"Baby vomit though, how would you get that out of military tassles?"

The Blonde woke me up by trilling "brew?" across the lounge. I think my response was "that would be lovely in theory but I'm a little worse for wear and that might not go down too well at this current moment in time." Well, that's how it sounded in my head but in reality I think I just made the sort of noise an animal does as it dies in tremendous pain.

The Blonde made me drink some tea as I wondered what the hell had happened last night and why there were bits of broken glass on the floor. She went off to get ready (weirdly chirpy considering the events of the previous evening) and left me with some toast on the sofa. I promptly put my foot in said jammy toast, whimpered a bit and announced that "I needed a little lie down."

After being forced to shower I had that amazing hangover euphoria where the glorious hot water tricks you into thinking that you're fine. The novelty of not feeling rotten anymore makes you thankful to be alive and you feel like you could take on the world. I swept into the kitchen in full make up and a cloud of Jo Malone and announced to The Blonde, "I'm baaaack! Let's go to Broadway market!"

We go and join the beautiful and cool hipsters of east London and wander round the market stalls selling over-priced handmade and vintage things and amazing food. We're both fully consumed by hangover shopping; The Blonde buys a brooch with a sausage dog on, and I spy my perfect piece of jewelry.

"Blonde, there's a necklace with a horse on. A HORSE. I fucking need it in my life." They also had gorgeous handmade teacups on necklaces which I very nearly spent a fortune on, but then thought better of. Next time I'm hungover.

We were both also charmed by the Scrabble piece rings from this gorgeous boutique full of delightful designs, and fifty quid lighter we flounced off with our rather lovely new purchases.

Randomly we bumped into Terry outside a shop on Broadway, and made the usual "eeek, I was SO drunk last night" noises. We asked what he was doing with the rest of his Saturday.

"I think I'm going to go home and read this article in The Times on child abuse." I do love a cheerful Saturday. The Blonde and Terry then discussed their performance of Erasure the evening before. I admitted that I absolutely did not recall that happening, and they both burst into song again in the middle of the packed market. I was both embarrassed and impressed.

After a little walk and some fresh air, and not quite enough water, we were starting to feel a bit grim again. So naturally, we decide that the best possible plan would be to go to The Dove (one of London's best pubs) to have lunch. And beer. I think some sort of post-hangover hysteria set in, as that one long lunch resulted in the The Blonde muttering the immortal phrases,

"She's not warm... or endearing... OH JUST PUT SOME FUCKING CONCEALER ON, LOVE!"

"You know when you're at home on your own? Well I love spinning around in the kitchen. And sometimes I skip to the bathroom."

"Puffin, drink your beer! And eat your meat! You'll feel better."

"I can't imagine her in a wedding dress... you can't polish a turd, can you?"

I can't quite manage my springbok sausages and mash, but start to feel more human again after a pint. The Blonde is fully back in the game and we decide to venture to another pub. The Cat & Mutton on Broadway was the lucky recipient of our vaguely hysterical presence, and we were delighted to see the bloke who plays double bass around the markets outside. He worked his way through some tunes by The Specials and suddenly an east end Mod turned up and joined in.

"'Ere mate, play King of the Swingers!" He then proceeded to give us a brilliant performance of that, only stopping to shout to his bald mate,

"'Ere, Dave! Dave! Come over 'ere with your big shiny face!"

Between songs he bantered with the crowd, coming out with priceless lines such as,

"I'm a national fackin' 'ero I am, you'll be seeing my face on teatowels in the future! This is a once in a lifetime experience!" Then he leapt off a bollard as The Blonde took photos.

We wandered back down the market and stumbled across Off Broadway, a lovely cocktail bar with a Frida Kahlo - lookalike landlady and vintage music, as well as an epic cocktail menu. We sampled the Amaretto Sours and a very good lychee Daiquiri. The beautiful people on the table next to us had a very cute, tiny baby in tow. Neither of us are particularly maternal but we did agree that it was dead sweet. The Blonde considered this, then glanced at her miltary-styled top with tassle detail on the shoulders, and asked earnestly,

"Baby vomit though. I mean, how would you get that out of military tassles? Have you SEEN this chainwork? It'd never come out."

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.