"Someone should invent the transportater"

I'd been looking forward to this weekend for a while. The Writer was coming to visit and we planned a lovely east end experience browsing the the markets, critiquing the try-hard Shoreditch/ Hackney set and drinking in my superb local. We'd not seen each other for about two years so we knew it was going to be a big catch up. In a previous life we'd been fellow copywriters at a Whitstable agency working for a director of dubious mental stability, and bonded over a love of music.

Saturday started off well - glorious London sunshine, I baked a carrot cake and got the flat visitor-ready. I met The Writer at Bethnal Green tube and surveyed the amazing cross section of people passing through the gates to the Central line. East end fashion is sometimes so ugly it's hard to tell who's being ironic and therefore 'cool' and who genuinely is just really, really badly-dressed. Double denim for instance. So wrong, but apparently so now.

We began our catch up with civilised tea and cake back at mine, then decided to go and have a 'nice quiet dinner' in my lovely local. As always the welcome, service and food was impeccable and we were deep in conversation until a guy clocked The Writer ordering more wine at the bar.

He introduced himself and before we knew it, launched into his life story - apparently, a tv-presenting cab driver, born in the flower market, 48, owns a place in Sharm el-Sheikh, brother is the CEO of Britvic, went to school with Martin Kemp from Spandau ballet, he lives in the same block as art critic Adrian Searle and the fashion director of Burberry and his Mum knew the Krays... Brilliant, you can't make this shit up. We thought he did at the time, but a bit of Googling today does confirm a few of his tales.

He invited himself to sit at our table and we ended up spending a couple of hours engaging in bizarre but interesting conversation with this character. After a lot of talk about him being single and once he started buying us wine, I did invent a nice boyfriend. We've been together for five months apparently, he was in Scotland over this weekend and it's going really well. According to The Writer, he's also well endowed. I did question how she might know this detail about my imaginary lover but it all got a bit too complex to think about.


Despite Jonny Hollywood being very charming and fun, we decided it was a good time to go when, after saying "No ulterior motive!" all evening, he asked us again if we'd like to go back to his warehouse across the road to talk a bit more. Errrm, no. We politely declined and made our way back to mine, laughing at how strange the evening had been. The Writer grabbed a bottle of Rioja and we decided that staying up drinking until 4am, listening to music and debating the world was a really brilliant idea. Which it was. At that point.

I awoke to a text from The Writer asking if I was alive, at gone lunchtime. I concluded that if I was reading a text, then I must be. Just about. With a hangover so severe that I even had to think twice about having a cup of tea, I set about trying to take my mind off the pain with the creation of famously hangover-soothing bacon sandwiches. At this point, No'rn Ir'on comes in and we fill her in on the evening and how we got into the state we in.

No'rn Ir'on sat on a bar stool at our breakfast bar and tucked into some of my homemade cake with a brew. The Writer lamented the fact that she had to make her way across London then get a train home, which was the least appealing plan with a hangover, ever.

The Writer: "I wish I could just transport myself instantly home to my bed...."

No'rn Ir'on: "I know! I've said this many times, but someone should really invent a transport-, a transportater."

I instantly cracked up as she pronounced it with a heavy emphasis on 'tater' which is how she pronounces the Northern Irish crisp brand Tayto.

Me: "What, a device for the instant transportation of potato-based products?"

No'rn Ir'on leans back to laugh on the flimsy stool she's perched on, but suddenly the metal gives way and she slips off the side of the stool as it collapses. It's too much and I'm doubled over the kitchen counter, The Writer is laughing too but clearly at the expense of her pain receptors.

I see The Writer off on her awful journey and manage to get to the shop without falling over, vomiting on anyone, or coming into contact with any naked flame. Back in the kitchen, I complain to No'rn Ir'on about possibly sweating wine and she responds with a burp as she's finishing off her Chinese food from the night before.

Me: "I don't understand how we're single."

On that note, I drag my sorry arse back to my room and eat a Calippo ice lolly in bed.

Another Weekend, Another Write Off

Friday night.

"Yes, I will just come out for ONE."

Famous last words. We headed out for a "couple" of drinks with some very important work people, all civility quickly descended (once the important people had gone on to an important dinner) and it was the usual gang.

It swiftly mutated into us ripping it for no real reason out of No'rn Ir'on, including me offering her some crayons in a mime about how I couldn't understand what she said, so she could write things down for me.

Other highlights included:

• Casual racial stereotyping of a new New Zealander in the office (me: "I just want to quote Flight of the Conchords at you. 'Band meeting!'" He was impressed, obviously. Though he does do a fine Gollum impression. I nearly ran away crying.) I also may not have endeared myself by proclaiming that the Lord of the Rings trilogy is three films about people on a really long walk. It is!
  

• The Dane kindly reminding me about a time when I utterly, publicly disgraced myself by telling a colleague in a smug, I'm-correcting-you sort of way, "But Copenhagen is a country!" This will not die, they're never going to let it go. So geographically-challenged, an American asked me if I was American. Not my finest moment.

• For a reason that is now fuzzy with wine-clouded retrospect; everyone very loudly cheersing my Mum (I really don't know why), and talking about her in a very respectful but also massively inappropriate way. I remember not knowing if I should laugh or cry. I think I laughed. In a "can't believe you just said that" manner.
  

• A random man joining us stood outside the bar who was kind of odd - we all politely assumed he knew someone else in the group. We eventually established he didn't. It was only afterwards I received a text from No'rn Ir'on saying he'd put his arm round her and I needed to save her. "Get someone to pretend to be my boyfriend!"

• A heated soliloquy from No'rn Ir'on about Tayto (pronounced 'Tater') crisps and how they were the best crisps ever. EVER.

There were definitely some other entertaining incidents, I just can't recall them right now. I managed to stumble into a cab home, and woke up in the morning to find a trail of late night snacks, clothes dumped in the lounge and a very confused No'rn Ir'on in the kitchen.

Yep, just a quiet Friday night.

Good job I had a nice quiet Saturday evening.... oh, hang on...

Italy Day 6: Falling in love on the plane

A stunning morning in Ostuni. I was sad to wake up in my luxurious bed for the last time and contemplate heading back to London. Last days of holidays suck.

Angelo came to collect us as agreed, The Blonde decided to leave behind her dubious bottle of cactus liquer for the next holidaymakers. It was with a genuinely heavy heart that I walked down the perilous stone steps for the last time with my case bursting with biscotti and trullo-shaped novelty limoncello bottles.

In the car, while watching the landscape under the bright sunshine and admiring the crimson soil and gnarled olive groves; I began to formulate the life plan of how to actually move to Ostuni. First thing, learn Italian.

In a wonderfully cyclical bit of fate, Lily Allen's Fuck You came on as were pulling up to the airport, the bizarre soundtrack to our trip; and a rainbow curved down from underneath a fluffy cloud. Goodbye Apulia!

I almost had a bit of a strop in the airport when faced with a) Ryanair's ridiculous luggage allowances; coupled with not being able to bring back any cheap Italian cigarettes. Boo. This was swiftly put aside however, when we began to queue for boarding. I actually fell in love about three times in that queue, there really are some extradordinarily beautiful men in that country.

I kept saying "Seriously, look at him!" to the The Blonde about one tall handsome man. Sculpted cheekbones, stubbly and D&G model-esque mouth, wearing a scruffy Who T-shirt and listening intently to his earphones. Sigh. Casually gawping at him took my mind of the queueing boredom for a good 45 minutes.

On the plane, it was literally a bunfight, scrambling for seats and wedging luggage into any available crevice. Ryanair flights are not a pleasant experience. Until now.

The Blonde sat by the window, I sat next to her and we watched people filter past us and the empty seat next to me. Suddenly, Beautiful Man walked past and OH MY GOD sat down next to me. The Blonde laughed out loud at my face as I whipped round to face her with wide eyes; half a look of alarm and half giddy excitement. I looked uber cool at this point, obviously.

He waited until everyone had packed their luggage in the overhead compartments before carefully placing his pristine Temptations vinyl on top of everything. He was listening to soul on his iPod. Taste as well as beauty. Some people just have everything.

I spent the entire flight not quite knowing what to do with myself.

The Blonde, whispering "Talk to him!"

Me: "I can't! He's Italian. And beautiful. Oh...and asleep."

Italians are funny on planes. It was by no means a rough or turbulent flight, but yet still the whole plane clapped upon touchdown. I've never seen this before. Why? The pilot did not heroically guide us to safety through a storm. He did not fight off a terrorist in the cockpit. He just did his job. Yes, I couldn't do it; but he's trained to do what he did. I don't clap the waiter when he brings me a good coffee. I don't give the bus driver a standing ovation when he delivers me to the correct bus stop outside work of a morning. Curious.

The plane's wheel had literally just touched the tarmac, when everyone jumped from their seats and began to unpack their hand luggage from the overhead lockers. The Blonde and I looked at each other in disbelief as we taxied down the runway at a still high speed. A man knocked into the sitting Beautiful Man as he yanked his bag out of the locker. Beautiful Man dressed him down in Italian. I melted a bit. Gorgeous, loves music and courteous to others. Oh God.

What a holiday - couldn't have asked for anything more. Loved the place, the people, the food and wine, the light. The Italians know how to do everything better than us. Except, tea. But that can be forgiven.

Back to London. Grey. Wet. Cold. Depressing.

Put the kettle on.

Southbank by Night and Snogging on the Tube

Sunday afternoon, fit to burst after a roast dinner (chicken roasted with garlic and lemon, with asparagus, honey & mustard drizzled carrots and some nice greens), and contemplating the evening before.

No'rn I'ron and I decided to head to the Southbank for a meal and a trip on the London Eye. Touristy yes, but I think it's important to indulge in these things even when you live in a place - just for the sense of having done it, and to give you an excuse to get out of touristy stuff when you have people visit. Also as a photographer, the opportunity to take aerial shots of the city at night was too tempting.

We ate at Ping Pong in the Southbank Centre, I'd recommend if you like Dim Sum and fine cocktails. It bills itself as a "21st Century Teahouse" so naturally I was excited, but ironically, after enjoying a couple of cocktails (I'd suggest the Melon & Sage Martini; and the Ginger & Limoncello Caipirinha), the warm drink of choice on the blustery Southbank was Sake rather than the exquisite flowering teas they do there. It gives me an excuse to go back again to sample the teas.

Satisfied, we went to investigate the London Eye. Full of stories about the horrific queues, we expected the worst but actually it seems going at 9pm pays off - paying the pretty steep fee of £17.50, we headed straight towards the boarding gate. The structure itself is really impressive. The Eye is a landmark you can see from so many vantage points in London, but when you're underneath it next to the Thames, you realise how incredible it is.

No'rn I'ron is famed for her hatred of small children, so I feared the worst as we got herded with a bunch of tourist strangers into one of the futuristic pods, in case she went postal and drop kicked a tot from hundreds of feet above the Thames; but we escaped with a couple of older kids in our party. She looked tetchy but I reminded her,

"You can reason with the older ones. That, or it's more acceptable to smack them. Can't bribe babies right?"

This seemed to placate her and we began to ascend slowly over the twinkling, bustling Southbank. The view of Westminster, Millenium Bridge and the surrounding city truly is astounding. We kept grinning at each other and squealing quietly, "we live here!"

The Eye as an experience is really enjoyable. I was worried that being in such close proximity with random strangers could be claustrophobic and ruin the experience, but it was fine to walk around and stretch myself into funny positions for shooting, or lean in certain places to steady my camera for the necessary long shutter speed shots.

One thing that did mildly mar the experience was couples. I don't mean to be anti-love or anything, and it certainly is an incredibly romantic thing to look over this iconic skyline at night with your loved one (FYI, anyone who fancies taking me on a date would gain major brownie points for booking a private pod) - BUT - I do not need to see or hear you sucking each others' faces off. (This also goes for the Tube - who thinks snogging when you're literally inches from other people on the Central Line is acceptable?!)

Sorry, single rant over, and back to the London Eye. It has to be one of my favourite London experiences so far, just because cities lit up against nuclear skies look so magical, and the skyline of London has to be one of the best. We hopped off after the half hour and took shots of County Hall along the Southbank, and the Dali sculptures then went to Las Iguanas to pay over the odds to rude barmen for Prosecco.

Here, the mystical nature of the night was brought back down to earth by the festival hall steps, as Essex boys hollering at each other echoed through the evening, and my personal favourite, a girl in trackies with a pitbull, clutching a bottle of wine.

Gotta love London.

PS

Whilst I've been sat here writing this blog, No'rn I'ron caught site of one of our resident mice from where they scamper out from under the sink. (I've christened one of them InDanger Mouse, if I ever catch the little blighter.) I'd told her about how bold they were getting, coming out during the day when were padding about. Now she could see it for herself. I normally watch them quietly with fascination, whereas No'rn I'ron yelled "FECK OFF!" and watched the mouse inevitably squeeze itself into the gap from whence it came.

She turns to me. "They might be getting bold but they understand 'Feck off!'"

Commuter Sightseeing 1

We had a guest last night, who we work with. She joined me on the daily commute from Bethnal Green to the City this morning, on the packed red bus.

It was a typically sweaty journey in the muggy heat, punctuated by an "URGH!" when she got emerged off the claustrophobic bus, into the fresh (ish) air, gasping a lungful of smog.

Me: "What's up?"

N: "You know the skinny weird guy with long hair who got on, and I moved down to get away from him?"

Me: "Yeah..."

N: "He came and stood next to me, my hand was on the post holding myself up and... and... his hair was touching my hand the whole way!" *shudder*

This, in my opinion, is typical of one side of the London bus experience. In the few months I've lived here, I've realised there's a dichotomy of journeys to work.

It's either: rammed with sleepy commuters, unbearably sticky, someone's armpit/groin/hair/breath is in contact with you; and you spend the entire time willing the minutes to somehow go faster so you can get a lung full of air that's not been breathed by everyone else on the bus.

Or, it can be a wonderful sightseeing tour through an interesting part of the city where you get a seat and you can inwardly critique the other passengers' shoes. I stick my iPod in, blast out my current musical obsession (recently Please Venus by the Golden Silvers and Into the Chaos by Howling Bells) and lose myself in the scenery. My bus route does seem to be filled with details I discover anew every morning, a palimpsest of shabby buildings with decades of fly posters, graffiti and signs; and East Londoners going about their daily business.

One thing I relish on these journeys is being part of the rat race. I never thought I'd say that, but it feels like you're part of this big commercial effort, hordes of suited people wearing trainers and striding purposefully to their desks, the hardcore among them running into work. Every other person clutches a coffee and had the distinctive white Apple earphones in, streaming their way towards the City. I am strangely impressed by the ability of City workers to read. Whilst walking. I'd be under a bus in seconds if I did that, not to mention at the very least stacking it ungracefully (my default physical setting) and dropping my laptop/ contents of my handbag haphazardly.

Another is the people. I'm starting to recognise the people on my bus in the mornings and share that tiny "I know you" glance. There's the girl who gets on round Old St who always has ace hair and wears covetable pretty vintage floral dresses, who breezes onto the bus like she's walked out of a high end soft focus perfume ad. And the beautiful androgynous boy who totally pulls off the skinny designer suit with a hint of lipgloss and perfectly arched brows and bronzed cheeks. He stood next to me today and he's also very fragrant. Possibly Prada.

Not to mention my hot fellow commuter neighbour from my block, who my housemate (who will now be known as Nor'n Ir'on since when she's asked where she's from, instead of saying Belfast, this is the noise emitted), keeps missing when I bump into him and thinks I am making him up. I'm not.

Today, after a hard day, we decided to walk the journey back home since it was a glorious evening and we ought to have done something to counteract the volume of Chenin consumed last night. Chatting casually, we eyed up the other people frantically walking to and from their respective jobs. One tall, pretty normal looking (for East London) man walked towards us, and Nor'n Ir'on and I parted so that he could walk the opposite way between us. Then there was that moment where you know the person you're with is about to comment on what just happened.

We looked at each other wryly.

Me: "That was weird..."

No'rn Ir'on: "....he just looked directly at my crotch."



Just your average walk home from the office then.

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