Size isn't everything...

It’s Saturday morning and after having had to set my alarm once more I am sat on my sofa, munching away at my porridge and typing as fast as my fingers, still hungover with sleep, can manage.  You see, today I am off on my jollies.  My flight to Alicante is not until this evening, but I have defuzzing to do, a suitcase to pack – and an exhibition to check out.

No, I don’t really have time to pop into London to enjoy a bit of art and yes, I am my own worst enemy, but when I heard that Ron Mueck of the Sensation exhibition of the late nineties fame was showing in town, I knew I had to take a look.  I popped along to the private gallery Hauser and Wirth on Monday but it was closed.  Being a stubborn type, I will not be beaten by that restrictive beast known as time.

Luckily my pilgrimage into town on Monday was not a complete washout, despite the wet weather.  I also went to Somerset House to catch an exhibition of paintings by Japanese tattoo artist Horiyoshi III and another small private gallery, Hayhill, to see Jamie McCartney’s Skin Deep or, more specifically, The Great Wall of Vagina.  Both exhibitions were real inspirations and I recommend that you try and catch them before they close.  But I’m no art critic, so I’m not going to go into the content of the work and the social commentary it offers. 

And here comes my confession.  This Monday was the first time in nearly eleven years of living in London that I have been to Somerset House.  Shocking, I know, especially when you take into account the art, gigs, films and world famous ice skating rink that it hosts.  It isn’t the only heavyweight venue that I have visited for the first time this year.  A couple of months ago I had the opportunity to go to the Royal Albert Hall for the first time.  Again I wasn’t disappointed and I can’t wait to go back with my folks later this year.

The flip-side to my confession is another one – I tend to avoid private galleries and usually gravitate towards lager public spaces to get my art fix.  Why?  Well, I think it is down to a preconception I have that when they clock my appearance (i.e. high street rather than Bond Street) they will decide that I am wasting their time and look down their noses at me as I enjoy their wares with absolutely no intention of buying.  Well, the receptionist at Hayhill blew that idea well and truly out of the water.  Despite my rain sodden jeans from Next and ancient scruffy black jacket, she took the time to ask me what I thought of the work and to explain how the artist had photographed the incredibly striking images.

Again, when it comes to gigs and theatre, I tend it forget about the smaller venues across town, but again, compared to the likes of the Albert Hall and Nottingham arena where I saw my girl-crush Florence Welsh on stage for the first time, they offer a more intimate experience – and, quite honestly, a better view.  I returned to Soho Theatre this year for the first time in ten years to see the Crick Crack Club and, despite being towards the back of the audience, I had a premier view.  Same goes for the comedy night I went to recently in a pub in Piccadilly and Seasick Steve’s gig at The Electric Ballroom last year – okay, so a bit bigger, but still small enough that I didn’t end up watching the entire thing on a big screen.

So, there you go.  When it comes to venues in London and elsewhere, size really isn’t everything.  Sadly the same doesn’t go for the suitcase I now have to pack. 

Adios.

Wild Thing

For those of you who know me (or at least follow me on Twitter), the following two facts will not come as a surprise.  First, I like watching documentaries on Channel 4.  Second, I have a bit of a soft spot for furry animals – especially little baby ones.  Needless to say I’ve been keeping half en eye on the above channel’s investigation into the nation’s population of foxes for the last couple of weeks.  I know a lot of people who don’t like foxes, whether due to fear of attack, memories of childhood pets falling foul of their need to feed or those who just think they look a bit mangy.  I, on the other hand, find them fascinating. 

Living in London, you don’t see a lot of wildlife, and coming across it, for me, is a real treat – not just because I’m a big softie.  It fills me with hope to see wild animals adapting to the urban landscape.  Let’s face it, without this ability, they wouldn’t stand a chance of survival.  So, when I see a fox trot across the street on my way home from the pub, or a squirrel scamper up a tree on the commute to work, it makes me smile.

Yes, I have heard about the attacks on small children and indeed I am aware that grey squirrels have pushed their rusty-coloured cousins to the corners of the country.  But is this really their fault?  If the world wasn’t so over-populated and devoid of their natural diet, foxes would be much less likely to put themselves at risk by attacking their mortal enemy.  If people hadn’t released grey squirrels to the UK they would be thriving in their country of origin – and not playing a Darwinian version of tug-of war with their rivals.  What they are doing is surviving – and in what is more often than not a hostile environment.

Okay, so the summer before last my entire crop of salad leaves was destroyed by a healthy colony of caterpillars and I often blame a bad day on a solitary magpie.  But, along with the birds I can hear singing outside my bedroom window and the spiders who weave their webs between the plants on my terrace, they keep me in touch with the real world.  A wander around Hampstead Heath fills me with memories of childhood walks with my mum as I spot bluebells and violets.  The aroma of wild garlic adds to the atmosphere of Highgate Cemetery, and even though it’s giant trees are responsible for a lot of damage to the majestic tombs that watch over London, they add to – in fact, create – the Victorian site’s beauty.

So whilst some people might dismiss the city’s four legged inhabitants and bemoan trees that cause structural damage to their houses, I welcome them.  They act as a reminder that London wasn’t always the polluted concrete jungle that it is today.  

I think it’s about time we made the foxes and the flowers feel welcome again and show them a bit more respect.  At the end of the day, they were here first. 

Get Real

Tonight, I am grateful.  I’m grateful it’s nearly the weekend.  I’m grateful that, for the first time in far too long, I feel like I’m getting on top of my workload again.  And I am grateful to have a night in, at home – and a bit of peace and quiet.

Despite my moaning and groaning about central London, on two occasions so far this week – as in 50% of my precious evenings – I have ended up in the West End.  Monday was a particularly horrific experience.  Having arrived back in London after a weekend ooop north I headed to Covent Garden for a spot of shopping before meeting my chums.  My shopping list was short but precise – two birthday cards, some face wash from Lush and a hip flask from the Monday market.  First I headed to M&S to pick up a bottle of cloudy lemonade and my greetings cards.  By the time I got to the self check-out I wished I had bought something stronger to quench my thirst.  The place was heaving with tourists and, like a swarm of midges, they were really starting to irritate me.  And I hadn’t even got to the Plaza.  This was not good.

With gritted teeth I fought my way through the throngs gathered around a variety of street theatre and found my stall – sans the perfect present I was looking for.  I asked the stall holder if he had any more and he promised to order some in.  As I thanked him, my heart sank with the realisation that this meant I would have to return soon.  With a sigh, I walked over to Lush – to find it closed for renovation.  Things were not going well.

I'd managed to claw my way through the crowds and was well on my way to my Holborn rendezvous when I realised I had forgotten my cashback.  Luckily when I got back to M&S they were able to sort it out for me, but by the time I got to Starbucks I was well and truly strung out, stressed - and sick of being back in London already.

The fact that my evening was in sharp contrast to my weekend probably didn’t help.  Friday afternoon had been spent with my folks at Thoresby Hall in Nottinghamshire, walking in the countryside, mooching around a handful of craft shops and warming up with a cuppa and cake.  Saturday was spent wandering around York with my beau, window shopping, lunching at Betty’s and catching up over a pint.  And then Sunday?  A day at a spa, swimming, steaming, sauna-ing and indulging in a face and body "ritual" which left me in a blissful haze for about six hours.  Monday morning ended my weekend away perfectly, sitting in my parent’s sundrenched garden with my laptop as dad did his Sudoku.

On Wednesday I found myself mounting the escalator at Leicester Square and pushing through the crowds once more.  After a particularly arduous day at work, it wasn’t a great start to my evening.  However, after meeting my friends in the suitably civilised Foyles', we decided to head up to Goodge Street for burritos at Benitos Hat.  Once we had a passed the hordes at Tottenham Court Road, I started to feel calmer. Yes, it was still busy, but we had escaped that central hub of tourist activity – and found London again.  So Goodge Street isn’t the most exciting of locations – but it is London for Londoners.  People visiting the capital don’t tend to venture into the area nestled safely between Oxford Street and Camden, and for the locals it is a bit of a haven. 

Okay, I know, tourism brings a lot of money into the capital – and provides many of its inhabitants with jobs that are few and far between.  But I can’t help but wish that it was a little bit more true to itself.  Let me try to explain - in recent months I have visited two other European cities, Prague and Budapest.  Prague, I’m sorry to say, was a bit disappointment.  Yes, it is a beautiful place, but it felt like it had sold itself to the visitor and forgotten it’s true self.  Budapest, on the other hand, hit the spot.  The capital of Hungary is, to me, just as beautiful with its own intriguing history – but the emphasis on tourism seemed absent.  Whilst welcoming to the traveller, it was also there for its inhabitants, giving it a sense of authenticity that can so easily be lost.

Over the Bank Holiday weekend I am in danger of a similar crash.  On Saturday I am heading out to bonny Buckinghamshire – which will be followed by a May Day outing with another mate somewhere between my North London flat and her home in Dulwich.  And, although the mid-point seems like the obvious choice, I shall be suggesting somewhere a little more off the beaten track.  Somewhere a little bit more... real.

Water Washout

At the end of last year I started to see a life coach.  I only saw him about half a dozen times, just to iron out a few chinks in my armour, but it was certainly a valuable experience.  One thing he helped me with was my guilt.  After explaining how it gnawed away at me like a hyperactive rodent, he enquired,

“Are you by any chance a Catholic?”

If I was, it would explain a thing or two.  But I’m not.  And, whenever there is an opportunity to feel bad about something, I grab it with both hands.  Take “green guilt” for example.  I feel shamed if I have to take a carrier bag at the local supermarket and lose sleep if I discard an empty Coke can or exhausted newspaper in a general waste bin.  And despite my coach’s attempts to put my feelings of guilt into perspective, it has recently got worse.  You see, I now have “drought guilt.”  I kid you not, but after my Saturday morning ritual in the bath, cleaning, laundry, hand washing and mopping, I don’t think I could have felt much worse that if I’d just kicked a malnourished puppy.

So, on Monday I sought redemption.  A week after moving to a new office at work, I walked into the ladies to see one of the taps running freely once more.  With a tut I twisted it off and marched back to my desk to call building maintenance and demanded that it be fixed at once.  Two days later, the problem has not gone away.  I think back to the total number of minutes that I had water running over the weekend and calculate for how many hours that tap has been spurting out London’s most valuable commodity du jour, and – you know what?  I get bloody angry. 

Let’s face it, big businesses and corporations waste gallons of H20 every nano-second – probably because they can afford our steep water rates, which I am sure will go up if we get to the point of actually buying water from our better-stocked neighbours.  Which reminds me – what on earth has happened to the world when a natural and necessary substance such as water is traded this way?  I’m sorry, but it just seems, well, wrong.  I mean, are we going to start tanking it over to sub-Saharan Africa and sell it to them too?  My mind boggles.

Of course, this would bother me less if the sun was shining and it hadn’t been absolutely chucking it down for what feels like an eternity.  And now, of course, we see that some parts of the country are at risk of flooding.  Yes, I know that this extreme weather is down to global warming etc etc (and yes I do feel like my recent flight to Budapest is single-handedly to blame for these recent conditions) and that when rain falls so quickly it is less easy for us to harvest, but surely, in this day and age, we have the engineering and technical know-how to do so – and pipe it from one end of the country to another?  Come on people, the UK isn’t that big.  Surely this is possible – and a worthwhile investment? 

Sadly, as much as I rant, I know that I shall still feel guilty if I linger under the shower for too long in the morning.  But, as I arrive at my bus stop, already sodden from a misjudged puddle or inconsiderate driver, I shall remain more than a little pissed off that, for some inconceivable reason, we still have a water shortage – and the powers that be have yet to figure out how to balance this contradiction.

Mix 'n' Match

I have a confession to make. I’m not sure how people will take it, but I feel like I have to come clean. Okay, here goes...

I love Ikea.

I’m sorry, but I do. I went there the other weekend, and, although I only came back with a new picture frame and a furry rug, I could have spent a small fortune. I’ve been craving one of those wooden framed rocking chairs for ages and, if I had the room, I’d have one in every colour. Coupled with their current special offer of a cinnamon bun and coffee for 50p and their range of weird and wonderful food (reindeer salami anyone?), it is, for me, a shopper’s paradise.

I know people who pride themselves for having never set foot in the place. Others who refuse to enter their local Tesco Metro and look down their noses at anyone who has ever indulged in a KFC. Guess what? I am guilty of both of those offences too.

And yes, guilty is the right word. With my left-leaning morals I should know better. And, living in London where there is such an abundance of independent retailers, I have no excuse. But the truth of the matter is that although I love local, sometimes I just want the convenience of walking into a shop and walking out five minutes later without having spent half the afternoon rummaging around for that unique/organic/vintage something special.

Don’t get me wrong. When the mood hits me, I can quite easily spend an entire weekend mooching around London’s markets. Whether it’s brownies and bratwurst at Borough Market, art and fashion from Spitalfields or fun fifties furniture down Brick Lane, when the time is right, I can’t get enough of it. But when I’m on my way home from work, pay day is a million light years away and I just can’t be arsed? Sorry but there’s no competition. And every little really does help.

So there you have it. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have a locally purchased bottle of wine to devour and two Birthday presents to get in the post. Yes, one of them was purchased last night in Grotesqucoes. The other? My favourite independent retailer in Kings Cross. Now where did I put that re-cycled wrapping paper?

City Secrets

Tonight is the fourth night in a row I have been at home left to my own devices. It’s been all very pleasant, but, needless to say, I am getting rather bouncy and looking forward to a night at the National Portrait Gallery tomorrow, pay day drinks on Friday and a weekend with my folks. Happy days.

Yet, despite my interest in the work of Lucien Freud, there is part of me that really doesn’t want to head into central London tomorrow. You see, I really need to do a little bit of shopping and, without making a major de-tour, that means one thing: Oxford Street. Yes, okay, so I could go on a different occasion but I really want to get to H&M whilst the bath mat I so desire is still in stock and to visit Paperchase whilst they have their sale on – and I really don’t want to have to dedicate an entire afternoon to High Street Hell.

That’s the problem with London – so much of it is so big, so overwhelming and so rammed with tourists that I can understand why it puts a lot of people off. I admit, when I first moved here I quite liked its brazen boldness, but as our relationship has developed it is a side of London that I have realised I don’t really care for.

Luckily, over the years, I have been able to take a peek at the capital’s alternative underbelly – and I like what I see. It is the hidden gems, the little nooks and crannies that make London so great – and constantly full of surprises.

Let’s start with museums. An Australian friend of mine was looking for something new to do the other weekend. She fancied a museum but had done all the big players to death, so I suggested the Old Operating Theatre. Tucked away at the back of London Bridge, it is crammed with old medical apparatus, bits of preserved bodies and the theatre itself – viewing gallery, blood stains and all. To me it is a proper museum – dusty, dark and more than a little bit macabre. What more could a London girl ask for? I know there are other like-minded places I have yet to have a poke around in – one of them being the better known Horniman Museum, which I shall definitely get around to visiting this year in order to catch its The Body Adorned exhibition (think tattoos, piercings and the like).

It’s also a relief to know that there is a wealth of other things I can get up to in the evening that are a little bit off the beaten track. I’m not a huge fan of musical theatre, but had a magical experience at the Soho Theatre a couple of months ago, listening to stories told by the Crick Crack Club. When I fancy a night on the dance floor, rather than your run of the mill superclubs, there are nights arranged by the likes of B&H events where I can step back in time, dress up and lose myself in another era.

And, if you have a big party to arrange and don’t fancy a bar crawl around Leicester Square – fear not. As well as speedboat rides on the Thames (as raved about in a previous blog), there are also places like my favourite, Drink, Shop, Do, in Kings Cross. For my friend’s Pre-Wedding Girly Get-Together (I wasn’t allowed to call it a Hen Do) we tucked into afternoon teas “with a kick” – whilst attempting to make garters. It was great fun and I have to say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen my girlfriends so engrossed in all our years. And we are talking a lot of years...

So, there you go – my whistle-stop tour of London’s less flashy leisure activities. It just goes to show, first impressions can be misleading, and big doesn’t always mean better. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to book tickets for the opera – as performed in a gay bar...

Free-dom!

The last two weekends I have been out of London. As well as being pleasurable in their own right, they also reminded me how much more you get for your money outside of the capital. A pint of scrumpy in Somerset? Just over two pounds. A beer in Budapest? Even less.

But, one has to remind oneself that cheaper does not always mean better. And, nine times out of ten, when something is free... there is a reason for it. It could be because it is a new product or service trying to gain new custom. It might be to lure back old customers. Or... it is sometimes just because the very thing they are giving away is, pure and simply, shite.

Take my recent trip down to South London. I ended up in an old man’s pub called The Trafalgar. So far, not a problem. I partook in another pint (or two) of real ale and listened politely as my friends continued to wean me onto lager’s decidedly flatter cousin. I was quite content.

Then the evening’s entertainment started. Needless to say, it was free. Some of you may know Steve Whalley as the lead singer of Slade before Noddy took the reins. Anyway, he and his side-kick treated us to a taste of the blues. Okay, so the man could sing, and the strumming was more than passable. Then I started to listen to the lyrics.

So, what was he singing about? 6’3’’ blondes. Prostitutes and how they love selling their bodies to their pimps and punters. Naked robbers and women riding horses in tight jodhpurs. The feminist within me was not amused, and it became clear that even some of the men in our party were less than impressed too. So... we left. And I don’t think we’ll be back.

But, fear not, freebies can be fabulous too. Last week I met one of the girls (I had been with on that frightful night) for a curry and a bit of comedy at Ruby Tuesday’s, The Queen’s Head. The curry, although not free, was pleasant and reasonably priced; the comedy; gratis. I knew that, especially as it was in the heart of Soho, it might be a bit rough around the edges, but my mate had been before and assured me that it was okay.

I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised. Okay, so a couple of the stand-ups were a bit leftfield for me and there were one too many poo jokes (although one of them was particularly funny), but some of the acts were really very amusing. I particularly liked the Swedish stand-up’s take on public transport here and there, and the lovely Blossom’s musings on what it means to be beautiful on the inside.

So, when you end up going out for a freebie in London, be prepared to make a swift exit. But, on the other hand, keep your mind open and you might just have a top night. And, if you do? Please let me know. The northerner in me loves a cheap date...