Come Dine With Me?

Evening world.

I'm reaching the conclusion of a Bank Holiday weekend that's veered between partying at The Gherkin and lazing around watching DVDs.

I now find myself with a cup of fennel tea watching Come Dine With Me. (I know, I'm living the rock n roll dream. Oasis actually split because they look like a bunch of primary school teachers compared to my debauched antics)

I got to pondering why this cheaply formatted little programme has become such cult viewing. Everyone I know loves it, from my Mum to my friends.

Partly it has to be the people, usually at least half the dinner party guests are erring on the side of, well, bonkers. It makes you wonder whether people actually watch the programme before going on it. You're clearly going to get put in a group with annoying people who you have very little in common with. Great viewing though.

I love the descent throughout the week of awkward unfamiliarity to Dutch courage-induced "Do you know what? *hic* I think... You... Are ... Rude. And your food was rubbish."

It's entertaining watching strangers poke through someone else's house, the one I'm watching at the moment has a guy making a chocolate fondant for the first time, while his dinner guests discover the whip and policeman's hat in his wardrobe. The well to do Anglo-American property developer chips in, "I've seen far worse in people's cupboards". I bet you have.

It's barely even about the food. Even as an avid cook, the menus are a sideline for me. Though it does always amuse me that there's usually one who attempts some ridiculous combition of prawns and chocolate or something.

I think I'd like the job of the VoiceOver bloke. He gets to mock people for half an hour and exhibit explicit Schadenfraude. Ace.

I've been asked what I'd cook for my dinner party. Probably some tried and tested simple dishes for maximum tipsy time with the guests. Asparagus with lemon and pancetta to start, maybe a risotto after... By dessert I would be expecting a full on scrap to start so it'd be unimportant.

I was just thinking about whether any of the people actually keep in touch. Alison the simple housewife who bleaches her patio twice a day declared, "I never. Ever. Want to see any of these people again."

Bon appetit


-- Post From My iPhone

Commuter Sightseeing 2

Another day, another random work commute... London never ceases to amaze me. I now expect the unexpected most days.

This morning, Nor'n Ir'on and I left the house as usual, not quite awake, ready to stick the iPod in to lose myself in another journey.

But this morning brought a sobering sight; informed there'd been some sort of traffic-stopping incident, we plodded from the bus stop towards the City to rejoin the rat race in Shoreditch.

Then we saw it. Awkwardly splayed across the middle of the road, was a crushed car, with its roof chopped off and flung carelessly onto the pavement. Our street suddenly felt like a film set- police parked haphazardly across the traffic route, the midsection of the road and pavements cordoned off with incident tape, commuters hurrying down the road on foot.

We joined the throng of people walking frantically from the East End, I was lost in my thoughts as you are when you see a sad scene of destruction.

Strangely though, for a fleeting minute, there was a sense of community. People passing messages down to the next bus stop that there'd be no buses running this morning. Sharing a few words and a smile with the girl with the lipring, and the academic looking man sporting a fetching suit and well-tailored jacket.

After a stroll, we reached the bustle of Shoreditch with traffic humming and beeping as usual. Yet on the way to the next bus, we saw further odd sights.

A pile of vintage shoes arranged artfully on the pavement, for no apparent reason. A racing bike installation, sprayed matte white and chained to a City lamppost.

A sad but somehow comedic sight of a binman swigging Stella pre 8am. A plush velvet 4 seater sofa abandoned on the pavement.

Finally on the bus, we're met with the sight of a slightly scary big bald guy, dressed in punky S&M black, with chains and rings and matrix style sunglasses. Suddenly, interrupting my thoughts of 'God, this bus is like a sauna', he recognises the man stood next to me and unleashes a camp greeting with air kisses, and flirts all the way to Clerkenwell. Certainly wasn't expecting that.

So, off the bus and heading to get overpriced coffee to jumpstart our sluggish minds for the day ahead- then I see a woman wearing purple fluffy boot slippers. As you do.

Something of an eventful journey. And all before 8:15am.

I feel sorry for the subterranean tube goers, missing out on the sights of overground London. I'm going to start carrying my camera round all the time.


-- Post From My iPhone

Animals with Human Names....

Evening World.

After a manic week, I've been entertaining/distracting myself with a subject that anyone who knows me will know is close to my heart.

Animals - with human names.

I don't know quite where this came from. But I did have a cat called Geoff (named after the Eddie Izzard sketch about the creator of the Pentagon security system: Geoff Geoff Geoffty Geoff, and possibly the beardy bloke from Byker Grove) and it was the perfect name for him.

We chose him because we wanted, I quote, "the spackiest looking kitten in the litter" - he promptly forward rolled out from behind a filing cabinet, being half Burmese he had massive ears and long legs inherited from his mum; and stripy legs from his random tabby cat dad. So he looked a bit out of proportion and stupid.

We'd been considering calling him Harold, since we were still in our studenty "I love Neighbours like it's real" phase. But he wasn't a Harold. He was a Geoff. AND, spelled the English way. Not Jeff, ok America?

He now lives with The Baker in Cambridge and is growing old disgracefully into his excellent name. (His street name is G-Unit like the rapper. Or Fancy Pants because of his reminiscent-of-70s-trousers-legs)

My next animal will be adorned with a human name. But the thing is, it has to be either really normal, really posh, or kind of... well.. chavvy. Tell me a gorgeous Oriental kitten named Wayne is not amusing?

What I really want - is a MASSIVE horse (was thinking ex police horse since they are bombproof, but chances are their legs are shot from all the road work too, so possibly a big Hunter or Dutch Warm Blood) and I want to call it - Dave. Or... Martin.

I cannot bear animals named Snowy or Fluffy or anything trite. Give it a human name, it's much more entertaining and unpredictable.

How about.... a duck called Tarquin?

A puppy called Janice?

Any suggestions welcome.

Good job I am not a cat lady yet, or the Vets' records would be very entertaining. (Or provoking an anonymous call to the local mental hospital from Veterinary reception)

"Hi there Miss Tea Queen, it appears that your kittens Norman, Carlos, Kevin and Bianca are due their vaccination?"

And before you judge me, I genuinely have a friend who's had rabbits named Tim and Gary, and another with a cat called Horris.

So it's not just me. Honest.

Commuter Sightseeing 1

We had a guest last night, who we work with. She joined me on the daily commute from Bethnal Green to the City this morning, on the packed red bus.

It was a typically sweaty journey in the muggy heat, punctuated by an "URGH!" when she got emerged off the claustrophobic bus, into the fresh (ish) air, gasping a lungful of smog.

Me: "What's up?"

N: "You know the skinny weird guy with long hair who got on, and I moved down to get away from him?"

Me: "Yeah..."

N: "He came and stood next to me, my hand was on the post holding myself up and... and... his hair was touching my hand the whole way!" *shudder*

This, in my opinion, is typical of one side of the London bus experience. In the few months I've lived here, I've realised there's a dichotomy of journeys to work.

It's either: rammed with sleepy commuters, unbearably sticky, someone's armpit/groin/hair/breath is in contact with you; and you spend the entire time willing the minutes to somehow go faster so you can get a lung full of air that's not been breathed by everyone else on the bus.

Or, it can be a wonderful sightseeing tour through an interesting part of the city where you get a seat and you can inwardly critique the other passengers' shoes. I stick my iPod in, blast out my current musical obsession (recently Please Venus by the Golden Silvers and Into the Chaos by Howling Bells) and lose myself in the scenery. My bus route does seem to be filled with details I discover anew every morning, a palimpsest of shabby buildings with decades of fly posters, graffiti and signs; and East Londoners going about their daily business.

One thing I relish on these journeys is being part of the rat race. I never thought I'd say that, but it feels like you're part of this big commercial effort, hordes of suited people wearing trainers and striding purposefully to their desks, the hardcore among them running into work. Every other person clutches a coffee and had the distinctive white Apple earphones in, streaming their way towards the City. I am strangely impressed by the ability of City workers to read. Whilst walking. I'd be under a bus in seconds if I did that, not to mention at the very least stacking it ungracefully (my default physical setting) and dropping my laptop/ contents of my handbag haphazardly.

Another is the people. I'm starting to recognise the people on my bus in the mornings and share that tiny "I know you" glance. There's the girl who gets on round Old St who always has ace hair and wears covetable pretty vintage floral dresses, who breezes onto the bus like she's walked out of a high end soft focus perfume ad. And the beautiful androgynous boy who totally pulls off the skinny designer suit with a hint of lipgloss and perfectly arched brows and bronzed cheeks. He stood next to me today and he's also very fragrant. Possibly Prada.

Not to mention my hot fellow commuter neighbour from my block, who my housemate (who will now be known as Nor'n Ir'on since when she's asked where she's from, instead of saying Belfast, this is the noise emitted), keeps missing when I bump into him and thinks I am making him up. I'm not.

Today, after a hard day, we decided to walk the journey back home since it was a glorious evening and we ought to have done something to counteract the volume of Chenin consumed last night. Chatting casually, we eyed up the other people frantically walking to and from their respective jobs. One tall, pretty normal looking (for East London) man walked towards us, and Nor'n Ir'on and I parted so that he could walk the opposite way between us. Then there was that moment where you know the person you're with is about to comment on what just happened.

We looked at each other wryly.

Me: "That was weird..."

No'rn Ir'on: "....he just looked directly at my crotch."



Just your average walk home from the office then.

Tea is the answer to everything

'let's have a cup of tea'

I wonder how many of the world's greatest decisions have followed that statement?

Some people don't get my tea obsession. My closest friends do. Coming from solid Northern stock meant that I grew up with tea. I still find it weird to meet adults who 'don't drink hot drinks'.... Er, what?

I've been drinking tea for literally longer than I can remember. It's the drink you have in times of not knowing what else to do. Someone's received some bad news, had their heart broken, had a crap day at work, is in shock, comes over to your house- what do you do? You put the kettle on.

It's the stuff of rituals. Afternoon tea, first thing in the morning, when you arrive back from holiday.

It's the drink of sympathy and comfort, the apology after a row, the breaking of the ice in an awkward social situation.

Then one must consider the tea itself. I'm a fan of old school simple mainstream teabags. And it has to be strong. And as a tea purist, I find the notion of sugar in tea a weird and unnecessary addition. You can't taste the tea!

I'm all for herbal tea too. Little pick me ups throughout the day, soothing after dinner tea and the not-very-pleasant-tasting-but-swear-it's-doing-me-good detox blend I like to rely on after one too many glasses of wine the evening before.

It's a different culture to coffee. I love coffee with the best of them and must have a huge cup of strong filter coffee in my hand as I enter the office daily, but coffee culture is, well, a bit poncey. Don't get me wrong, I'm a trained Barista and love the satisfaction you get from making the perfect espresso that bubbles through the La Spaziale machine in exactly 20 seconds with a perfect crema on it's glossy surface, and there is nothing like the smell of coffee brewing.

But tea is classless. I bet the Queen drinks the same sort of tea as your local builder. What is so annoying about coffee chains is that you become one of those people who orders a 'skinny wet latte mocha choca frappucino, soy and extra shot, hold the whipped cream ya?' I've got a friend who refuses to enter Starbucks on the basis that she feels like a twat ordering 'special coffees' and is too intimidated to even ask for a 'normal coffee' because the staff invariably shoot you a withering look like you're some sort of outsider to the American overpriced cafe culture, and ask 'do you mean an Americano?'

Saying this, I almost certainly will go and waste a couple of quid on my 'venti drip to go with hot milk' tomorrow morning; but not until I've started off the day at home getting ready in the right and proper way: with a big mug of strong Yorkshire tea.

Now I need a blend suitably soporific to wind my mind down for bed. Lavender and camomile, anyone?

Ooooo, be a love and put the kettle on.


-- Post From My iPhone

London Life

Saturday morning, brew in hand (Yorkshire tea, strong, just a dash of milk, in case you wondered) and the age old dilemma of what to do on a sunny Saturday in the City. (Apart from watching Saturday Kitchen and going to the pub)

There's actually too much to do in London, when you think about it. I get tired even imagining it and since I've lived here I'm almost anxious about missing out on the things I'm not going to get round to doing. It's like the sensation I had at Glastonbury last year, the volume of amazing experiences is so overwhelming, you miss the things you're not going to see before they've even happened.

So far in London, I've done a lot of cool things. The second day I lived here, I went to a secret Hot Chip rave - brilliant. I've done the Tate Modern/South Bank touristy stuff, the epic, iconic Blur gig in Hyde Park, the 50s style bowling/karaoke/curry in Brick Lane, Sundays spent trawling the musty vintage shops and the flowers in Columbia Rd. The other week I stumbled across a brilliant Insa graffiti exhibition, in fact I'm waiting for my photographic still to arrive - my first real artwork purchase from a show! Exciting.

I particularly love the market culture here and my flat in the East End could barely be better located for Columbia Road, Broadway Market, Brick Lane and Whitechapel. There's something really exciting about the hustle and bustle of the people in Columbia Rd on a Sunday morning, (mostly in their 20s/30s and wearing Wayfarers and skinny jeans, natch) and the din of the cockney flower sellers flogging some of the most amazing plants I've ever seen. The other day a seller yelled "alright darlin', have a whiff of this mixed planter!" and before I knew it, he'd scrunched a load of herbs and shoved the pot in my face. Like being assaulted by a kitchen garden. In the best possible way.

When the sun's shining, it feels like a carnival. People just sat on the pavements with espresso or beers, mingling, dogs running around, lovely food being sold. Last weekend I managed to get a lovely natural shot of an Indian man selling peacock feathers, in fact it's one I might blow up and print.

Broadway Market is a gastronomic delight. But a word of caution. I went there the weekend my Mum came down to visit, the night before we'd had wine on the balcony and I got overexcited that my Mum was here. After rounding off the evening with home measured gin Martinis, as soon as I woke the next day I knew I wasn't going to be very well. The smells and tastes of the market, on one of the hottest days of the year, with a raging hangover - not big, not clever. Being 27 and apologising to my Mum for being so hungover and therefore mute, was not one of my finer moments.

London can be a super expensive city. But last weekend I found a little free delight opposite my house - Hackney City Farm! For a girl who grew up in the country, it was a joy. A cute little cobbled yard with roosters running around everywhere ("that's a massive cock", as the accompanying grumpy Scot pointed out matter-of-factly). Not much to it if I'm honest except a handful of farm animals, but worth it for the smell of hay and being amused by the pissed-off donkey who appeared to be having a stare-out with a simple-looking sheep.

I've invested in the Time Out book of 1000 things to do here for under a tenner. I've set myself a challenge while I'm living in London to accomplish as many as possible. What will today bring?

Musician Scroobius Pip has a recommendation section in this book - fancy attending a poetry gig in a dingy pub? (I swear he cycled past me on the way to Columbia Rd last weekend, that beard's very recognisable)

Or perhaps number 53: smoke a Shisha with some mint tea at a hookah lounge.

Maybe 541: play bike polo.

Whatever we end up doing, as always I'm sure to come across some weird and wonderful people, and some magnificent photo opportunities.

Time to stop blogging now and venture out into the city...

Stay Classy x

To Blog or Not to Blog....

Hello World....

Well here I am, sat on the sofa, with some trashy tv on, Heat magazine, flat to myself, glass of Sauvignon Blanc and a Marlboro Lite; and pondering whether writing a blog is even a good idea or not.

I have recently become addicted to Twitter - took me a while to get my head around, but I've grown to love the 140 character messages to the world. It was suggested by one of my Twitter followers (why haven't you deleted me yet!? I Tweet the most inane things imagineable - who cares what coffee I am drinking in the morning, or what I think about music), after a brief Twitter chat about the latest musical earworm pervading my mind.

I thought about this long and hard... Twitter posts, I can just about justify to myself; the internet equivalent of a throwaway comment. Blogging however, is a different matter altogether. To continue this analogy, it's the net equivalent of a speech. But you assume people are going to be proactive and come and read the thing. Self indulgent? Self important? Possibly. A medium for me to vent (I say vent, I probably mean rant about stuff that annoys me - which is everything), could well be.

My next step was to consider what to blog about. I don't read many blogs, I've been intriduced to a few lately - some better than others. Some serious, considered, pretentious even. Some lighthearted fluff, a stream of consciousness on the mundane and the ordinary.

So where does mine fit in?

It was suggested I use my blog to talk about music, the music I get obsessed with and bore all my actual physical friends with. The music I hijack the flat's stereo with and 'educate' my housemate with (her words, not mine)

Possibly my other passions: art, photography, TEAAAAAA, horses, people, film, food, cooking, wine... but will it just come off as being presumptious and vain?

So before I know it, a blog seems to be coming together. The idea of blogging is almost Romanticised now: any girl familiar with Sex & The City will admit to fantasising about sitting in a skimpy yet casual outfit, tapping away with a furrowed brow on the latest Macbook, smoking a cigarette and writing witty erudite questions to Womankind, a la Carrie Bradshaw. (Yes, yes, I know she was composing a column, not a blog as such, but you get my drift.) That - it's certainly not me.

Sat in my compact but cool little East End flat, recovering after a monster day at work - I'm more likely to be found in a crappy working mens' boozer than an achingly trendy NYC bar full of models and overpriced cocktails.

Much proacrastination later, I'm still discussing blogging with myself and not actually writing about anything.

So will it be a cutting edge musical recommendation blog? A witty repartee on the life of a single twenty-something honourary Londoner? A public diary entry on my life, loves, passions? Or something deeply dull masquerading as public interest?

Will it be removed from my corporate self? The one that considers their responses, the one that censors the swearwords? The one that toes the line and isn't too outspoken about anything? Who knows.

Or perhaps more.. well, 'me'. The Me who swears like a trooper, who can keep up with the boys on a night out, the one who reads trashy mags but also John Berger aesthetic essays, the one who loves spending a fortune on make up but also loves nothing more than being in my scruffs and wellies down the stables with horses?

I'm yet to decide.

Perhaps this is enough public procrastination for now. Perhaps I'll write about whatever has moved me, intrigued me, annoyed me or made me laugh until I thought I might be sick.

If you're not asleep by now, or chucking stuff at your laptop in frustration at my indecision, thanks for reading - and I promise next time, I'll try to write something actually coherent and interesting.

Stay Classy, World

And make me a brew.

PS. If you don't yet have the Bombay Bicycle Club album in your life - you NEED it.