oxford Street.

Me: "Are you sure? Do you NEED to go to Oxford St?"
NI: "I need to go to the Apple store."
Me: "Don't hurt anyone."
NI: ".....I cannot guarantee that. Byeeee."

I expect a call from the Met. Police in approximately three hours, asking me to come up and pick up the irate Belfast girl who told a small child to "fuck off" in the Disney Store while brandishing a giant handbag as weapon.

Trying to run...

Today, I went for a run.

I say went for a run, I mean I staggered breathlessly round Victoria Park and tried not to trip over crazed grey squirrels.

I love Victoria Park. It's a glorious green oasis in the midst of high rise blocks and fried chicken shops. The grand gates beckon you inside the boundaries and promise a haven of quiet within the madness of East London.

Today was a perfect day - cold, crisp and sunny. I bolstered myself to go and do some exercise and walked briskly to the park. It was quieter than usual, only the hardcore joggers and some casually cool couples strolling around. The light was magnificent - the wintery park was bathed in low golden sunshine that shone through the mist and the skeletal trees.

So, running. I really want to be able to run. I love the idea of sticking your iPod on and losing yourself for a few miles, pounding the streets and focusing only on your stride and breathing. The reality however is somewhat different. I'm not a natural runner. I'm just not built for it. Today I felt ambitious due to my gradual improvement on the cross trainer in the gym. Turns out, doing 6k on the cross trainer without too much pain is not comparable to actual, real life running.

As I built up my stride around the park, I was sad I didn't have my camera with me. There were beautiful shots everywhere. The first tableau I came across was a statuesque man on roller blades setting up flourescent orange cones in a neat row, presumably to practice some intricate footwork. He cut a striking figure against the misty soft-focus background and pulled some excellent shapes while skating around and bending down to adjust his markers.

I attempted to jog around the park, setting myself small goals like reaching the next bench, but I was overtaken by an athletic-looking man who sprinted past while expertly pushing one of those fancy off-terrain-type prams with one hand. He was going at quite a speed and I was slightly concerned that he could trip at any second and send a baby spinning off in the distance, but he was out of sight before he broke stride. Shame.

One thing about Victoria Park that disconcerts me is the squirrels. I mean, they're everywhere. And not cute little squirrels. These are chinchilla-sized beefcake squirrels that apparently have no fear. In the past, No'rn Ir'on and I have been power walking around the park and I've naively exclaimed, "Oh how cute! Look, he's coming over!" - only to be confronted by a creature that's half American Grey Squirrel and half bare-knuckle fighter. These little critters stare you out at close range then actually come at you. No'rn Ir'on's actually been chased by one before. Today a big gang of them appeared to be having a party under a tree. At least seven squirrels hopped around, tails bobbing cheekily, and gave innocent passers-by evil looks. I jogged hastily past.

Another gem of Victoria Park is the lake. An impressive fountain sprays water in the middle of the lake, the low sunshine shining through and casting rainbows over the water. The Pavillion Cafe is always bustling with people enjoying some organic fayre by the water. A multitude of birds flock around them: swans, geese, coots, ducks and seagulls swoop in circles over head. I was captivated today by the elegant swans gliding across the golden silver silhouetted lake. They look so graceful; but this was quickly negated by watching a young swan exit the water. It still had it's cygnet grey down but was growing to be a huge swan. It swam to the edge of the water and suddenly heaved itself out and plonked itself on the shore. I swear the ground shook. It was like a small pony.

The Canada Geese lined up on the edge of the lake, a row of five stood on one leg in perfect harmony and watched the gulls overhead in total synchronicity. It was like a troupe of Eastern European gymnasts, poised for their choreographed routine. But with more feathers.

As I alternated between brisk walking and huffing and puffing during the attempts at jogging, I started to really enjoy myself. I love being alone outdoors and the weather was perfect - I was hot but the fresh gusts of wind felt greatly refreshing. In some spots in the park, the constant of East End traffic actually dies down and all you can hear is dogs yapping and birds squawking. Despite loving city life, I am at heart a rural girl. If I was asked at any point, what would I like to be doing right now? The top two answers would always contain the same: on a magnificent Hunter or Dutch Warmblood, cantering across rolling English hills or testing my nerve skittering on a flighty horse through woodland.

The Park contains the ghost of Victorian grandeur - the lake, the noble gates, the ruined sculptures, the hazy vistas behind ancient trees. It's easy to wander round and expect a Victorian gentleman to come strolling by in a top hat and dress coat.

I made my breathless way back to the park gates and tried not to have a coronary, feeling content and euphoric despite my shit attempt at being A Runner.

I have a confession to make: Dear Hackney Road Tesco; the twenty pound note I paid for my shopping with had been safely ensconced in my sweaty minging trainer for the entire run. Sorry about that...

Another Weekend, Another Write Off

Friday night.

"Yes, I will just come out for ONE."

Famous last words. We headed out for a "couple" of drinks with some very important work people, all civility quickly descended (once the important people had gone on to an important dinner) and it was the usual gang.

It swiftly mutated into us ripping it for no real reason out of No'rn Ir'on, including me offering her some crayons in a mime about how I couldn't understand what she said, so she could write things down for me.

Other highlights included:

• Casual racial stereotyping of a new New Zealander in the office (me: "I just want to quote Flight of the Conchords at you. 'Band meeting!'" He was impressed, obviously. Though he does do a fine Gollum impression. I nearly ran away crying.) I also may not have endeared myself by proclaiming that the Lord of the Rings trilogy is three films about people on a really long walk. It is!
  

• The Dane kindly reminding me about a time when I utterly, publicly disgraced myself by telling a colleague in a smug, I'm-correcting-you sort of way, "But Copenhagen is a country!" This will not die, they're never going to let it go. So geographically-challenged, an American asked me if I was American. Not my finest moment.

• For a reason that is now fuzzy with wine-clouded retrospect; everyone very loudly cheersing my Mum (I really don't know why), and talking about her in a very respectful but also massively inappropriate way. I remember not knowing if I should laugh or cry. I think I laughed. In a "can't believe you just said that" manner.
  

• A random man joining us stood outside the bar who was kind of odd - we all politely assumed he knew someone else in the group. We eventually established he didn't. It was only afterwards I received a text from No'rn Ir'on saying he'd put his arm round her and I needed to save her. "Get someone to pretend to be my boyfriend!"

• A heated soliloquy from No'rn Ir'on about Tayto (pronounced 'Tater') crisps and how they were the best crisps ever. EVER.

There were definitely some other entertaining incidents, I just can't recall them right now. I managed to stumble into a cab home, and woke up in the morning to find a trail of late night snacks, clothes dumped in the lounge and a very confused No'rn Ir'on in the kitchen.

Yep, just a quiet Friday night.

Good job I had a nice quiet Saturday evening.... oh, hang on...

Gym: Reasons for & against

The gym.

The 21st century necessity.

The antidote to our hectic, stressful, indulgent lifestyles. The counteractivity to sitting on our arses all day at work.

Ahhh, the gym. Or as I like to think of it, the place I pay an obscene amount of cash to every month, to feel inadequate and get physically punished (but secretly like it.) It's like a socially acceptable, corporate S&M dungeon. With less leather. (Saying that, I was working out recently behind an old man who clearly was sporting a thong underneath his white shorts. I was a bit sick in my mouth. Anyway, I digress.)

Reasons to go:

To get fit, obviously.

To get strong.

To tone up and slim down.

To be able to smoke cigarettes and drink wine on a weekend and at least feel I am doing the tiniest thing to balance this out.

To work off some of the massive stress I accrue every week.


Reasons not to go:

It's really expensive and on top of the hard-earned wedge I pay every month for the privilege of smelling other peoples' sweat; they expect me to pay more for towels and water. Outrageous.

You get sweaty. In front of other people. Mainly City traders.

It really hurts sometimes. Squats aren't my friend.

I have an innate fear of slipping gracelessly backwards off the cross trainer or treadmill. It's inevitable. Apart from possible injury, I am going to look a right twat when this happens.

I go a bit patchy when I get hot. This is also not a good look.

Hyperventilating after about four minutes on the cross trainer also makes you look like an asthmatic geriatric....



This blog is a distraction technique to not be on the cross trainer right now. No'rn Ir'on is introducing me to the Power Plate shortly. I am intrigued. And more than a bit scared.

Right, let's go and do some lunges.

Italy Day 6: Falling in love on the plane

A stunning morning in Ostuni. I was sad to wake up in my luxurious bed for the last time and contemplate heading back to London. Last days of holidays suck.

Angelo came to collect us as agreed, The Blonde decided to leave behind her dubious bottle of cactus liquer for the next holidaymakers. It was with a genuinely heavy heart that I walked down the perilous stone steps for the last time with my case bursting with biscotti and trullo-shaped novelty limoncello bottles.

In the car, while watching the landscape under the bright sunshine and admiring the crimson soil and gnarled olive groves; I began to formulate the life plan of how to actually move to Ostuni. First thing, learn Italian.

In a wonderfully cyclical bit of fate, Lily Allen's Fuck You came on as were pulling up to the airport, the bizarre soundtrack to our trip; and a rainbow curved down from underneath a fluffy cloud. Goodbye Apulia!

I almost had a bit of a strop in the airport when faced with a) Ryanair's ridiculous luggage allowances; coupled with not being able to bring back any cheap Italian cigarettes. Boo. This was swiftly put aside however, when we began to queue for boarding. I actually fell in love about three times in that queue, there really are some extradordinarily beautiful men in that country.

I kept saying "Seriously, look at him!" to the The Blonde about one tall handsome man. Sculpted cheekbones, stubbly and D&G model-esque mouth, wearing a scruffy Who T-shirt and listening intently to his earphones. Sigh. Casually gawping at him took my mind of the queueing boredom for a good 45 minutes.

On the plane, it was literally a bunfight, scrambling for seats and wedging luggage into any available crevice. Ryanair flights are not a pleasant experience. Until now.

The Blonde sat by the window, I sat next to her and we watched people filter past us and the empty seat next to me. Suddenly, Beautiful Man walked past and OH MY GOD sat down next to me. The Blonde laughed out loud at my face as I whipped round to face her with wide eyes; half a look of alarm and half giddy excitement. I looked uber cool at this point, obviously.

He waited until everyone had packed their luggage in the overhead compartments before carefully placing his pristine Temptations vinyl on top of everything. He was listening to soul on his iPod. Taste as well as beauty. Some people just have everything.

I spent the entire flight not quite knowing what to do with myself.

The Blonde, whispering "Talk to him!"

Me: "I can't! He's Italian. And beautiful. Oh...and asleep."

Italians are funny on planes. It was by no means a rough or turbulent flight, but yet still the whole plane clapped upon touchdown. I've never seen this before. Why? The pilot did not heroically guide us to safety through a storm. He did not fight off a terrorist in the cockpit. He just did his job. Yes, I couldn't do it; but he's trained to do what he did. I don't clap the waiter when he brings me a good coffee. I don't give the bus driver a standing ovation when he delivers me to the correct bus stop outside work of a morning. Curious.

The plane's wheel had literally just touched the tarmac, when everyone jumped from their seats and began to unpack their hand luggage from the overhead lockers. The Blonde and I looked at each other in disbelief as we taxied down the runway at a still high speed. A man knocked into the sitting Beautiful Man as he yanked his bag out of the locker. Beautiful Man dressed him down in Italian. I melted a bit. Gorgeous, loves music and courteous to others. Oh God.

What a holiday - couldn't have asked for anything more. Loved the place, the people, the food and wine, the light. The Italians know how to do everything better than us. Except, tea. But that can be forgiven.

Back to London. Grey. Wet. Cold. Depressing.

Put the kettle on.

Italy Day 5: Luigi, Big Nuts & Pizza

We'd been lucky enough to be at the receiving end of one of Rosa's kind invitations again yesterday, to join her for lunch again today. We had a lazy morning in preparation, watched a crap Al Pacino film which I didn't realise The Blonde had put on and exclaimed,

"They just said 'fuck' and it's not even 12 noon yet - Italian TV is pretty lenient!"

The Blonde: "um, it's a film. On DVD."

Me: "Oh.... that would explain it."

The Blonde: "I love you, Arctic Puffin."

We wander down to Rosa's slightly later than she suggested since the day before, time seemed like a fluid concept. In we strolled, confidently now exclaiming "Ciao! Buongiorno Rosa!" Her reply was,

"1:15! Late! Sit!" Whooooooops. We get ushered through to the dining room and it dawns on us - this isn't the same arrangement as before, where The Blonde and I sat comfortably with Rosa, communicating in pidgin Englitalia. This is a table full of Italian men. Ranging from mid 20s to 50s and rather intimidating. We grinned nervously and said "Ciao" to everyone as we sat. Rosa had prepared a gorgeous tray of roasted meat and potatoes and veg, and she dished it out. Everyone is speaking Italian and we haven't got a clue what is going on.

Shit. This is slightly uncomfortable.

One older man sat next to The Blonde, bless him, tries to make conversation. We establish he comes from Lecce, "The Florence of the South" and comes to eat with Rosa once a week. He is very sweet but slightly creepy. There is a very sexy older guy who is wearing a lilac poloneck and a tweed suit - this should not work but he was hot. Next to me was a younger guy who didn't even acknowledge my presence.

We made stilted conversation as we ate the delicious meal Rosa had made, I'm not even sure what meat it was (possibly rabbit) and then she presented us with a plateful of homemade lasagne after a roast. We had to at least eat some of it. Also absolutely yum, but we were both in danger of popping at this point.

Annamaria brought us little cakes for dessert and their young male relatives brought us coffee and limoncello. Everyone started eating fresh walnuts after the meal, the older man next to The Blonde said,

" 'Ow do you say.... Big Nuts?" pointing to the walnuts in shells. We don't know if he's taking the piss or not so we crack up. The table starts laughing but he looks a bit confused,

"Have I said wrong? These... big nuts?" We assure him it's a walnut, but it was just that what he said in English had a double meaning. Ooops. Impressive though, Italian men break walnut shells with their hands.

During the meal, a guy came bounding in. We'd guess late 40s, built like a bull, wearing a pink jumper and having lots of banter with everyone - clearly a comedian. He introduces himself to us, he practically crushes my hand when he shakes it. This is Luigi.

Over the end of dinner, we establish he can speak some English as his brother lives in London, and he's really rather funny, as well as being a 52 year old weightlifter. Annamaria goes on to the laptop on the internet and they are laughing and pointing about something. Everyone is summoned to the screen to check out a photo from the 70 of three musclebound bodybuilders - yep that's him - that explains that neck and that chest. The Blonde and I exchange glances.

As we relax after the food mountain, Luigi keeps going on about The Blonde's eyes. During this chat I put my cigarettes on the table in anticipation of popping out on to the terrace for a post-dinner smoke. Luigi questions me about how many I smoke, then grabs my hand and starts smelling my fingers! This is weird. Not just a polite sniff from a distance, but practically my fingers are in his mouth at this point. Ummmm, ok, I am just popping outside.

Alone, admiring the magnificant view and enjoying my cigarette, I then hear the door go. Luigi comes out with one of my cigarettes.

Me: "Luigi, you don't smoke! You are so fit!" (I meant this in the literal, muscular sense.)

He lights it regardless, not looking in the least bit like a smoker, and stands directly in front of me.

"Your eyes! Verde, verde! Originale?"

Me: "Si, originale... "

He sees that my left eye has a random bit of brown in it and chatters away in Italian, I have no idea what he is saying. A friend of his joins us and I have the opportunity to put out the cigarette and slip back inside.

The Blonde is sorting out Euro, and suggests we should go. I agree. All very welcoming and lovely, just starting to err on the side of slight discomfort.

We promise Rosa we will come back in Summer, and thank her for her warmth and hospitality during our stay, when Luigi comes over.

"You like pizza?"

"Of course......"

"Ok, tonight, we take you somewhere special. You come out for pizza? 9pm? Nothing funny, this special." At this point The Blonde swore he also said "No police" - I did not hear this, but it's worrying nonetheless. We agree loosely to this plan and make our way back to the apartment to finish the vino locale and doze off our huge lunch.

After some deliberation we decide that perhaps it's not the best idea to go and meet Luigi for pizza. I am sure it would have been great fun but we couldn't be doing with the effort of the language barrier; as well as suspecting that Luigi would have brought a lot of the locals since The Blonde had definitely been a city novelty throughout the time we'd stayed. We had visions of us turning up for pizza and a chat, and a whole gaggle of Italian man who'd come to see the legendary Blonde English girl...

Instead we spent our final night in Il Gatto Rosso, enjoying a fine pizza and yet more Prosecco, and The Blonde had a nice final evening ogling Fitty McDirty.

The Blonde: "Ask his name!"

Me: "I don't care - YOU ask his name!"

The Blonde: "No you go to the bar, get more drinks and ask his name!"

Me: "No. I WILL go and get drinks, but I am not asking his name."


So, our final night in Ostuni. We wandered home, hoping to avoid Luigi in case he was angry we stood him up, and happened to be a member of the local Mafia or something... we got away with it.

A cup of green tea, and a final sleep in my little stone alcove...

Italy Day 4: Trulli, Chilli Grappa & Shag/Marry/Ditch

The previous day, Rosa had suggested she take us on an excursion to Alberobello, famous for it's hobbit-like houses called trulli which are forbidden to be dismantled; and a entire trulli town exists which is a world heritage site. We eagerly agreed to go and see this, and made our way to Gran Caffe Tito Schipa on the Monday morning.

We arrived and ordered espressos while Rosa busied herself serving the biggest group of people we'd seen the whole time we'd been there, and The Blonde and I started to worry that this might be a coach trip full of people who can't speak English, and that it would be awkward...

We needn't have panicked though, a good 45 minutes after the agreed meeting time (Rosa needed to have a cappuccino and smoke about 6 cigarettes), the three of us got into her convertible Renault and we made our way to Alberobello down remote roads flanked by olive groves and industrial units. The Blonde was cramped up in the back while I was treated to the sight of the road head on as Rosa threw the car around the narrow roads, whilst not wearing a seatbelt and having the odd cigarette out of the window.

After a slightly hair-raising hour, Rosa pulled up in the pretty town of Alberobello and we stiffly got out of the car and enjoyed a potter round in some fresh air.

Alberobello was a really unusual place and exquisitely pretty, with trulli as far as the eye can see. The thing is though, once you've seen one trullo, you've sort of seen them all. The town felt very touristy and every other trullo was a souvenir shop. I took pictures of one such shop, and the owner came out and ushered me in for a look around. He was also kind enough to open up his loft stairs and motion me up them to get a great panoramic view of the whole place.

He also gave us many samples of the Puglian liquers he was selling - in the space of about five minutes we'd had cactus liqeur, almond liquer, limoncello, chilli grappa (extremely strong) and various other potent digestifs from the same cup. We'd had a crispbread each for breakfast so we both staggered out of the trullo with a bagful of dubious liquers and some almond biscotti. Good sales technique.

On the return journey, Rosa took us via the coast to drive through Torre Canne to see the golden beaches. It wasn't really beach weather, but the sun came out despite the grey sky and the landscape was vivid. Then she said something which struck me with pure terror.

"We have restaurants here, sell only fish. Apulian speciality is, how do you say.... urchin?"

The Blonde and I exchange glances.

"I take you to restaurant and we try, ok?"

In my head I am thinking no no NO, since I am squeamish about seafood as it is, so the thought of an exotic sea urchin is actually making me feel a bit queasy. I've only been eating prawns and mussels for the last two years, for God's sake.

Rosa pulled into a restaurant where an old man was smoking around the back, and a well-fed slightly feral-looking dog was scampering round. Rosa asked in Italian if they were open, to my utter relief, it wasn't. No sea urchin for me! It would have been the dilemma of offending our hostess, or quite possibly trauma and vomiting. No one wants that. Especially me. The Blonde and I made disappointed noises and said "Next time! When we comeback in summer, yes!"


We were kindly invited to go and eat after the trip again with Rosa, so we happily accepted for the sake of Italian authenticity. Rosa laid out a spread of foie gras, salami, ham, cheeses, bread and her homemade white wine again, we were very happy. We assumed this was lunch, but this being Italy, there was more to come. As we digested the first course, Rosa whipped out a dish of the Apulian speciality pasta, orichiette ("little ears"). She served it with salty fish (I think it was anchovy) and a vegetable which was like a skinny broccoli. Unusually, you eat it with crispy breadcrumbs sprinkled over the top, and it's totally delicious.

Full and dozy again, Rosa's sister Annamaria popped out this time, with her homemade caramel panna cotta and cherry wine liquer she brewed herself. All completely yummy and moreish but by this time The Blonde and I had to go home and struggle up the hill for a little sleep and a kick back.

What better game to pass the time is there than 'Shag, Marry, Ditch?' (actually there are many, many better ways to pass the time but it seemed a great suggestion at the time) We enjoyed another bottle of the local vino and spent some time in the afternoon sat on our balcony trying to give each other really hard choices, and cracking up at the consequent answers. Which go no further than that balcony in Ostuni.

After such a heavily indulgent afternoon, there was no need to go out for dinner this evening. We spent it listening to a wonderful storm, watching more films and discovering an awesome Italian series called Un Medico In Famiglia which was a long programme and contained plotlines about a chocolatier, a riding school, doctors and bored housewives. Utterly brilliant, my new favourite series. No idea what they were saying for most of the time but somehow the blonde and I knew what was going on.

"Ooo quick, pour that wine and get over here, she's pregnant with his baby!"

"Oh my God, what a cow, can't believe she did that!"

"Why has she built a church out of white chocolate?" (This was a real observation and an example of the stunning plotlines.)

Italy Day 3: Free olives, white jeans and fake tan

Sundays in Ostuni. Even less is open than any other out of season day. It was another fine day so The Blonde and I decide to take a wander and do some more exploring.

Lots of people are wearing black, and we're not sure why, but begin to worry since Sunday is an important day in the Catholic calendar.

As we're wandering, I fear The Blonde is about to throw a strop,

"EVERYONE is wearing black, Arctic Puffin - what if we're offending the locals?! WHAT IF WE SHOULD BE WEARING BLACK?!"

I point out that she is wearing pretty much completely black except a white vest peeking out from under her junper, and I am wearing a black cardi, so it's ok even if everyone is meant to wear black.

However, shortly we see an Italian family wearing the de riguer orange/purple puffa jackets, so it's all ok.

We come across a gorgeous little cafe/ art gallery run by a very friendly and not-bad English speaking man, so we sit in a deserted square and enjoy a Prosecco with free olives and fresh tomato bruschetta. Even I, who hates raw tomato, enjoyed it.

Oooh, where to go for dinner later that night? Hmmmmm.... Il Gatto Rosso? Ok!

It was funny because the previous night we'd been discussing the phenomenon of white jeans. A couple of Italian teenage girls were wearing them and we debated the merits.

The Blonde: "I think they look really good."

Me: "Nooooo, even if you're tiny and rich like Liz Hurley, they still look Euro-trash cheap!"

We entered Il Gatto Rosso... to see Fitty McDirty sporting a pair of really rather tight... white... jeans.

It's hard to order drinks and dinner without wetting ourselves but we somehow manage it.

Me: "Is he looking more tanned than yesterday? I think he's put tan on, in the hope you are coming back in, for more International Inappropriate Touching."

The Blonde: "No... really? You think? Oh he saw me looking, shit"

Me: "Definitely. His face is darker than yesterday. Wow, white jeans and bronzer, that's a potentially messy combo, he's pulling if off well."

And so the evening was spent debating whether men wear makeup. And still debating from opposite sides about whether anyone should ever wear white jeans.

I had an unusual pizza which was a dough base with fresh tomato, mozarella, rocket and reams of prosciutto on top. Basically a salad on bread. It was way too much again.

We really needed the peppermint tea I'd brought with me when we go back to the apartment.

Italy Day 2: Sunshine, Angels & Demons & Free Hairclips

After a wonderfully long and restful sleep in my alcove, I awoke to find sunshine illuminating the stone apartment. A lazy morning included some of the best juice I've ever had (it seems the Italians do everything better, including breakfast juice, Arancia Rossa...mmmm) and laughing at the awful DVD of Angels & Demons. (The apartment came with a great film collection which we worked our way through during the stay.)

My favourite bit of Angels & Demons came from the really obvious dumbing down for the American audience. At one point, an Italian in the film says to Tom Hanks,

"we see you, as, how you say... [with thick Italian accent]... formidable,"

Tom Hanks: "you see me as... formidable?"

Brilliant.

During the film, I get things out for breakfast, including something The Blonde picked up, thinking it was butter. Little packages of something labelled as being useful for panne & pasta - we naturally concluded it was butter.

The Blonde: "Give that butter a squidge love, it will have gone hard in the fridge."

I dutifully squidged the packet then opened it. It was clear that this was not butter, but some grainy, beige yeasty substance for baking bread and cakes.

"Um, Blonde, I think this isn't butter...."

"No, I think it's yeast...." [gag]

Well done us. We hastily learn the Italian for butter for next time we go shopping.

We decide to take advantage of the lack of rain and have a wander round the delightful little city with it's grand but crumbling buildings and marble squares. The Blonde gets beeped at by over-zealous Italian men on a constant basis. By the end of the holiday, it's starting to grate.

Out of season Ostuni is a very quiet place. There's literally no one around and very little open during the afternoons. We managed to locate the internet cafe recommended by the apartment owners and try and get drinks and lunch, Gran Caffe Tito Schipa, run by two friendly Italian sisters Rosa and Annamaria.

It's strange inside - half gelataria, half the living and dining rooms of an old-fashioned Italian house. We ask Rosa if we can have some drinks on the terrace outside (she pours extremely strong G&Ts!) and enquire about lunch - she says in broken English,

"No restaurant, we are cafe - I make sandwich?" We agree that this would be fine, but then after she's run some enquiries with her sister, she announces we can have tortellini - perfect.

The terrace at the back of the cafe overlooks the whole city, down to the valley where a huge white church dominates the background of deep green olive groves, and up to the hill where the Cattedralle sits. One thing that will always remind me now of Ostuni is the smell of wood-burning stoves - the city smelled like bonfires the whole time, and we had a very pleasant break with the intoxicating smell of wood and the sunshine twinkling over the magnificent view.

Soon Rosa comes out and presents us with amazing homecooked tortellini in a creamy sauce with prosciutto, and local white wine which was a straw yellow and tasted more like vermouth. Benissimo!

On the way back to L'Alcova, The Blonde is accosted from across the square by a man who knew Christiano and Augusto the night before. He was also called Angelo. I think most people on Ostuni are called Angelo. We bid a hasty retreat up the hill back to the apartment.

Back in the apartment, I was disproportionately happy to find that the well stocked kitchen included a cat-shaped icecube tray. The Blonde was happy because she had a free hairclip in her packet of Italian kids' crisps. Simple pleasures.

Quote of the day was The Blonde topping her "I love clouds" comment the day before, with apropos of nothing, announcing that she "loved meat" while we enjoyed some more antipasti later that day.

We spent another fun evening in Il Gatto Rosso (we didn't really explore the range of restaurants in Ostuni, we decided to make this one our local as the menu was broad and really inexpensive, and with two euro for a glass of Prosecco, we didn't need to go anywhere else.)

I had a lasagne which I am not sure was completely authentic but still, it was tasty. We were alos delighted by the dolce which was a frozen ball of vanilla ice cream covered in little bits of crisp sugar, with strong coffee ice cream in the middle. Amazing.

We then enjoyed the absolutely brilliant British drama State of Play - possibly one of the best series I've ever seen, and an early night for some more glorious, switched off sleeping.

Italy Day 1: Booze in pouches, Angelo & Il Gatto Rosso

November 2009. Italy with The Blonde. Much anticipated trip. Was it going to live up to our expectations?

It did. And beyond.

Things I learned in Italy:

1) Italians love white jeans. Mostly the men.
2) They also like to wear orange and purple coloured clothes. Sometimes together.
3) The people of Ostuni don't speak English.
4) They've apparently never seen bleached hair before.
5) If you say "hokaaay" in a vaguely Continental accent, and use International Inappropriate Touching, you can generally communicate.
6) I attract 52 year old bodybuilders called Luigi.
7) It is possible to eat one's own bodyweight in cheese, prosciutto and bread and not get sick of it.


The trip began with a dubious cab ride to Stansted at stupid o'clock in the morning last Friday, ("errrrm, I think the road markings are for your guidance?") We survived this, but I got the inevitable violation at airport security. I don't know what is is about me that sets off the alarms but it resulted in a particularly thorough frisking. Question for airport security: did you have to frisk me so much that you felt along the entirety of both my bra wires? I felt thoroughly defiled and was in need of a drink at this point.

Drinking in airports is not only acceptable, but there's a law to say you ought to. With so many people travelling internationally in and out of time zones; drinking a vodka tonic at 6am is totally fine. We were delighted to see spirits in pouches on the plane, ("Capri Sun for adults!" I cried excitedly), but not even this could drown out the most annoying passenger in the world who was sat opposite us.

She was very shrill and resembled a Spitting Image puppet and decided to spend almost THREE HOURS listing where she had and hadn't been in the world.

"Crete.. Santorini... Paphos"...yawn.

The poor man she was talking at looked like he might hurt himself for something else to do. The Blonde and I cracked up for the whole flight.

When we arrived at Bari airport, we'd arranged to be picked up by a man called Angelo to drive us to Ostuni. We'd discussed before hand that he'd resemble a member of the Mafia and be a big, gesticulating Italian man. We couldn't have been more wrong. Our greeting was a simple "Buongiorno", and he was of jockey proportions. We spent the drive in silence not knowing whether we should attempt an English conversation with him, but we were quite happy looking out at the wonderful Italian landscape.

At one point I was giggling silently, as the unedited version of Lily Allen's "Fuck You" came on the local radio, very loud. This randomly became the soundtrack to our entire holiday. The Italians love this track, it's on MTV Italia every 5 minutes and every single bar played it at least once an evening.

We pulled up to the pallazzo after winding dangerously through ancient, steep, narrow little streets in the rain - Angelo parked up and got out of the car, testing front doors to locate our apartment. The Blonde and I didn't know whether to ask if all was ok, or what was going on. He would get back in muttering to himself in Italian, then drive a little further and repeat. He left his mobile in the car at one point and it began to ring, we debated answering it but decided to pretend we hadn't noticed and just hoped he'd get back in the car soon, or find our apartment.

Finally - we got into the place which would be our home for the next 6 days. And what a home. Up narrow, ancient stone steps to our internal door which opened into a cosy, but high-vaulted-ceilinged appartemente. Named L'Alcova after the stone alcove which housed the double bed, it was really stunning -slightly ramshackle but chic. Our balcony faced over the narrow street to the other pallazzos, where the local Ostunians lived - not a tourist in sight.

We happily opened the prosecco kindly left in our fridge and spent our first afternoon sheltering from what had turned into a storm, watching Elf (a long running joke between The Blonde and I) and contentedly relaxing on the sofa.

We decided to venture out later on to the shops to find a place to stock up on supplies. Walking down through the stone archway into the white city, the first thing we noticed that sleepy little Ostuni had a Durex machine in the street. Just there, on the main junction. Disturbingly, the biggest demographic we saw out round the main square was elderly men. Later on in the holiday though, we would see the reason why this machine was a necessity - the Italians just ooze sex. Their language, passion, food, wine, exquisite good looks and utter self confidence that allows them to pull off various garish shades of puffa jackets; means that being shacked up indoors is apparently the national hobby. We came to the conclusion that this is what everyone in Ostuni must do all afternoon since we barely saw anyone out in the days.

Every building we entered in Ostuni was in a cave. Vaulted stone ceilings everywhere, even in our local grocery shop. Despite the proprietor not speaking English, we managed well enough with some well-placed "Ciao!"s and some wild gesticulating to get bags full of excellent local cheese, salami, cheap wine and limoncello. You know, the essentials.

That evening, we stumbled upon Il Gatto Rosso, a pub/pizzeria which was recommended by our apartment owner, and famous for it's very cheap and lovely pizzas, and the fact it showed Italian football matches every evening. We made it famous for language barriers and the amount of food we thought was reasonable to order, while the waiter/barman looked on bemusedly. We had amazing air dried beef carpaccio with parmesan and rocket; antipasti selection, olives stuffed with meat and some spicy potatoes. This was way, way too much.

One of Il Gatto Rosso's main attractions was the waiter. He was very, very hot. The Blonde developed quite a fixation with him, he became known as Fitty McDirty due to my iPhone predictive text, when I was taking notes for my blog, and the cause of much hilarity throughout the week. ("Fitty" becomes "dirty" on the iPhone.)

While we were eating, we noticed how much attention we were drawing with the locals. Me with my clearly-not-natural red hair and bluey green eyes; and The Blonde with her white blonde locks and green eyes. The men on the next table began talking to us after a bit of pointing and staring, and despite them not speaking English; and us not speaking Italian, with the help of a dictionary and some sign language, we got by and had a very pleasant evening with Christiano from Roma and Augusto from Napoli. They taught us some Italian, and we taught them "Same again?"

When we made to leave, the boys tried to indicate they wanted to drive us somewhere. We hastily refused and left, "Grazie! Buono Notte!", and scooted back to the apartment up the extremely steep hills, which after a meal of that proportion, and the day of drinking, was an absolute killer. Once we'd got over the hyperventilating; we spent the rest of the evening drunkenly dancing to Calvin Harris and Jay-Z, and somehow managed to polish off almost an entire litre of Limoncello. Quite possibly one of the best days ever, topped off by flopping out on my bed in an ancient Italian alcove. Brilliant.

Being Insufferable in the Holiday Run Up

Yep. I am one of those people.

I'm behaving like I am the first person in the world to have a holiday.

I am going away to glorious Italy tomorrow and I am *so* excited about it, that I have become a holiday bore.

Everyone is grinning at me through gritted teeth while wishing I would just jog on to Italy and stop talking about it. I am sure they are all wishing me a bad flight, rain, awful food (as if that's going to happen in Italy!) and just generally a crappy time so I return, put back in my place, to grey and dreary London.

"Well that's what you get for building up the holiday too much."

You know what? I don't care if it rains. I don't care if the apartment is a rat-infested hole. I don't care if the town is little more than a dodgy trattoria with old ladies sitting in the street giving me evils.

Because I am going to Italy! Land of food, wine, art, culture and more passion than a deluded X Factor auditionee.

I'm packing the giant sunglasses, the headscarves and the deck shoes and I am ready for a Riviera girls adventure. It's most likely going to be 5 days of landscape photos, being drunk and eating too much carb heavy Italian food, but here's hoping for some Italian adventures and most of all, a damn good giggle.

Expect to be bored senseless by the post-holiday blogs to come.

And the endless photos......

Sigh No More, No More: Mumford & Sons gig 2

More recordings from the gig:

Little Lion Man


Roll Away Your Stone

Sigh No More, No More: Mumford & Sons gig

"Man is a giddy thing, oh man is a giddy thing;

Love: it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you; it will set you free, more like the man you were made to be ."

Mumford & Sons, Sigh No More, Oct 2009, HMV Forum, Kentish Town.

I've been obsessing over this album since it's release; it's a soaring, epic country tinged album with heartfelt angsty choruses and lyrics that can be taken with a pinch of darkness. Mumford & Sons are from the London country/folk rock stable of The Maccabees, Noah & the Whale and Laura Marling. No wonder I love them so much.

The build up to this gig made me a bit nervous. I've listened to, and loved the album so vehemently (it makes me well up on the bus into work on a daily basis, in a good way) that I worried the gig might be a let down. I didn't know anyone who'd already seen them. The background of my thoughts is continuous low-level disappointment most of the time, so I was scared I'd built it up too much.

I need not have worried. Firstly; a perfect little venue. The HMV Forum: small enough to be very intimate, and you have to love a venue where you can stand at the bar and still be within spitting distance of the act playing. It feels like an old ballroom and reminded me very much of the Folkestone Leas Cliff Hall (but without the magnificent smoking balcony overlooking, well, France.)

Secondly, a band whose instruments consist of an accordian, keyboard, banjo, guitar, drums and a double bass is unlikely to be a let down. There are not enough bands with double basses. What a beautiful instrument, it gave such solid reverberating warmth to the whole set.

One thing that did puzzle me about the gig was the amount of really young fans the band have - I was surrounded by 12 year olds in homemade M&S T-shirts. It drew me to the conclusion that if you're not old enough to smoke; you shouldn't be allowed into such a good gig. I don't appreciate a rucksack in my face/drink/chest throughout the set, or being jumped on continually. Perhaps they should be admired for having such excellent musical taste so young. Ok I've changed my mind: let them in, but just in some sort of teenager pen right at the back where they can jump and spill their Fanta and raging hormones on each other. Just not near me.

Me: "If that kid's fucking rucksack knocks my drink one more time...."

No'rn Ir'on: "It's ok, when the lights go down it will be dark enough so no one will see you kick him."

I actually contemplated the penalty for assaulting a teenager in public and weighed up the pros and cons.

The band announced that this was their first London show since the release of the album so it felt like a "we've made it" homecoming gig. They are wonderful on stage, telling stories and performing every tune with pure gusto and passionate energy, knocking the crap out of their instruments. I've never seen someone rock out a double bass before. It's pretty impressive.

The set kicked off with Sigh No More, starting with acoustic and harmonies, and building up to a massive chorus with banjo riffs that had the crowd jumping around. There was a definite stomping hoedown vibe to the set which gels surprisingly well with profound, swelling climaxes of drums, bass and Marcus Mumford's powerful voice.

Straight into Little Lion Man which everyone went mad for, a stand out track on the album that Zane Lowe himself proclaimed to be 'Hottest Record In The World Right Now' when it first came out. He was pretty spot on. A few hundred people singing their hearts out to

"It was not your fault, but mine - and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear?"

was great fun and very rousing.

They played their way through most of the album, and ended on a new song called Whispers in the Dark (I think). We were lucky enough to be about six feet from the stage for the whole performance. It was pretty cool to meet the bands eye and see them smiling as they watch you film them.

They got a whooping, hollering reception upon ending their set but it was disappointing that the set line up (Mr Hudson followed by headliner Paloma Faith) didn't allow them to do an encore. Who wants to see Mr Hudson any way? We watched a bit by the bar, I know Kanye West loves him, but he didn't perform anything that was on a par with his excellent old single Too Late. No'rn Ir'on commented:

"Here, doesn't this remind you of Maroon 5?"

Me: "Yes. Ergo, shite."


We left before Paloma Faith came on, by that point I was elated, sweaty and really wanted a cigarette so No'rn Ir'on and I headed out into the dark Camden night. We were just gathering our thoughts and discussing how bloody amazing the gig was, when suddenly we spotted Country Winston (Winston Marshall, banjo and vocals) outside The Forum. As he strolled past we stopped him to say thanks for such a wonderful performance and to ask when they'd be performing in London again (he didn't know). He was very charming and didn't mind being accosted by two tipsy and exciteable girls. How can you express how much a band move you to a band member without sounding like a groupie idiot? I don't think you can.


One bad thing about this gig is that I am now more in love with Marcus Mumford than ever. I've gone to see him as an avid fan, and come back bearing the adolescent pain of forever unrequited love. Damnit. Any man that can write, sing and perform like that is astounding. Plus he's fit and rocks an old-fashioned 'tache that not that many men could get away with. *sigh* I think I'll spend today staring wistfully out of a window into the middle distance.

Still though, the heavy-hearted burden of a one-way infatuation is a small price to pay for a concert that definitely rates as one of my all time top five. Simply lovely.

(Sorry for the rubbish sound quality on the video clips: they don't do the band justice.)

Another week in London, another week of randomness

Another week, another series of weird and wonderful happenings. The above photo is the sight that greeted me and a work mate after a meeting in the East End. We were strolling along chattering away, then suddenly - a German Shepherd in shades sat smack bang in the middle of the pavement. Sure, why not?

We looked at each other with a 'did those clients put something in our water in that meeting?' kind of glance. Obviously, the first instinct of both of us was to pull out camera phones and capture this undeniably cool dog. He belonged to a homeless man who was very charming and let us pat his friendly companion, so we gave him some cash for his trouble and went on our merry way, texting pictures of Cool Dog to our friends.

One night after work this week, a bunch of us had gone back to do the final clear out of the old office. It was a bit nostalgic but rather fun. We found: a crown, a Margaret Thatcher mask, a lot of paperwork, some old photos of the ghosts of colleagues past, a bottle of lethal-looking Absinthe and I was overjoyed to find a bottle of Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir perfume that I'd forgotten I had. After clearing the office in record time, we had a drink 'for old time's sake' in our old stomping ground.

Randomly discussing shit chat up lines we'd either used/ had used on us; I went to get a round on my own. I reeled off the order to the barmaid, when a voice chirped up,

"And a JD and Coke for me! *hic*"

A very, very drunk Brazilian man was stood next to me.

"I am Piedro! I am from Brzail. Sorry for being cheeky then. It's my birthday." Like that made it ok.

We shook hands and got the formalities out of the way. I asked why he was alone at the bar on his birthday. He maintained he was waiting for his friends to join him. Ok.

Me: "So how is your birthday evening going? You seem... er... merry?"

Piedro: "It is so much better for seeing you!" Seeing as he was gently swaying whilst delivering this classic line, I could pretty guarantee he could see two of me and probably thought he was addressing twins.

He double whammied me with the follow up,

"It would be even better if I could have your mobile number yes?"

While I fought every fibre of my being's impulse to look deep into his eyes, stroke his leather-jacketed arm, and implore him to take me to Brazil forever; I managed to restrain myself.

"Um, no, I don't think so. But you can have a birthday shot."

Fully confirming how incompatible we were, (aside from the fact he was wasted, not very attractive and the fact that I never trust men who approach girls at bars) he ordered a B52. No one needs to drink Sambuca and Baileys. Together. Or even separately really.

I think this may have been the tipping point for his drunkenness, as when I walked past him later in the evening; his swaying was more dramatic, and he was frantically texting his still non-existent friends.

"Hollaaaaaa gorgeousch!". Crossed eyes are normally not a good sign.

On an unrelated note, another random London happening this week: seeing Jon Snow saunter past me in Paternoster Square in his cycling flouros. He's very tall. I really wanted to ask him about the snazzy socks he always sports on Channel 4 News, but I didn't.

I also once shared a lift with Sir Trevor McDonald in the ITN building. Legend. Very gentlemanly, opened a door for me. Very shiny too.

Perhaps I have some sort of affinity with newsreaders. I wonder who I'll meet this weekend?

City through a Fish Eye 2

Some more fish eye shots of the City.... think I'm getting the hang of it now... need to expand my subject matter

A Grey Day on Southbank

I was disappointed, after hoping for some sharp autumnal light this weekend, London gave me a grey nondescript day with funny overcast light and a bleak outlook.

Undeterred, I took my cameras down to Southbank anyway, just for the hell of it. And the pleasure of sitting outside the Tate Modern having a coffee in the wintery chill.

Also took some shots on the fish eye camera, evidence to follow...




The Globe through the bridge

London through a Fish Eye

So the first photos have come back from the Lumo Fish Eye camera; I've fallen in love with that little bit of neon orange plastic. I know what I am doing all weekend.