"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...

Gym: Reasons for & against

The gym.

The 21st century necessity.

The antidote to our hectic, stressful, indulgent lifestyles. The counteractivity to sitting on our arses all day at work.

Ahhh, the gym. Or as I like to think of it, the place I pay an obscene amount of cash to every month, to feel inadequate and get physically punished (but secretly like it.) It's like a socially acceptable, corporate S&M dungeon. With less leather. (Saying that, I was working out recently behind an old man who clearly was sporting a thong underneath his white shorts. I was a bit sick in my mouth. Anyway, I digress.)

Reasons to go:

To get fit, obviously.

To get strong.

To tone up and slim down.

To be able to smoke cigarettes and drink wine on a weekend and at least feel I am doing the tiniest thing to balance this out.

To work off some of the massive stress I accrue every week.


Reasons not to go:

It's really expensive and on top of the hard-earned wedge I pay every month for the privilege of smelling other peoples' sweat; they expect me to pay more for towels and water. Outrageous.

You get sweaty. In front of other people. Mainly City traders.

It really hurts sometimes. Squats aren't my friend.

I have an innate fear of slipping gracelessly backwards off the cross trainer or treadmill. It's inevitable. Apart from possible injury, I am going to look a right twat when this happens.

I go a bit patchy when I get hot. This is also not a good look.

Hyperventilating after about four minutes on the cross trainer also makes you look like an asthmatic geriatric....



This blog is a distraction technique to not be on the cross trainer right now. No'rn Ir'on is introducing me to the Power Plate shortly. I am intrigued. And more than a bit scared.

Right, let's go and do some lunges.

Italy Day 2: Sunshine, Angels & Demons & Free Hairclips

After a wonderfully long and restful sleep in my alcove, I awoke to find sunshine illuminating the stone apartment. A lazy morning included some of the best juice I've ever had (it seems the Italians do everything better, including breakfast juice, Arancia Rossa...mmmm) and laughing at the awful DVD of Angels & Demons. (The apartment came with a great film collection which we worked our way through during the stay.)

My favourite bit of Angels & Demons came from the really obvious dumbing down for the American audience. At one point, an Italian in the film says to Tom Hanks,

"we see you, as, how you say... [with thick Italian accent]... formidable,"

Tom Hanks: "you see me as... formidable?"

Brilliant.

During the film, I get things out for breakfast, including something The Blonde picked up, thinking it was butter. Little packages of something labelled as being useful for panne & pasta - we naturally concluded it was butter.

The Blonde: "Give that butter a squidge love, it will have gone hard in the fridge."

I dutifully squidged the packet then opened it. It was clear that this was not butter, but some grainy, beige yeasty substance for baking bread and cakes.

"Um, Blonde, I think this isn't butter...."

"No, I think it's yeast...." [gag]

Well done us. We hastily learn the Italian for butter for next time we go shopping.

We decide to take advantage of the lack of rain and have a wander round the delightful little city with it's grand but crumbling buildings and marble squares. The Blonde gets beeped at by over-zealous Italian men on a constant basis. By the end of the holiday, it's starting to grate.

Out of season Ostuni is a very quiet place. There's literally no one around and very little open during the afternoons. We managed to locate the internet cafe recommended by the apartment owners and try and get drinks and lunch, Gran Caffe Tito Schipa, run by two friendly Italian sisters Rosa and Annamaria.

It's strange inside - half gelataria, half the living and dining rooms of an old-fashioned Italian house. We ask Rosa if we can have some drinks on the terrace outside (she pours extremely strong G&Ts!) and enquire about lunch - she says in broken English,

"No restaurant, we are cafe - I make sandwich?" We agree that this would be fine, but then after she's run some enquiries with her sister, she announces we can have tortellini - perfect.

The terrace at the back of the cafe overlooks the whole city, down to the valley where a huge white church dominates the background of deep green olive groves, and up to the hill where the Cattedralle sits. One thing that will always remind me now of Ostuni is the smell of wood-burning stoves - the city smelled like bonfires the whole time, and we had a very pleasant break with the intoxicating smell of wood and the sunshine twinkling over the magnificent view.

Soon Rosa comes out and presents us with amazing homecooked tortellini in a creamy sauce with prosciutto, and local white wine which was a straw yellow and tasted more like vermouth. Benissimo!

On the way back to L'Alcova, The Blonde is accosted from across the square by a man who knew Christiano and Augusto the night before. He was also called Angelo. I think most people on Ostuni are called Angelo. We bid a hasty retreat up the hill back to the apartment.

Back in the apartment, I was disproportionately happy to find that the well stocked kitchen included a cat-shaped icecube tray. The Blonde was happy because she had a free hairclip in her packet of Italian kids' crisps. Simple pleasures.

Quote of the day was The Blonde topping her "I love clouds" comment the day before, with apropos of nothing, announcing that she "loved meat" while we enjoyed some more antipasti later that day.

We spent another fun evening in Il Gatto Rosso (we didn't really explore the range of restaurants in Ostuni, we decided to make this one our local as the menu was broad and really inexpensive, and with two euro for a glass of Prosecco, we didn't need to go anywhere else.)

I had a lasagne which I am not sure was completely authentic but still, it was tasty. We were alos delighted by the dolce which was a frozen ball of vanilla ice cream covered in little bits of crisp sugar, with strong coffee ice cream in the middle. Amazing.

We then enjoyed the absolutely brilliant British drama State of Play - possibly one of the best series I've ever seen, and an early night for some more glorious, switched off sleeping.

Sigh No More, No More: Mumford & Sons gig

"Man is a giddy thing, oh man is a giddy thing;

Love: it will not betray you, dismay or enslave you; it will set you free, more like the man you were made to be ."

Mumford & Sons, Sigh No More, Oct 2009, HMV Forum, Kentish Town.

I've been obsessing over this album since it's release; it's a soaring, epic country tinged album with heartfelt angsty choruses and lyrics that can be taken with a pinch of darkness. Mumford & Sons are from the London country/folk rock stable of The Maccabees, Noah & the Whale and Laura Marling. No wonder I love them so much.

The build up to this gig made me a bit nervous. I've listened to, and loved the album so vehemently (it makes me well up on the bus into work on a daily basis, in a good way) that I worried the gig might be a let down. I didn't know anyone who'd already seen them. The background of my thoughts is continuous low-level disappointment most of the time, so I was scared I'd built it up too much.

I need not have worried. Firstly; a perfect little venue. The HMV Forum: small enough to be very intimate, and you have to love a venue where you can stand at the bar and still be within spitting distance of the act playing. It feels like an old ballroom and reminded me very much of the Folkestone Leas Cliff Hall (but without the magnificent smoking balcony overlooking, well, France.)

Secondly, a band whose instruments consist of an accordian, keyboard, banjo, guitar, drums and a double bass is unlikely to be a let down. There are not enough bands with double basses. What a beautiful instrument, it gave such solid reverberating warmth to the whole set.

One thing that did puzzle me about the gig was the amount of really young fans the band have - I was surrounded by 12 year olds in homemade M&S T-shirts. It drew me to the conclusion that if you're not old enough to smoke; you shouldn't be allowed into such a good gig. I don't appreciate a rucksack in my face/drink/chest throughout the set, or being jumped on continually. Perhaps they should be admired for having such excellent musical taste so young. Ok I've changed my mind: let them in, but just in some sort of teenager pen right at the back where they can jump and spill their Fanta and raging hormones on each other. Just not near me.

Me: "If that kid's fucking rucksack knocks my drink one more time...."

No'rn Ir'on: "It's ok, when the lights go down it will be dark enough so no one will see you kick him."

I actually contemplated the penalty for assaulting a teenager in public and weighed up the pros and cons.

The band announced that this was their first London show since the release of the album so it felt like a "we've made it" homecoming gig. They are wonderful on stage, telling stories and performing every tune with pure gusto and passionate energy, knocking the crap out of their instruments. I've never seen someone rock out a double bass before. It's pretty impressive.

The set kicked off with Sigh No More, starting with acoustic and harmonies, and building up to a massive chorus with banjo riffs that had the crowd jumping around. There was a definite stomping hoedown vibe to the set which gels surprisingly well with profound, swelling climaxes of drums, bass and Marcus Mumford's powerful voice.

Straight into Little Lion Man which everyone went mad for, a stand out track on the album that Zane Lowe himself proclaimed to be 'Hottest Record In The World Right Now' when it first came out. He was pretty spot on. A few hundred people singing their hearts out to

"It was not your fault, but mine - and it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time, didn't I my dear?"

was great fun and very rousing.

They played their way through most of the album, and ended on a new song called Whispers in the Dark (I think). We were lucky enough to be about six feet from the stage for the whole performance. It was pretty cool to meet the bands eye and see them smiling as they watch you film them.

They got a whooping, hollering reception upon ending their set but it was disappointing that the set line up (Mr Hudson followed by headliner Paloma Faith) didn't allow them to do an encore. Who wants to see Mr Hudson any way? We watched a bit by the bar, I know Kanye West loves him, but he didn't perform anything that was on a par with his excellent old single Too Late. No'rn Ir'on commented:

"Here, doesn't this remind you of Maroon 5?"

Me: "Yes. Ergo, shite."


We left before Paloma Faith came on, by that point I was elated, sweaty and really wanted a cigarette so No'rn Ir'on and I headed out into the dark Camden night. We were just gathering our thoughts and discussing how bloody amazing the gig was, when suddenly we spotted Country Winston (Winston Marshall, banjo and vocals) outside The Forum. As he strolled past we stopped him to say thanks for such a wonderful performance and to ask when they'd be performing in London again (he didn't know). He was very charming and didn't mind being accosted by two tipsy and exciteable girls. How can you express how much a band move you to a band member without sounding like a groupie idiot? I don't think you can.


One bad thing about this gig is that I am now more in love with Marcus Mumford than ever. I've gone to see him as an avid fan, and come back bearing the adolescent pain of forever unrequited love. Damnit. Any man that can write, sing and perform like that is astounding. Plus he's fit and rocks an old-fashioned 'tache that not that many men could get away with. *sigh* I think I'll spend today staring wistfully out of a window into the middle distance.

Still though, the heavy-hearted burden of a one-way infatuation is a small price to pay for a concert that definitely rates as one of my all time top five. Simply lovely.

(Sorry for the rubbish sound quality on the video clips: they don't do the band justice.)

"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.