It's Good for the Soul

A perfect weekend planned after a long, busy, demanding week at work.

I'd not seen The Drummer for maybe a year, as he lived away, so a weekend planned with him of talking, coffee, people watching and culture had me excited like a little kid at Christmas.

We kicked off the weekend with dinner at too-cool-for-school Zigfrid in Hoxton Square, with the beautiful people of East London. Decent Pinot, decent food and a prime spot for people watching. Strangely, aside from the uniform of skinny jeans/leggings/vintage dresses and faux fur coats topped off with a slick of scarlet lippy, we spotted an unlikely looking hen party.

The Drummer, teasing: "Are you wanting to join them?"

Me, turning around: *cringe* "No. I've told my girl mates, even if I EVER get married (which I probably won't as I intend to become a cat lady); if they even think about throwing me a bash involving veils, L-plates and sparkly glittery things, none of them will ever get spoken to again."

The Drummer: "No I didn't think you'd go for something like that."

Thank God! Someone who knows me. And my hatred of tacky awful crap. (OK, I like some tacky awful crap, but only in an ironic way, obviously. Honest. See below)

Sunday we planned to go to the Spirit of Jazz exhibition, with amazing B&W photographs of jazz legends. The Drummer loves photography as much as me, and jazz a lot more. But it's interesting. We excitedly made our way in the Soho drizzle to the gallery - only to find it didn't open on Sundays. Bum.

With a couple of hours to kill before The Drummer's tattoo touch-up appointment, we wandered, contemplating how many coffees was too many coffees, trying to resist the temptation to just sit in a coffee shop and talk, as we did back in the Cathedral City days. (Not as in the cheese - as in a proper city. With a massive, important church in the centre.)

Back then, The Drummer had told me about The Photographer's Gallery and being the lazy cow that I am, I'd not managed to get myself there. Before now. Joy of joys, we accidentally stumbled across the new premises. Hallelujah.

The industrial gallery was in the midst of an exhibition hang so we couldn't see much of it, (apart from an exquisite glimpse of the next exhibition, gained by bunny hopping beside the paper barrier to peep over) but I didn't care since I lost myself in the glorious haven of the bookshop. Oh, the bookshop. Proclaimed to be the best photography bookshop in Europe - good enough for me. I actually found myself considering what I could do without this month (food, etc) to invest in the glorious Helmut Newton tome of some of the most beautiful, subversive and sexy photographs I've ever seen. Luckily I got a grip of my senses and didn't blow the rest of my salary on it.

I DID however, find myself handing over my credit card at the till for a sweet Lomo Fisheye Camera - yes it's a plasticky, gimmicky little thing, but I could not resist the distortive lens. Plus it's neon orange. The idea of going back to the sweet painful wait for the film to be developed was an agonising yet exciting prospect, an alternative to greedy disposable digital.

It got road tested this evening with some shots in the Autumnal dusk and sunset around St Paul's, the Millennium Bridge and the Tate Modern. I am hoping they turn out and don't turn out to be duff shots of perplexed tourists or blinkered City people.

Give me a couple of days and I'll let you know. The waiting is killing me. In a good way.

"Now drink up and f*ck off"

I don't know what it is about me that invites hilarious Eastend-types to try it on. The sort of person who ends every sentence with "innit" and sports dubious jewellery.

Last night I'd gone to meet an old friend, A, for a catch up and some dinner. We'd gone to a local- type pub that A recommended, just outside the trendy bubble of Hoxton. It was a good mix of flock wallpaper, edgy haircuts and old locals propping up the bar. The wine list consists of red, white or rose. At the bargainous price of £11 a bottle, we weren't complaining. I pay double that for the bar house white in the City.

We'd arrived at this pub on the premise of there being a roof terrace, what a charming little gem in the midst of East London. It's shabby but with quirky features like giant plant pots that glow neon after dark, and we managed to get a table both times which is a rarity on a Friday evening in achingly hip Shoreditch/ Haggerston/ Hoxton.

A also recommended what is now my new favourite restaurant: Song Que. No frills, minimal customer service, but the best Vietnamese food I've ever had. On the Kingsland Rd which is wall to wall Vietnamese cafes, this place is apparently one of the older eateries with a long standing customer base. We arrived about 8 and it was jam packed with City types, families, couples; generating a buzzy and lively atmosphere. The tables are in pretty close proximity to each other but it's a pleasant experience. We shared the mixed starter with spicy squid, crispy seaweed and tasty spring rolls. For mains there was sumptuous beef with thick black bean sauce and a real fresh chilli kick, and A ordered monk fish stir fried with lemongrass and chilli. We also ordered some yummy garlic greens on the side - everything was bursting with flavour and generously portioned. We were also delighted to see the house white was under a tenner. The waiter service is no nonsense but the food arrived pretty rapidly so we could enjoy it within our alloted time space. This is not a venue for languishing round the table, rounding everything off with dessert, coffee and liquers.

One thing I'd suggest is that ladies should venture downstairs to the bathroom approximately 15 minutes before you think you might need to go. The loos are downstairs, I was confused to stumble into what's essentially a massive storeroom packed with sacks of rice and crates of beer, with some shabbily partioned-off toilets in the corner. One ladies' loo, eight girls queuing. Not fun.

After settling up the very reasonable bill, we decided to avoid the Hoxton crowd and head back to the roof terrace for smoking and chattering. It's quite a surreal experience climbing up to the terrace, since it's about four flights of narrow wooden stairs, with uneven undulating floors (total headf*ck if you're drunk, I would have thought) and inexplicably, flashing overhead lights that change through a spectrum of colours in a slightly sinister way and make you feel a bit like you're ascending to a climactic scene in a David Lynch film.

While we waxed lyrical about families, mutual friends and randomly, A's latest book passion, whaling (fascinating and inspired me to read Moby Dick today); we could overhear a local loudmouth arguing the toss about being asked to go downstairs with his drink. With an "'Allo darlin'", he started chatting to us and was clearly slightly worse for wear, but friendly and entertaining. So, formally introduced to Spencer (he very much looked like Gary from East Enders but slightly scarier and more on the ball), we sat downstairs with him and his mates who were all of a similar ilk.

Which is where my first paragraph comes in. A young guy, wearing sportswear and a chain, with a London street accent takes a shine to me and starts asking about what I do. I ask him the same out of vague amused interest.

"I work for Bloomberg, like, innit"

"Oh really, what exactly do you do?"

"Closing deals, innit."

"Riiiiight....[looking suitably impressed] What sort of deals?"

"Big ones, yeah? Like 10k and shit." At this point he's doing that emphatic nodding thing to really show me how cool that was. I was thinking it was pretty unlikely he had GNVQs, but he was trying very hard.

"You look well nice, what you drinking, like?" [asked while looking aproximately 12 inches below my eye line]

"White wine."

"Ah right, Chardonnay innit?"

"Um, no."

I've also been accosted at a bus stop by a local guy dripping in bling who's opening line was "You smell nice, innit" - cause of much hilarity at work and new catch phrases. Perhaps I give off some unknown beacon to blokes who listen to R n B and wear bandanas at jaunty angles.

At this point, Spencer, who's stood at the bar, announces loudly to the remaining drinkers, "Time at the bar - now DRINK UP AND F*CK OFF!" A and I take this as our cue to leave the London men to their own devices, not before we're invited to 'Spencer's gaff' to carry on the drinking with them. (The conversation about what to do next included one of them suggesting the bar across the road, but another vetoing it, "I'm barred from there, innit".)

With much unnecessary hugging and cheek kissing from Spencer and crew (all very polite and European), A and I trot off towards our respective houses, laughing at the randomness.

I'm thinking I'll take No'rn I'ron to Song Que for dinner again this eve, since I can't be arsed to cook. Perhaps avoid the local pub though....

A Night out in the East End

Bank Holiday weekend. What's a girl to do?

It's a luxurious mix of being able to have a lazy day watching trashy films and eating and generally lazing about the house; but still having two whole days to do stuff so you don't get the guilt of a 'wasted' weekend. London is a bad place for that, so so much to do that staying at home for a weekend kicking back is shadowed by an anxiety that you're missing out on city life.

Last Sunday I organised an outing to show a visiting colleague, and other mates from work, a bit of the East End. The agenda was Columbia Rd flower market for a wander and brunch, then seeing what happened. I was hoping we'd maintain the unspoken tradition of Bank Holiday Sunday afternoons in the pub (it's rude not to because you have Monday off.)

After some appalling directions from the nearest tube station to my house, I met the Fin and the Dane and we wandered to the market. Before we could even contemplate entering the throng, we stopped off at the rough and ready Italian bar at the bottom of the market for the traditional Sunday brunch of a fry up and a beer.

Replete, we wandered through the buzzy, busy, noisy market, picking up some massive (and surprisingly heavy) sunflowers; and armfuls of simple English gladioli on our way. I was restrained from getting overexcited and buying plants, since in my head I am a savvy city gardener, who enjoys being among the kitchen garden foliage on the balcony. The reality of this is a dead window box, dead hanging basket and some chillis who've seen better days.

Now we could tick off the market, we met up with some other work mates in Hoxton Square for afternoon drinks. We found ourselves a good outside spot a funky bar and proceeded to make our way through enough wine for The Fin to berate us, since she had to fly to Norway that afternoon and we'd basically be responsible for her forthcoming dehydration and headache on the plane. Whoops. Fun though, we agreed on that.

Bank Holiday excess truly kicking in, the next stop was Broadway Market's Dove pub - a cosy bustling bar serving about a million Belgian beers and some rather excellent homemade food. The Dane and I thought Bloody Marys were a great idea for starters, we were right at the time. I highly recommend their sausages, apparently the Springbok ones are particularly good.

By this point, we were worse for wear and Nor'n I'ron had to head homewards. With an intrepid Scots colleague on his way across London to join us, the only option was to carry on. Full of wine, it seemed a great mission to drag ourselves to Shoreditch, so we investigated Bethnal Green's bars after being chucked out of The Dove at closing. I am fully aware that there are some credible and fun places to frequent in Bethnal Green, but as the local tour guide I inexplicably felt drawn to the dodgy local boozer. In we trooped, clearly tipsy and not the usual clientele.

Amid some staring, we bravely ordered our round and were about to pour back out of the front door to smoke on the pavement. Suddenly, a figure that can only be described as a Chinese dwarf whizzed around the side of the bar and began to shout at us; we quickly comprehended this to mean we weren't allowed to smoke out the front. He literally herded us out to the beer garden at the back to join a group of suspicious-looking tracksuit-clad locals.

Unfortunately for my friends, who live in South/ West London, I promptly decided at this point that the glass of cheap wine I was consuming had finished me off and I needed bed. Now.

I felt bad about leaving them there, but apparently they'd had a perfectly pleasant time after I'd gone and it was actually quite an experience.

Perhaps it will become my local boozer, now I know the rules about smoking out the back.