"There's that bloke off the telly."

Waking up with no hangover was brilliant and The Blonde and I had big plans - Camera Club London was going to be in session, starting off in Columbia Road and making it's way to St Paul's and Southbank. We dandered to Columbia Road market so that The Blonde could experience the Cockney flower sellers shouting, and see the beautiful east end crowd again. It's so busy that I really want to punch people, but then I cheer up and forget all about it as I discover a vintage stall and spend money on a peach teacup set and a tin with a horse on. Brilliant.

We go and wait at the bus stop to go to The City, and a group of rather posh boys wanders past, clutching big bottles of Evian and looking rather disheveled. One of them asks,

"I say - do you know of any cafes around here? A greasy spoon, if you will."

I point them in the right direction and get a fist-bump in return for my helpfulness. I always gets asked for directions. I either look very friendly, helpful and knowledgeable; or like a cabbie. I think it's the latter.

The Blonde is sat at the bus stop and is rifling through her handbag looking for something. She pulls out a packet of snacks she'd bought for the train.

"I'm still clutching these fucking wasabi peas!"

She then eats a rice cracker that she found in her handbag and assesses it.

"Yes, salty and a bit cheesy. I want more."

After strolling around St Paul's and Southbank with every other fucking tourist in London, we park ourselves in a pub for lunch. The speakers were blaring out some R n B rubbish. I announce that it makes me want to hurt myself.

The Blonde: "Is this Chris Brown?"

Me: "I don't know... some TWAT."

After a hearty lunch we wander along the Thames Path and walk past The Golden Hind.

The Blonde spies someone and says,

"That's the bloke off the telly!"

By 'bloke off the telly', she means Andrew Marr. He's walking along with someone who we presume is his daughter, looking like he's talking very earnestly and knowledgeably about the ship.

The path runs along past the London Dungeons and we walk past it under the bridge arch. The Blonde is concentrating on faffing with her camera or something, and I spy a very tall, sinister-looking guy who works for the Dungeons, drawing the crowds in. I don't say anything. He walks past The Blonde and touches her shoulder, whispering in her ear, "Go easy, my child...."

The Blonde literally does a comedy gasp and nearly falls over, tears filling her eyes. The man walks off and I'm laughing at her shock, but she actually is frightened and has to go and have a moment to compose herself as she tries not to have a heart attack and vomit and sob all at once.

"I feel sick! I'm going to be sick! Fucking hell! I've got a very nervous disposition!"

A family walks past with a child screaming it's lungs out and she wails,

"That's how I feel inside! I know where you're coming from."

I take her back to mine to recover by watching some DVDs and drinking some tea. This relaxed, sensible domesticity doesn't last long and before I know it, we're finishing off Sunday with another trip to my local.

I wince as the barman says, "You were in here Friday weren't you."

Me: "Yes, I am dreadfully sorry if we were inappropriate or anything - it was a little, er, messy."

Barman: "No, don't worry - you gave us some great business."

I smile weakly and slink off back to the table feeling like the local lush and deciding that maybe I shouldn't go in for a while.

We round off the evening by watching The Inbetweeners with a take away and laughing at one of my favourite lines from the show.

"The winky face is the mark of a moron!"

;)

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.

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