"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."

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