"Deer park? Is that because it's expensive to get into?"

No'rn Ir'on and I decided that after the cocktail and wine excess of Bank Holiday Sunday, today we ought to go and power walk around Victoria Park. I was nervous about the squirrels but we braved it, those and the stabby gangs.

Hackneyites and their dogs filled the park, meaning that we got inevitably overexcited at the canine frolicking.

"Awww look at that one!"

"Ah, he's got a cool face, I'd call him Duncan."

We spied a couple with a few young Italian Greyhounds,

"OH look at those! Oh no wait. Oh no, they're REALLY going for it." Not really what you want to see on a civilised Monday afternoon.

No'rn Ir'on: "No wait, I want to see how they separate them, like."

I dragged her away from the doggy show and we marched around the lake. Of course, there were kids everywhere. Not No'rn Ir'on's favourite things. A family consisted of three squawky young girls whining and bickering.

"I'm not even sorry that I want to punch them."

We decided to venture into the part of the park that we've never been in before. The signposts promised exotic adventures - a model boating lake, the mystically-titled One O Clock Club and the deer park. DEER. In east London.

No'rn Ir'on remarks, "Is that because it's really expensive?" and sniggers to herself.

We actually do catch a glimpse of two sleeping deer and it makes my day.

As we meander around the model boating lake, laughing at dogs splashing around in the water, No'rn Ir'on picks her way along the edge. I resist the urge to shove her into the water, very tempting. I inform her of this and she poses, sticking her bum out. I realise that we look mental and we're in very close proximity to the children's play area so should probably move along.

Naturally, we encounter the scary east London squirrels, and find one holding court under a tree with a gaggle of pigeons. I think that it's going to launch itself at a pigeon and eat it. No'rn Ir'on is more concerned with that fact that they might get a little amorous like the greyhounds earlier.

"They're going to MATE and then it will get out of hand and before you know it, the park will be overrun with SQUIDGEONS."

As we wander off giggling, I spy a man who I've seen several times this weekend. Tall, east London skinny, massive quiff and some particularly striking and brave sartorial choices. I mention that he's quite beautiful to No'rn Ir'on.

"No way, he's so totally gay."

"Not necessarily! Even straight guys in Hackney dress like that."

"You only fancy guys that look gay."

"Maybe I do. Hence why so unsuccessful in these matters."

"I know that if I am about to congratulate a man on his TUNIC, he's probably a queen."

One to mull over there, I think.

"You Look Like Andy Warhol."

Another weekend.... another visit from the Blonde. What could possibly go wrong when I was taking an afternoon off work to meet her and go for a late (liquid) lunch?

It started off in Moro - for anyone who hasn't tried this restaurant, this genuinely is the best food I've ever had. Exquisite tapas and a great atmosphere and a wine list to die for. We promptly worked our way through a divine bottle of Txacoli and had a rather enjoyable little crawl round the drinking establishments of Exmouth Market. Medcalfs, the old butchers, is a nice place to chill out (we met The Greek there for one or two), as well as a brilliant spot for listening to Islington rah-rahs harp on loudly.

"Yah, I laaarve the names Poppy and Scarlet and Oscar, fwa?"

A twenty-something woman addressed her mum,

"Why didn't you give me a proper Spanish name Mummy?... Chloe is SO common now."

The Blonde and I just looked at each other and tried not to laugh out loud.

We presented the bar man in Cafe Kick the brief of: dry, vodka-based cocktail please thankyouverymuch. He came back with a Berry Martini fit for a Queen and we promptly had 3. What, we had to check for consistency?

By this point, The Blonde was fully in Camera Club mode, taking arty shots of light fittings and such. She'd just discovered turning the flash off for better night time photos. We asked a poor man sat at the next table to take a shot of the two of us, and she wasn't shy with direction.

"Put your elbows on the table so it's not blurry... PUT YOUR ELBOWS ON THE TABLE!"

Fully getting into the stride of a slightly boozy afternoon, we happened upon my wonderful local where we shared a cheeseboard at the bar. Somehow, The Blonde came back from the loo to find me fully engaged in conversation about the design industry with a rather attractive young man. I forgot about this until the end of the night, when The Blonde nicked a business card off me and thrust it upon him.

"Call her! She's a designer!"

Me, dying inside: "No, Blonde, I'm not a designer. I work in design."

"Anyway, she thinks you're nice, call her. Byeeeee!"

I scarpered shame-faced from the pub and we went home to dance and for The Blonde to eat a serious amount of cocktail sausages. I played her some tracks I'd been listening to. She couldn't get her head around the Scroobius Pip track Thou Shalt Always Kill.

"Who's this? Scrupulous Pigs?"

"Yes. Time for bed."

It's never fun on a Saturday morning when some twat decides that pre-9am is a brilliant time to do some extraordinarily loud drilling outside your window. We come round with brews and talk about the evening before. Since we're both trying not to eat too many carbs as well (shh, wine and martinis so don't count), we get onto the subject of food. The Blonde looks wistful and I know she's about to come out with one of her cracking interchangeable quotes.

"I LOVE [insert random thing]" This time, it was, yep you've guessed it - potatoes of course.

We make our way to Borough Market for some mooching and sampling and probably quite a bit of Camera Club, and for some reason end up talking about marriage and taking your husband's name.

The Blonde says earnestly, "I'm quite attached to my name." As one would be.

Borough Market is overwhelming in its delights and we kick off the weekend in the totally normal fashion at 12 noon - Prosecco! The Blonde gets unbelievably excited by a sign in the Spanish shop Brindisa advertising 'Ham School'. No, really. One of the interchangeable quotes from above occurred while tucking into a plate of antipasti.

"I love ham."

The next thing that has The Blonde squealing with excitement is a stall selling Drunk Cheese.

"That's got my name ALL over it!" I have photos of her proudly posing underneath the sign and sampling some.

Next stop, Spitalfields for more wandering and shopping. I cross over into full Shoreditch Wankdom and purchase some of those fake glasses that look like the sort of thing Deirdre from Coronation Street would turn down on account of them being a bit ugly. You know the kind. The Blonde persuaded me. They just make me look more like the geeky one from Scooby Doo. I kept them in my bag.

We wander round Brick Lane, meet Oxford for drinks and then make our way to Broadway. On the way we pass someone's post outside their house. I was going to say that I'd love to know what goes on inside The Blonde's head, but I do already know and it's just baffling.

"Oooooh, LOOK, the phone book's thin now isn't it?"

I don't know how to come back to that.

We sat in Off Broadway and admired the east end lot dressed in their war time get up, and the large number of seriously cool dogs that people had in there. We complimented a lady on her fine-looking cocktail and she let us try it. How kind.

The rest of the evening involved takeaway and inane discussions brought on by The Blonde forcing me to watch Britain's Got Talent. (Questionable.)

"I reckon Amanda Holden could be in our gang, you know."

Sunday brings crazy cheese-related dreams, and I make The Blonde try on my comedy fashion glasses. It's a revelation.

"You look like Andy Warhol!"

"I'm not sure I want to look like that."

On the way back to Spitalfields, The Blonde is lamenting her fading fake tan.

"It dries your skin out, so you moisturise - then you lose your bloody tan. Double edged sword mate, seriously. It's a tough life."

Spitalfields brings the longest cash point queue in the world, the tannoy asking about a million times for 'Staff 200' who was clearly having a fag and a brew round the back, and The Blonde directing me to get her picture but only if I can "get the anchor-print jumper in!"

Lunch at Giraffe was followed by a walk home through some less than charming estates where a massive guy carrying a suitcase on his head kept shouting, "Hey lady!" to The Blonde. When she ignored him, he qualified it with, "I'm from Spain, I a nice guy."

One, he didn't look or sound Spanish. Two, the Spanish thing doesn't negate the fact you're carrying a suitcase on your head in an east end estate.

"Is that bloke having a POO on the pavement?!"

I spent the last week in a frenzy of cleaning and excitement, as my elder sister was coming to visit me in London with my gorgeous, clever, thoroughly excellent niece. I anticipated a civilised, cultural weekend with a few quiet drinks in the evenings once Pony Mad niece had gone to bed... It's Sunday afternoon and I am sat watching Come Dine With Me while nursing a headache that just won't shift, surprising myself that I am actually writing words that vaguely do go together.

Friday evening was a lovely stroll around St Paul's, Southbank, Shad Thames and Tower Bridge, culminating in an Italian meal where I carb-loaded quite spectacularly. Back at mine, PonyMad went to watch Pirates of the Caribbean in bed and Sister and I proceeded to demolish quite a large volume of white wine and cigarettes on the balcony while talking life, love and what giving birth is really like. About three glasses after a sensible person would have stopped drinking, No'rn Iron came home from a work night out and we cracked open the last bottle. She proceeded to tell Sister all about a bloke who was being an idiot while we made sisterhood-like supportive noises.

"Tell him to fook off, fookin' prick." I never thought I'd see my nine-years-senior police officer mother-of-two sister drunkenly, liberally pepper sentences with the C word, quite happily with my housemate.

Saturday morning I definitely felt a bit rough, but a magic shower and loads of tea helped. I was bursting with pride that PonyMad not only makes the family morning tea at a weekend, but drank two cups in a row before getting ready. The plan was to go and check out the dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, this made me more excited than PonyMad. First though we went to Broadway market for a mooch about and she displayed her exquisite taste by choosing a swallow necklace from one of my favourite stalls.

We detoured on the way back to Hackney City Farm, just to show them how urban Londoners do 'rural.' Coming from rural Lancashire, they weren't that impressed but we did enjoy watching people try to catch very hoppy rabbits. Sister then persuaded me that if a cat or dog wasn't an option, I could SO get a guinea pig. And call it Duncan. Yeah!

We made it on the Tube to South Kensington, encountering a woman in the carriage who appeared to have had an amazing amount of work done on her face. I was sat opposite Sister and we caught each other's eyes and tried not to a) laugh or b) involuntarily shout "Look at her LIPS though!" As we approached the museum in the sunshine, it was clear I'd made a schoolgirl error and not thought about the fact that every fucker was in London with their kids to see the dinosaurs on Bank Holiday weekend. We made do with a wander to Buckingham Palace so that PonyMad could wave to the Queen. (Or 'our Liz as I like to call her.)

Strolling from Victoria station, we noticed a sleeping bag strewn across a pavement and a large beardy man crouched down by a lamp post. I clocked what was happening and chose not to mention it.

Sister, loudly in a Bolton accent: "Is that man having a POO? Is he? Is he having a POO on the pavement?!"

Sadly, he was. I'm glad they got to see all the important sights, no one should leave the Big Smoke without having seen a vagrant defacate in public in broad daylight. *Tries not to vom*

We chose to have a quiet night in watching Britain's Got Talent (questionable) and Sister, after having declared in Tesco earlier that "we'd only need two bottles of wine," suggested I go to the shop and get some more. It turned into us being tiddly on the balcony, and Sister commenting that, "by the time I was your age, I'd met the love of my life and was having PonyMad." I told her of my plans to be a cat lady. Well not so much plans, as my Fate.

"You know what? London men in skinny jeans with pointy shoes are TWATS. You need to go out with a nice Northern lad. Fuck these Fashionista types!"