Trying to run...

Today, I went for a run.

I say went for a run, I mean I staggered breathlessly round Victoria Park and tried not to trip over crazed grey squirrels.

I love Victoria Park. It's a glorious green oasis in the midst of high rise blocks and fried chicken shops. The grand gates beckon you inside the boundaries and promise a haven of quiet within the madness of East London.

Today was a perfect day - cold, crisp and sunny. I bolstered myself to go and do some exercise and walked briskly to the park. It was quieter than usual, only the hardcore joggers and some casually cool couples strolling around. The light was magnificent - the wintery park was bathed in low golden sunshine that shone through the mist and the skeletal trees.

So, running. I really want to be able to run. I love the idea of sticking your iPod on and losing yourself for a few miles, pounding the streets and focusing only on your stride and breathing. The reality however is somewhat different. I'm not a natural runner. I'm just not built for it. Today I felt ambitious due to my gradual improvement on the cross trainer in the gym. Turns out, doing 6k on the cross trainer without too much pain is not comparable to actual, real life running.

As I built up my stride around the park, I was sad I didn't have my camera with me. There were beautiful shots everywhere. The first tableau I came across was a statuesque man on roller blades setting up flourescent orange cones in a neat row, presumably to practice some intricate footwork. He cut a striking figure against the misty soft-focus background and pulled some excellent shapes while skating around and bending down to adjust his markers.

I attempted to jog around the park, setting myself small goals like reaching the next bench, but I was overtaken by an athletic-looking man who sprinted past while expertly pushing one of those fancy off-terrain-type prams with one hand. He was going at quite a speed and I was slightly concerned that he could trip at any second and send a baby spinning off in the distance, but he was out of sight before he broke stride. Shame.

One thing about Victoria Park that disconcerts me is the squirrels. I mean, they're everywhere. And not cute little squirrels. These are chinchilla-sized beefcake squirrels that apparently have no fear. In the past, No'rn Ir'on and I have been power walking around the park and I've naively exclaimed, "Oh how cute! Look, he's coming over!" - only to be confronted by a creature that's half American Grey Squirrel and half bare-knuckle fighter. These little critters stare you out at close range then actually come at you. No'rn Ir'on's actually been chased by one before. Today a big gang of them appeared to be having a party under a tree. At least seven squirrels hopped around, tails bobbing cheekily, and gave innocent passers-by evil looks. I jogged hastily past.

Another gem of Victoria Park is the lake. An impressive fountain sprays water in the middle of the lake, the low sunshine shining through and casting rainbows over the water. The Pavillion Cafe is always bustling with people enjoying some organic fayre by the water. A multitude of birds flock around them: swans, geese, coots, ducks and seagulls swoop in circles over head. I was captivated today by the elegant swans gliding across the golden silver silhouetted lake. They look so graceful; but this was quickly negated by watching a young swan exit the water. It still had it's cygnet grey down but was growing to be a huge swan. It swam to the edge of the water and suddenly heaved itself out and plonked itself on the shore. I swear the ground shook. It was like a small pony.

The Canada Geese lined up on the edge of the lake, a row of five stood on one leg in perfect harmony and watched the gulls overhead in total synchronicity. It was like a troupe of Eastern European gymnasts, poised for their choreographed routine. But with more feathers.

As I alternated between brisk walking and huffing and puffing during the attempts at jogging, I started to really enjoy myself. I love being alone outdoors and the weather was perfect - I was hot but the fresh gusts of wind felt greatly refreshing. In some spots in the park, the constant of East End traffic actually dies down and all you can hear is dogs yapping and birds squawking. Despite loving city life, I am at heart a rural girl. If I was asked at any point, what would I like to be doing right now? The top two answers would always contain the same: on a magnificent Hunter or Dutch Warmblood, cantering across rolling English hills or testing my nerve skittering on a flighty horse through woodland.

The Park contains the ghost of Victorian grandeur - the lake, the noble gates, the ruined sculptures, the hazy vistas behind ancient trees. It's easy to wander round and expect a Victorian gentleman to come strolling by in a top hat and dress coat.

I made my breathless way back to the park gates and tried not to have a coronary, feeling content and euphoric despite my shit attempt at being A Runner.

I have a confession to make: Dear Hackney Road Tesco; the twenty pound note I paid for my shopping with had been safely ensconced in my sweaty minging trainer for the entire run. Sorry about that...

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 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.

Italy Day 5: Luigi, Big Nuts & Pizza

We'd been lucky enough to be at the receiving end of one of Rosa's kind invitations again yesterday, to join her for lunch again today. We had a lazy morning in preparation, watched a crap Al Pacino film which I didn't realise The Blonde had put on and exclaimed,

"They just said 'fuck' and it's not even 12 noon yet - Italian TV is pretty lenient!"

The Blonde: "um, it's a film. On DVD."

Me: "Oh.... that would explain it."

The Blonde: "I love you, Arctic Puffin."

We wander down to Rosa's slightly later than she suggested since the day before, time seemed like a fluid concept. In we strolled, confidently now exclaiming "Ciao! Buongiorno Rosa!" Her reply was,

"1:15! Late! Sit!" Whooooooops. We get ushered through to the dining room and it dawns on us - this isn't the same arrangement as before, where The Blonde and I sat comfortably with Rosa, communicating in pidgin Englitalia. This is a table full of Italian men. Ranging from mid 20s to 50s and rather intimidating. We grinned nervously and said "Ciao" to everyone as we sat. Rosa had prepared a gorgeous tray of roasted meat and potatoes and veg, and she dished it out. Everyone is speaking Italian and we haven't got a clue what is going on.

Shit. This is slightly uncomfortable.

One older man sat next to The Blonde, bless him, tries to make conversation. We establish he comes from Lecce, "The Florence of the South" and comes to eat with Rosa once a week. He is very sweet but slightly creepy. There is a very sexy older guy who is wearing a lilac poloneck and a tweed suit - this should not work but he was hot. Next to me was a younger guy who didn't even acknowledge my presence.

We made stilted conversation as we ate the delicious meal Rosa had made, I'm not even sure what meat it was (possibly rabbit) and then she presented us with a plateful of homemade lasagne after a roast. We had to at least eat some of it. Also absolutely yum, but we were both in danger of popping at this point.

Annamaria brought us little cakes for dessert and their young male relatives brought us coffee and limoncello. Everyone started eating fresh walnuts after the meal, the older man next to The Blonde said,

" 'Ow do you say.... Big Nuts?" pointing to the walnuts in shells. We don't know if he's taking the piss or not so we crack up. The table starts laughing but he looks a bit confused,

"Have I said wrong? These... big nuts?" We assure him it's a walnut, but it was just that what he said in English had a double meaning. Ooops. Impressive though, Italian men break walnut shells with their hands.

During the meal, a guy came bounding in. We'd guess late 40s, built like a bull, wearing a pink jumper and having lots of banter with everyone - clearly a comedian. He introduces himself to us, he practically crushes my hand when he shakes it. This is Luigi.

Over the end of dinner, we establish he can speak some English as his brother lives in London, and he's really rather funny, as well as being a 52 year old weightlifter. Annamaria goes on to the laptop on the internet and they are laughing and pointing about something. Everyone is summoned to the screen to check out a photo from the 70 of three musclebound bodybuilders - yep that's him - that explains that neck and that chest. The Blonde and I exchange glances.

As we relax after the food mountain, Luigi keeps going on about The Blonde's eyes. During this chat I put my cigarettes on the table in anticipation of popping out on to the terrace for a post-dinner smoke. Luigi questions me about how many I smoke, then grabs my hand and starts smelling my fingers! This is weird. Not just a polite sniff from a distance, but practically my fingers are in his mouth at this point. Ummmm, ok, I am just popping outside.

Alone, admiring the magnificant view and enjoying my cigarette, I then hear the door go. Luigi comes out with one of my cigarettes.

Me: "Luigi, you don't smoke! You are so fit!" (I meant this in the literal, muscular sense.)

He lights it regardless, not looking in the least bit like a smoker, and stands directly in front of me.

"Your eyes! Verde, verde! Originale?"

Me: "Si, originale... "

He sees that my left eye has a random bit of brown in it and chatters away in Italian, I have no idea what he is saying. A friend of his joins us and I have the opportunity to put out the cigarette and slip back inside.

The Blonde is sorting out Euro, and suggests we should go. I agree. All very welcoming and lovely, just starting to err on the side of slight discomfort.

We promise Rosa we will come back in Summer, and thank her for her warmth and hospitality during our stay, when Luigi comes over.

"You like pizza?"

"Of course......"

"Ok, tonight, we take you somewhere special. You come out for pizza? 9pm? Nothing funny, this special." At this point The Blonde swore he also said "No police" - I did not hear this, but it's worrying nonetheless. We agree loosely to this plan and make our way back to the apartment to finish the vino locale and doze off our huge lunch.

After some deliberation we decide that perhaps it's not the best idea to go and meet Luigi for pizza. I am sure it would have been great fun but we couldn't be doing with the effort of the language barrier; as well as suspecting that Luigi would have brought a lot of the locals since The Blonde had definitely been a city novelty throughout the time we'd stayed. We had visions of us turning up for pizza and a chat, and a whole gaggle of Italian man who'd come to see the legendary Blonde English girl...

Instead we spent our final night in Il Gatto Rosso, enjoying a fine pizza and yet more Prosecco, and The Blonde had a nice final evening ogling Fitty McDirty.

The Blonde: "Ask his name!"

Me: "I don't care - YOU ask his name!"

The Blonde: "No you go to the bar, get more drinks and ask his name!"

Me: "No. I WILL go and get drinks, but I am not asking his name."


So, our final night in Ostuni. We wandered home, hoping to avoid Luigi in case he was angry we stood him up, and happened to be a member of the local Mafia or something... we got away with it.

A cup of green tea, and a final sleep in my little stone alcove...

Italy Day 4: Trulli, Chilli Grappa & Shag/Marry/Ditch

The previous day, Rosa had suggested she take us on an excursion to Alberobello, famous for it's hobbit-like houses called trulli which are forbidden to be dismantled; and a entire trulli town exists which is a world heritage site. We eagerly agreed to go and see this, and made our way to Gran Caffe Tito Schipa on the Monday morning.

We arrived and ordered espressos while Rosa busied herself serving the biggest group of people we'd seen the whole time we'd been there, and The Blonde and I started to worry that this might be a coach trip full of people who can't speak English, and that it would be awkward...

We needn't have panicked though, a good 45 minutes after the agreed meeting time (Rosa needed to have a cappuccino and smoke about 6 cigarettes), the three of us got into her convertible Renault and we made our way to Alberobello down remote roads flanked by olive groves and industrial units. The Blonde was cramped up in the back while I was treated to the sight of the road head on as Rosa threw the car around the narrow roads, whilst not wearing a seatbelt and having the odd cigarette out of the window.

After a slightly hair-raising hour, Rosa pulled up in the pretty town of Alberobello and we stiffly got out of the car and enjoyed a potter round in some fresh air.

Alberobello was a really unusual place and exquisitely pretty, with trulli as far as the eye can see. The thing is though, once you've seen one trullo, you've sort of seen them all. The town felt very touristy and every other trullo was a souvenir shop. I took pictures of one such shop, and the owner came out and ushered me in for a look around. He was also kind enough to open up his loft stairs and motion me up them to get a great panoramic view of the whole place.

He also gave us many samples of the Puglian liquers he was selling - in the space of about five minutes we'd had cactus liqeur, almond liquer, limoncello, chilli grappa (extremely strong) and various other potent digestifs from the same cup. We'd had a crispbread each for breakfast so we both staggered out of the trullo with a bagful of dubious liquers and some almond biscotti. Good sales technique.

On the return journey, Rosa took us via the coast to drive through Torre Canne to see the golden beaches. It wasn't really beach weather, but the sun came out despite the grey sky and the landscape was vivid. Then she said something which struck me with pure terror.

"We have restaurants here, sell only fish. Apulian speciality is, how do you say.... urchin?"

The Blonde and I exchange glances.

"I take you to restaurant and we try, ok?"

In my head I am thinking no no NO, since I am squeamish about seafood as it is, so the thought of an exotic sea urchin is actually making me feel a bit queasy. I've only been eating prawns and mussels for the last two years, for God's sake.

Rosa pulled into a restaurant where an old man was smoking around the back, and a well-fed slightly feral-looking dog was scampering round. Rosa asked in Italian if they were open, to my utter relief, it wasn't. No sea urchin for me! It would have been the dilemma of offending our hostess, or quite possibly trauma and vomiting. No one wants that. Especially me. The Blonde and I made disappointed noises and said "Next time! When we comeback in summer, yes!"


We were kindly invited to go and eat after the trip again with Rosa, so we happily accepted for the sake of Italian authenticity. Rosa laid out a spread of foie gras, salami, ham, cheeses, bread and her homemade white wine again, we were very happy. We assumed this was lunch, but this being Italy, there was more to come. As we digested the first course, Rosa whipped out a dish of the Apulian speciality pasta, orichiette ("little ears"). She served it with salty fish (I think it was anchovy) and a vegetable which was like a skinny broccoli. Unusually, you eat it with crispy breadcrumbs sprinkled over the top, and it's totally delicious.

Full and dozy again, Rosa's sister Annamaria popped out this time, with her homemade caramel panna cotta and cherry wine liquer she brewed herself. All completely yummy and moreish but by this time The Blonde and I had to go home and struggle up the hill for a little sleep and a kick back.

What better game to pass the time is there than 'Shag, Marry, Ditch?' (actually there are many, many better ways to pass the time but it seemed a great suggestion at the time) We enjoyed another bottle of the local vino and spent some time in the afternoon sat on our balcony trying to give each other really hard choices, and cracking up at the consequent answers. Which go no further than that balcony in Ostuni.

After such a heavily indulgent afternoon, there was no need to go out for dinner this evening. We spent it listening to a wonderful storm, watching more films and discovering an awesome Italian series called Un Medico In Famiglia which was a long programme and contained plotlines about a chocolatier, a riding school, doctors and bored housewives. Utterly brilliant, my new favourite series. No idea what they were saying for most of the time but somehow the blonde and I knew what was going on.

"Ooo quick, pour that wine and get over here, she's pregnant with his baby!"

"Oh my God, what a cow, can't believe she did that!"

"Why has she built a church out of white chocolate?" (This was a real observation and an example of the stunning plotlines.)

Italy Day 3: Free olives, white jeans and fake tan

Sundays in Ostuni. Even less is open than any other out of season day. It was another fine day so The Blonde and I decide to take a wander and do some more exploring.

Lots of people are wearing black, and we're not sure why, but begin to worry since Sunday is an important day in the Catholic calendar.

As we're wandering, I fear The Blonde is about to throw a strop,

"EVERYONE is wearing black, Arctic Puffin - what if we're offending the locals?! WHAT IF WE SHOULD BE WEARING BLACK?!"

I point out that she is wearing pretty much completely black except a white vest peeking out from under her junper, and I am wearing a black cardi, so it's ok even if everyone is meant to wear black.

However, shortly we see an Italian family wearing the de riguer orange/purple puffa jackets, so it's all ok.

We come across a gorgeous little cafe/ art gallery run by a very friendly and not-bad English speaking man, so we sit in a deserted square and enjoy a Prosecco with free olives and fresh tomato bruschetta. Even I, who hates raw tomato, enjoyed it.

Oooh, where to go for dinner later that night? Hmmmmm.... Il Gatto Rosso? Ok!

It was funny because the previous night we'd been discussing the phenomenon of white jeans. A couple of Italian teenage girls were wearing them and we debated the merits.

The Blonde: "I think they look really good."

Me: "Nooooo, even if you're tiny and rich like Liz Hurley, they still look Euro-trash cheap!"

We entered Il Gatto Rosso... to see Fitty McDirty sporting a pair of really rather tight... white... jeans.

It's hard to order drinks and dinner without wetting ourselves but we somehow manage it.

Me: "Is he looking more tanned than yesterday? I think he's put tan on, in the hope you are coming back in, for more International Inappropriate Touching."

The Blonde: "No... really? You think? Oh he saw me looking, shit"

Me: "Definitely. His face is darker than yesterday. Wow, white jeans and bronzer, that's a potentially messy combo, he's pulling if off well."

And so the evening was spent debating whether men wear makeup. And still debating from opposite sides about whether anyone should ever wear white jeans.

I had an unusual pizza which was a dough base with fresh tomato, mozarella, rocket and reams of prosciutto on top. Basically a salad on bread. It was way too much again.

We really needed the peppermint tea I'd brought with me when we go back to the apartment.