This weekend, I had a visitor from Up North. He travelled down on Saturday in order to go out for dinner with myself, Him Indoors and a couple of friends who lived on the commuter belt who were celebrating their birthdays. My chum arrived at around lunchtime, so, over an omelette courtesy of Him Indoors, we discussed what our plan was for the rest of the afternoon. My friend didn’t fancy a museum. Him Indoors wasn’t in the mood for a film, and I couldn’t really afford another shopping trip. There was only one solution. The pub.
Thank the lord for the good old fashioned pubic house. Where I live there are several to chose from, ranging from the Prince Albert (which makes the Queen Vic on Eastenders look like The Ivy) to the Landseer, which offers a full range of beers in an atmosphere that isn’t all that different from your front room.
That’s what I love about London. Whether we are talking shopping, art or music, there is something for everyone. I myself like the shabby chic kind of establishment with a range of premium lagers (if they stock Frulli, Staropramen and Crabbies, I am in pretentious beer heaven) with worn William Morris-style wallpaper and scuffed, squashy leather sofas. Throw in an extensive menu of good honest pub grub and some authentic indie on the jukebox and I am a happy bunny.
There have been a couple of recent developments in my favourite watering holes that I favour even more than their extensive range of hand cooked crisps. I’ve always appreciated a pub that stocks a selection of broadsheets, but now a number of places offer free wifi. Yes, I can take along my laptop, do my internet grocery shop and chat on Twitter over a Saturday afternoon pint. But my personal favourite? A stack of board games in the corner of the bar. Ah, now you’re talking! As a kid (and, let’s face it, as an adult), I’ve always enjoyed a hand of cards or a tournament of Monopoly, Cluedo and Guess Who. Now you can enjoy a good game, not in the comfort of your own home, but somewhere you can meet your mates and not have to worry about stocking up on Salty Dogs and choosing a selection of beverages to suit everyone’s tastes.
So, on Saturday afternoon, we wiled away an afternoon playing dominoes, drinking beer and watching the world go by in the Angel Inn at Highgate. Two pints and whisky ginger later and I was certainly feeling rather warm and fuzzy inside. That’s the great thing about London pubs. They cater for your every need, whether it’s a Sunday Roast, a boogie on Saturday night or the obligatory mid week Pub Quiz. Either way, I will no doubt be setting up my Scrabble board in a pub near you soon.
Monday, 24 January 2011
Monday, 17 January 2011
Nicely Does It...
It is official. Today is the most depressing day of the year. Apparently. I have to say, it came as no surprise to me as I heard the announcement on the radio. It was dark and dreary when I crawled out of bed. It was drizzling as I traipsed to work. It was still grey when I left the office at 2pm to attend a meeting about job cuts. It’s a small miracle I’m not currently sobbing into a straight vodka having eaten the contents of a small chocolate factory.
It is on days like today that a friendly face, a genuine smile and a please and thank you would make life a lot more bearable. Unfortunately, it has become apparent to me that such a pleasant exchange with anyone else in this city has become a rarer and rarer occurrence. Customer Service is a thing of the past. Common Courtesy is all but extinct. Why? Well, because being Nice isn’t cool. It is out of vogue, unfashionable. Passé. Especially in London.
Take, for example, your average bus journey. Rather than automatically clearing the space next to them, people leave their bags on seats whilst you stand clearly in their line of vision, hanging on for dear life with one hand whilst the other struggles to keep hold of your shopping. People mutter to themselves when you try to get past them to take a seat at the back. Then there is the problem of personal hygiene. I am sorry, but unless you do not have access to a shower and a bar of soap it is unacceptable in my opinion to travel on public transport with BO. Okay, so end of the day sweaty pits is understandable, but stale week old funk? Just plain rude.
Recently, whilst enjoying a bus ride home from Camden Town after a meeting away from the office, I have seen this level of rudeness develop into pure nastiness. One evening before Christmas I heard a young female voice loudly inform a fellow passenger that they need to learn the language and uncover their face if they want to live in this country. How embracing of people from different religions and races. Then, only two weeks ago, I heard a young man talking to someone on the phone about a spate to motorbike robberies in the area. The acquaintance on the end of the phone was clearing looking after this chap’s bike.
“If you let anyone touch my bike bruv I’m gonna cut you up, do you get me?”
Wow. So this is how we communicate with each other these days, is it? Threaten others with violence rather than ask them to keep an eye on our property for us, please? Intimidate people to get our own way, rather than try and persuade them to help us out because we are nice people?
This disdain for others seems to have spread to our opinions of the rich and famous, too. Okay, I admit, I am not a big fan of the X Factor. But, you know what? Fair play to Whatsisface who won this year. He went for it, and he got it. Good for him.
A couple of weeks ago I was in HMV queuing to pay for a bargainous DVD. Whatsisface’s book was on display near the counter. Two young men in front of me noticed it.
“You see that guy? He is sick, man.”
“For real. He is a loser.”
Er, hello? Okay, so he isn’t quite John Lennon, but hey, he’s actually done quite well for himself! Okay, so by all means, question his musical ability, but a sick loser? Me thinks that he isn’t the person who falls into that category in this example. Surely it is those who cannot bear to see other people succeed who are sick?
Maybe that is the problem. Our society is ill. London’s communities are diseased with bad manners, a deficiency in respect and a bad case of not caring.
But there is good news. These ailments are easily treated with a dose of holding doors open for others, offering your seat to the elderly and infirm and an avoidance of queue jumping and elbowing. And, the icing on the cake is that such niceties are contagious.
So, when you set out to work tomorrow, why not give it a go? Who knows, being Nice might reach epidemic proportions.
It is on days like today that a friendly face, a genuine smile and a please and thank you would make life a lot more bearable. Unfortunately, it has become apparent to me that such a pleasant exchange with anyone else in this city has become a rarer and rarer occurrence. Customer Service is a thing of the past. Common Courtesy is all but extinct. Why? Well, because being Nice isn’t cool. It is out of vogue, unfashionable. Passé. Especially in London.
Take, for example, your average bus journey. Rather than automatically clearing the space next to them, people leave their bags on seats whilst you stand clearly in their line of vision, hanging on for dear life with one hand whilst the other struggles to keep hold of your shopping. People mutter to themselves when you try to get past them to take a seat at the back. Then there is the problem of personal hygiene. I am sorry, but unless you do not have access to a shower and a bar of soap it is unacceptable in my opinion to travel on public transport with BO. Okay, so end of the day sweaty pits is understandable, but stale week old funk? Just plain rude.
Recently, whilst enjoying a bus ride home from Camden Town after a meeting away from the office, I have seen this level of rudeness develop into pure nastiness. One evening before Christmas I heard a young female voice loudly inform a fellow passenger that they need to learn the language and uncover their face if they want to live in this country. How embracing of people from different religions and races. Then, only two weeks ago, I heard a young man talking to someone on the phone about a spate to motorbike robberies in the area. The acquaintance on the end of the phone was clearing looking after this chap’s bike.
“If you let anyone touch my bike bruv I’m gonna cut you up, do you get me?”
Wow. So this is how we communicate with each other these days, is it? Threaten others with violence rather than ask them to keep an eye on our property for us, please? Intimidate people to get our own way, rather than try and persuade them to help us out because we are nice people?
This disdain for others seems to have spread to our opinions of the rich and famous, too. Okay, I admit, I am not a big fan of the X Factor. But, you know what? Fair play to Whatsisface who won this year. He went for it, and he got it. Good for him.
A couple of weeks ago I was in HMV queuing to pay for a bargainous DVD. Whatsisface’s book was on display near the counter. Two young men in front of me noticed it.
“You see that guy? He is sick, man.”
“For real. He is a loser.”
Er, hello? Okay, so he isn’t quite John Lennon, but hey, he’s actually done quite well for himself! Okay, so by all means, question his musical ability, but a sick loser? Me thinks that he isn’t the person who falls into that category in this example. Surely it is those who cannot bear to see other people succeed who are sick?
Maybe that is the problem. Our society is ill. London’s communities are diseased with bad manners, a deficiency in respect and a bad case of not caring.
But there is good news. These ailments are easily treated with a dose of holding doors open for others, offering your seat to the elderly and infirm and an avoidance of queue jumping and elbowing. And, the icing on the cake is that such niceties are contagious.
So, when you set out to work tomorrow, why not give it a go? Who knows, being Nice might reach epidemic proportions.
Monday, 10 January 2011
Enigma
This Saturday I didn’t feel like doing much. I don’t know whether I should put it down to post-Christmas Blues (and bankruptcy) or just sheer laziness, but I didn’t fancy anything more exciting than a spot of breakfast in Crouch End. Resigned to re-runs of Dad’s Army, I perused the telly guide. With delight, I remembered that Channel 4 was dedicating the evening to the mysterious antics of Derren Brown, including a screening of his live show “Enigma”. Result! You see, I saw most of “Enigma” in the West End a couple of years ago. But there was a certain part that I wanted to experience again. But this time from the audience, not from the stage.
The date was July 13th 2009. Derren was at his peak as he entered into the second half of his show. Having sat through two of his shows before I was unperturbed when he asked his audience to listen to a sound that scientists had worked on for years which, he explained, was said to entice the listener into a trance-like state.
“Some of you will feel the urge to stand up. You may experience this by simply feeling that you are floating up out of your chair. Others of you will just have a strong desire to stand up. Don’t fight it, just go along with it and stay standing until I tell you otherwise.”
The “sound” started to play. Its rhythmic rumblings seemed to have no effect on me whatsoever. It was reminiscent of a train engine turning over in a station or a loud, constant bass thundering from a pulsating club. I continued to sit with my eyes closed and felt oddly comforted by the overwhelming noise that vibrated around the theatre. Then it started to happen.
I started to lean forwards in my chair. I was halfway to falling off it when I realised what was happening. Mildly alarmed but exceedingly curious, I eventually had no choice other than to try to wake my self, lunge into the person in front of me or stand up. I went for the latter.
The sound stopped. A hushed but incredulous murmur rose from the audience around me. Derren instructed those of us standing to remain where we were. I wondered if I was actually in a trance. I was convinced that I could snap out of it if I wanted to and sit down. But I didn’t.
Eventually Derren told everyone who was still standing to take a deep breath, lift their heads and open their eyes. I did and, feeling refreshed, looked around. I had assumed half the audience would be standing alongside me, and was alarmed to see a sea of inquisitive faces pointed in my direction. I quickly sat down and turned to Him Indoors. He looked back at me, an odd expression on his face. I settled back into my chair and, feeling slightly ridiculous, tried to turn my attention back to what was happening on the stage.
I had almost forgotten about my altered state when, about half an hour later, Derren asked all the women who had been hypnotised before to stand up. I felt several pairs of eyes bore into me and gingerly rose to my feet. Within a second the Weird One pointed me out. “You? What’s your name? Are you here with somebody else?” My answers clearly pleased, and he asked me to join him on stage. Applause drowned out my mumbled expletives.
Derren explained that he was going to sit me in a “Spirit Box” as used by mediums in the 18th Century to communicate with the dead. He explained mediums would put themselves into a trance and sit in the curtained off area (think a four poster bed without the bed part), where the deceased would communicate with the living. Two other volunteers were called up onto the stage to make sure there was no cheating.
Inside the spirit box was a wooden table and chair. On the table was a bell. Derren asked me to sit on the chair and looked at me. I started to feel very silly again. He held up his hand and walked towards me maintaining eye contact.
“And… sleep”.
For a second I looked straight back at him. I probably looked a little sceptical, and, well, I was. I was quietly confident that nothing was going to happen and Mr Brown would be left looking even dafter than I felt. But I was wrong.
My eyes closed heavily and my head lolled. I felt my spine turn to jelly and slumped forwards. I heard the audience laugh and again wondered if I was really in a trance. I was aware of everything that was going on around me. I felt Derren put a roughly woven bag over my head and heard him tell the audience he was going to close the curtains and summon the “spirits”. I felt a draft as he pulled the heavy velvet fabric and waited.
“Spirits, if you are with us please let us know of your presence.”
Silence. I sat in my chair. Then, without explanation, I heard the bell on the table next to me ring. Seconds later I heard the curtain being pulled open and the blindfold was lifted off my head. Derren roused me and I blinked my eyes open. He looked at me a little accusingly.
“Did you ring that bell?”
I tried not to laugh. “No!”
“Are you sure it wasn’t you?”
“Yes!” I clearly looked as bewildered as I felt - the audience were laughing at me again.
Eventually he seemed satisfied that I was telling the truth. He asked me to put my hand over a large glass he placed on the table, along with a yellow ball and the bell. He ensured that my hand was tightly placed over the top of the glass before giving me his funny look and sending me to sleep. Again I crumpled, and again the audience laughed. Even in my current state I almost laughed with them.
Again, Derren closed the curtain and summoned the spirits. Again, the bell rang on the table next to me. Derren opened the curtains once more and woke me from my stupor. He told me to look at the glass. The yellow ball was inside it. My hand was still sealing the top. You can guess what he said next.
“Did you put that ball in that glass?”
“No!”
“You must have done!”
“I didn’t!”
I really didn’t have a clue what was going on. Was Derren putting one of the other volunteers in the spirit box with me when I was under? It was either that or an actual ghost. And the whole point of the exercise was to prove that there was no such thing.
I was hypnotised again, this time with a chalk board and chalk on my lap. I heard the chalk scratching across the board before the unknown hand threw it across the stage.
“Did you throw that chalk at me?”
I did laugh this time, although a little nervously. The chalkboard on my lap had the name “Alison” written on it. And not in my handwriting. Derren decided to up the stakes.
“Do you mind if I tie you up?”
At this point in our relationship it seemed rude to say no.
His two volunteers were instructed to tie my hands together and I was bound to the chair.
Next two chalkboards with chalk sandwiched between them were placed on my lap. Again someone, or something, wrote on them. Then it was a tambourine. That got thrown at Derren too.
For his last summoning of the spirits, one of the other volunteers was ordered into the box with me. Blindfolded, tied up, and apparently not quite with it, I listened as the tambourine was shook and the newspaper left in our care was violently torn up. The tambourine was dumped on my head and my companion started to scream. The whole experience had gone from bizarre to downright scary.
Derren opened up the spirit box. My new crown caused much amusement. “Did you tear up that newspaper?”
This time the question was directed to my comrade. The look of clear bafflement on his face reassured me that I wasn’t going barking mad after all. Well, at least not alone anyway.
We were thanked for our help and sent back to our seats. The finale of the show came and went but I struggled to focus. I was flabbergasted.
“So what happened when he put me to sleep?”
Him Indoors didn’t really clear up any of the mystery on the bus ride home.
“Was there someone else in the box with me? Did he switch the light off so you couldn’t see either?”
It became clear that I really was alone in that spirit box. And I knew there were no spirits involved - other than the stiff JD and coke I poured myself when I got home. There was only one solution. Derren Brown made me ring his bell. And I could have sworn on my life that I didn’t.
So, on Saturday night I set up camp in the living room with a glass of wine and some Jellied Fruits and watched Derren perform his mind-blowing madness on some other innocent soul. I nodded in sympathy as she protested her innocence and pointed at the telly in wonder as I saw for the first time the spirit box in action. It was true. Derren had controlled my mind and made me do things I could have sworn I didn’t do. It was a revelation, and an unnerving one at that. I went to bed in the early hours of Sunday morning, clear on two matters. One, that Derren Brown is a scarily clever man. And, two, if I ever meet him again, I will avoid eye contact at all costs. I mean, what might he get me to do next time?
The date was July 13th 2009. Derren was at his peak as he entered into the second half of his show. Having sat through two of his shows before I was unperturbed when he asked his audience to listen to a sound that scientists had worked on for years which, he explained, was said to entice the listener into a trance-like state.
“Some of you will feel the urge to stand up. You may experience this by simply feeling that you are floating up out of your chair. Others of you will just have a strong desire to stand up. Don’t fight it, just go along with it and stay standing until I tell you otherwise.”
The “sound” started to play. Its rhythmic rumblings seemed to have no effect on me whatsoever. It was reminiscent of a train engine turning over in a station or a loud, constant bass thundering from a pulsating club. I continued to sit with my eyes closed and felt oddly comforted by the overwhelming noise that vibrated around the theatre. Then it started to happen.
I started to lean forwards in my chair. I was halfway to falling off it when I realised what was happening. Mildly alarmed but exceedingly curious, I eventually had no choice other than to try to wake my self, lunge into the person in front of me or stand up. I went for the latter.
The sound stopped. A hushed but incredulous murmur rose from the audience around me. Derren instructed those of us standing to remain where we were. I wondered if I was actually in a trance. I was convinced that I could snap out of it if I wanted to and sit down. But I didn’t.
Eventually Derren told everyone who was still standing to take a deep breath, lift their heads and open their eyes. I did and, feeling refreshed, looked around. I had assumed half the audience would be standing alongside me, and was alarmed to see a sea of inquisitive faces pointed in my direction. I quickly sat down and turned to Him Indoors. He looked back at me, an odd expression on his face. I settled back into my chair and, feeling slightly ridiculous, tried to turn my attention back to what was happening on the stage.
I had almost forgotten about my altered state when, about half an hour later, Derren asked all the women who had been hypnotised before to stand up. I felt several pairs of eyes bore into me and gingerly rose to my feet. Within a second the Weird One pointed me out. “You? What’s your name? Are you here with somebody else?” My answers clearly pleased, and he asked me to join him on stage. Applause drowned out my mumbled expletives.
Derren explained that he was going to sit me in a “Spirit Box” as used by mediums in the 18th Century to communicate with the dead. He explained mediums would put themselves into a trance and sit in the curtained off area (think a four poster bed without the bed part), where the deceased would communicate with the living. Two other volunteers were called up onto the stage to make sure there was no cheating.
Inside the spirit box was a wooden table and chair. On the table was a bell. Derren asked me to sit on the chair and looked at me. I started to feel very silly again. He held up his hand and walked towards me maintaining eye contact.
“And… sleep”.
For a second I looked straight back at him. I probably looked a little sceptical, and, well, I was. I was quietly confident that nothing was going to happen and Mr Brown would be left looking even dafter than I felt. But I was wrong.
My eyes closed heavily and my head lolled. I felt my spine turn to jelly and slumped forwards. I heard the audience laugh and again wondered if I was really in a trance. I was aware of everything that was going on around me. I felt Derren put a roughly woven bag over my head and heard him tell the audience he was going to close the curtains and summon the “spirits”. I felt a draft as he pulled the heavy velvet fabric and waited.
“Spirits, if you are with us please let us know of your presence.”
Silence. I sat in my chair. Then, without explanation, I heard the bell on the table next to me ring. Seconds later I heard the curtain being pulled open and the blindfold was lifted off my head. Derren roused me and I blinked my eyes open. He looked at me a little accusingly.
“Did you ring that bell?”
I tried not to laugh. “No!”
“Are you sure it wasn’t you?”
“Yes!” I clearly looked as bewildered as I felt - the audience were laughing at me again.
Eventually he seemed satisfied that I was telling the truth. He asked me to put my hand over a large glass he placed on the table, along with a yellow ball and the bell. He ensured that my hand was tightly placed over the top of the glass before giving me his funny look and sending me to sleep. Again I crumpled, and again the audience laughed. Even in my current state I almost laughed with them.
Again, Derren closed the curtain and summoned the spirits. Again, the bell rang on the table next to me. Derren opened the curtains once more and woke me from my stupor. He told me to look at the glass. The yellow ball was inside it. My hand was still sealing the top. You can guess what he said next.
“Did you put that ball in that glass?”
“No!”
“You must have done!”
“I didn’t!”
I really didn’t have a clue what was going on. Was Derren putting one of the other volunteers in the spirit box with me when I was under? It was either that or an actual ghost. And the whole point of the exercise was to prove that there was no such thing.
I was hypnotised again, this time with a chalk board and chalk on my lap. I heard the chalk scratching across the board before the unknown hand threw it across the stage.
“Did you throw that chalk at me?”
I did laugh this time, although a little nervously. The chalkboard on my lap had the name “Alison” written on it. And not in my handwriting. Derren decided to up the stakes.
“Do you mind if I tie you up?”
At this point in our relationship it seemed rude to say no.
His two volunteers were instructed to tie my hands together and I was bound to the chair.
Next two chalkboards with chalk sandwiched between them were placed on my lap. Again someone, or something, wrote on them. Then it was a tambourine. That got thrown at Derren too.
For his last summoning of the spirits, one of the other volunteers was ordered into the box with me. Blindfolded, tied up, and apparently not quite with it, I listened as the tambourine was shook and the newspaper left in our care was violently torn up. The tambourine was dumped on my head and my companion started to scream. The whole experience had gone from bizarre to downright scary.
Derren opened up the spirit box. My new crown caused much amusement. “Did you tear up that newspaper?”
This time the question was directed to my comrade. The look of clear bafflement on his face reassured me that I wasn’t going barking mad after all. Well, at least not alone anyway.
We were thanked for our help and sent back to our seats. The finale of the show came and went but I struggled to focus. I was flabbergasted.
“So what happened when he put me to sleep?”
Him Indoors didn’t really clear up any of the mystery on the bus ride home.
“Was there someone else in the box with me? Did he switch the light off so you couldn’t see either?”
It became clear that I really was alone in that spirit box. And I knew there were no spirits involved - other than the stiff JD and coke I poured myself when I got home. There was only one solution. Derren Brown made me ring his bell. And I could have sworn on my life that I didn’t.
So, on Saturday night I set up camp in the living room with a glass of wine and some Jellied Fruits and watched Derren perform his mind-blowing madness on some other innocent soul. I nodded in sympathy as she protested her innocence and pointed at the telly in wonder as I saw for the first time the spirit box in action. It was true. Derren had controlled my mind and made me do things I could have sworn I didn’t do. It was a revelation, and an unnerving one at that. I went to bed in the early hours of Sunday morning, clear on two matters. One, that Derren Brown is a scarily clever man. And, two, if I ever meet him again, I will avoid eye contact at all costs. I mean, what might he get me to do next time?
Monday, 3 January 2011
Reality Bites
Happy New Year everyone! I hope the festive period has left everyone feeling relaxed and invigorated. Okay, so bloated and hung over is more likely for the majority. But, after ten days visiting family and friends, and despite spending New Years Day with a decidedly unforgiving stomach (note to self not to mix Grolsch, red wine, bubbly and Harvey Wallbanger in the future) on a train back to London with the World’s Heaviest Suitcase, I am feeling relatively at peace with the world.
Despite my misgivings, my train travel over the holidays was remarkably simple. Okay, so we opted for the slow train to Peterborough to avoid the rush on the East Coast Mainline, but we had a seat for the entire journey. And our other two train journeys on New Year’s Eve and Day were also pain free. There was space for our luggage, AND we got a seat. Without booking in advance. I still can’t quite believe it. The icing on the cake was the bus we caught back home from the station. I was all in favour of getting a taxi but Him Indoors did not fancy paying Bank Holiday prices, so with a sinking heart I trundled to the bus stop, World’s Heaviest Suitcase in tow. The bus stop was deserted. The bus was half empty. And yet again, there was room for our cases with seats right next to them. I was starting to think we were in the wrong city until the bus deposited us outside our flat.
The following day, I made a brave decision. No, I didn’t quite make it to the gym (my stomach was still a bit dodgy), but I went sale shopping. On Oxford Street. Yes, of my own free will. And... I quite enjoyed it. Yes, it was busy and yes, the shops were ransacked of most decent items, but I returned with a smashing blouse, a lovely cardie, some knee-high socks, a DVD and a sense of satisfaction. And relatively stress-free. In fact, it wasn’t the bargain hungry crowds which increased by blood pressure, but the excitement of catching a glimpse of some of the new season’s offerings. I have already earmarked £55 of next month’s salary on a couple of rather delightful tops I spotted.
So, I returned home yesterday with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Today... well, today I have to face up to the fact that I have to return to work tomorrow and interact with people other than my family and friends who, like me, would rather be tucked up in bed with a hot chocolate whilst watching Love Actually and pretending that the holidays have only just begun.
Something tells me my feeling of contentment is about to be challenged very shortly. But, until that time, I am going to make myself a cup of tea and settle down in front of the telly until Him Indoors reminds me to get ready for my impending doom and go to bed.
Goodbye Holidays. Hello reality.
Despite my misgivings, my train travel over the holidays was remarkably simple. Okay, so we opted for the slow train to Peterborough to avoid the rush on the East Coast Mainline, but we had a seat for the entire journey. And our other two train journeys on New Year’s Eve and Day were also pain free. There was space for our luggage, AND we got a seat. Without booking in advance. I still can’t quite believe it. The icing on the cake was the bus we caught back home from the station. I was all in favour of getting a taxi but Him Indoors did not fancy paying Bank Holiday prices, so with a sinking heart I trundled to the bus stop, World’s Heaviest Suitcase in tow. The bus stop was deserted. The bus was half empty. And yet again, there was room for our cases with seats right next to them. I was starting to think we were in the wrong city until the bus deposited us outside our flat.
The following day, I made a brave decision. No, I didn’t quite make it to the gym (my stomach was still a bit dodgy), but I went sale shopping. On Oxford Street. Yes, of my own free will. And... I quite enjoyed it. Yes, it was busy and yes, the shops were ransacked of most decent items, but I returned with a smashing blouse, a lovely cardie, some knee-high socks, a DVD and a sense of satisfaction. And relatively stress-free. In fact, it wasn’t the bargain hungry crowds which increased by blood pressure, but the excitement of catching a glimpse of some of the new season’s offerings. I have already earmarked £55 of next month’s salary on a couple of rather delightful tops I spotted.
So, I returned home yesterday with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. Today... well, today I have to face up to the fact that I have to return to work tomorrow and interact with people other than my family and friends who, like me, would rather be tucked up in bed with a hot chocolate whilst watching Love Actually and pretending that the holidays have only just begun.
Something tells me my feeling of contentment is about to be challenged very shortly. But, until that time, I am going to make myself a cup of tea and settle down in front of the telly until Him Indoors reminds me to get ready for my impending doom and go to bed.
Goodbye Holidays. Hello reality.
Monday, 20 December 2010
Jingle Bell Shop
Christmas is almost upon us. Five days to go and counting. I admit I am feeling not only decidedly festive, but also particularly smug. You see, I managed to get all of my Christmas shopping done over a week ago, bar a couple of last minute stocking fillers I picked up on Friday. And, lo and behold, it was a relatively stress-free experience. Relatively.
Okay, so I cheated a bit and did a lot of my shopping online. Of course this strategy has backfired somewhat. My last order from Amazon was placed over a week ago and I have three parcels that have yet to arrive, despite being dispatched at the beginning of last week. I wait for the postman to arrive with baited breath, praying that they turn up before I begin my pilgrimage Up North on the 23rd. Amazon assure me they are trying to get everyone’s orders to them before Christmas, but this does not relieve my anxiety, having previous experience of our local Royal Mail depot. Mmm.
Much more trustworthy, if a little time consuming, were the presents I made myself. I like to think my handicrafts will be received well. Last year my draught excluders seemed to be a hit, especially with my friend who ordered another one for her mother in law this year. I’m already thinking what I can make next year – especially as there is a chance I will be on the dole and money saving enterprises will be much more of a necessity. May be I could set up my own cottage industry to help ease the financial burden?
The weekend before last I did a double whammy. On Saturday I headed over to Greenwich Market for a couple of bits for my sister and cousin (I can’t say what in case they read this before the big day!) and picked up a few stocking fillers for my parents, too. On Sunday I ended up on Oxford Street , despite vowing that I would avoid it this year. My mum decided she wanted to see the Christmas lights in the West End and, in fairness, it wasn’t too hectic. We arrived nice and early, and although it did get a bit busy after lunch, we managed to get around all the shops what we wanted. Thank goodness for the huge Marks and Spencer’s at Marble Arch, that’s all I can say.
So, with a trip down Upper Street earlier this month getting me off the starting blocks and a last minute flurry in Oxfam seeing the last fair trade item ticked of my Christmas shopping list with a week to go, I think I did quite well. I now have a pile of parcels waiting to be carted off in a suitably large suitcase, minus a couple of packages I put in the post, which set me back almost as much as the cost of the gifts inside. And I have managed to spread the cost quite nicely over a couple of credit card bills (phew).
So yes, I am quite proud of myself. I just hope that I have hit the mark with the various gifts I have rustled up for my friends and family. Now all I have to do is wait and see what Santa brings me.
Merry Christmas!
Okay, so I cheated a bit and did a lot of my shopping online. Of course this strategy has backfired somewhat. My last order from Amazon was placed over a week ago and I have three parcels that have yet to arrive, despite being dispatched at the beginning of last week. I wait for the postman to arrive with baited breath, praying that they turn up before I begin my pilgrimage Up North on the 23rd. Amazon assure me they are trying to get everyone’s orders to them before Christmas, but this does not relieve my anxiety, having previous experience of our local Royal Mail depot. Mmm.
Much more trustworthy, if a little time consuming, were the presents I made myself. I like to think my handicrafts will be received well. Last year my draught excluders seemed to be a hit, especially with my friend who ordered another one for her mother in law this year. I’m already thinking what I can make next year – especially as there is a chance I will be on the dole and money saving enterprises will be much more of a necessity. May be I could set up my own cottage industry to help ease the financial burden?
The weekend before last I did a double whammy. On Saturday I headed over to Greenwich Market for a couple of bits for my sister and cousin (I can’t say what in case they read this before the big day!) and picked up a few stocking fillers for my parents, too. On Sunday I ended up on Oxford Street , despite vowing that I would avoid it this year. My mum decided she wanted to see the Christmas lights in the West End and, in fairness, it wasn’t too hectic. We arrived nice and early, and although it did get a bit busy after lunch, we managed to get around all the shops what we wanted. Thank goodness for the huge Marks and Spencer’s at Marble Arch, that’s all I can say.
So, with a trip down Upper Street earlier this month getting me off the starting blocks and a last minute flurry in Oxfam seeing the last fair trade item ticked of my Christmas shopping list with a week to go, I think I did quite well. I now have a pile of parcels waiting to be carted off in a suitably large suitcase, minus a couple of packages I put in the post, which set me back almost as much as the cost of the gifts inside. And I have managed to spread the cost quite nicely over a couple of credit card bills (phew).
So yes, I am quite proud of myself. I just hope that I have hit the mark with the various gifts I have rustled up for my friends and family. Now all I have to do is wait and see what Santa brings me.
Merry Christmas!
Monday, 13 December 2010
Food for Thought
Today, I have no appetite. A rare state of affairs, but I appear to have picked up some kind of seasonal bug that has put me off my food. I have managed some Lucozade, two digestives and a couple of Pringles, but have yet to build myself up to a couple of slices of toast.
Although feeling all achy and feverish isn’t much fun, not eating much probably won’t do me any harm. You see it has been a rather foodie (and therefore calorie-ridden) kind of a week. From bargain basement noodles to a Ramsay recommendation, London has, as always, been able to offer me a range of culinary delights to suit any budget.
Soho can be a bit hit and miss when it comes to good nosh at a reasonable price, but I went to one of my favourite cheap and cheerful noodle bars on Thursday, Mr Taro’s on Old Compton Street. I had my usual Ramen, a huge bowl of noodle soup that has never failed to satisfy my hunger, and a cup of cleansing green tea. At just under £8 for the seafood option (chicken is about £7), you can’t go wrong. My veggie friend went for the meat free Bento Box, which at £12 looked to be enough food to keep you going for an entire week. For £3 we could have indulged in one of their unusual flavours of ice cream (ginger was particularly tempting) but didn’t quite have room. Darn it.
On Friday I went out to quite a different eatery, Fino’s on Charlotte Street. It took my fancy after seeing in on Gordo’s Best Restaurant, so Him Indoors treated me for a belated birthday present. It was pretty smart to say the least, but I have to say I would expect nothing less for that price! Don’t get me wrong, the food was lovely but the small plates were very small. We came to the conclusion that it was definitely only for special occasions and was probably a good 10-15% over-priced. Having said that our waitress was incredibly knowledgeable and personable, but the food was very slow to come out. However, the extensive cocktail menu (try the Dark and Stormy), cava by the glass (oh, go on then) and a range of Spanish wine and sherry kept us well lubricated. Food-wise, the squid with pancetta, chorizo and potato chips and black pudding tortilla were particularly nice, and the Turron (nougat) rounded off my meal nicely, washed down with a rather lovely dessert wine.
One of my mates from Derbyshire commented on London’s range of eateries when he came down last month. It is true, we are spoilt for choice down here, but, be warned, when you are in Central London a lot of places cash in on their location and over-charge tourists for sub-standard food. But you could do a lot worse than the above.
Bon Appétit.
Although feeling all achy and feverish isn’t much fun, not eating much probably won’t do me any harm. You see it has been a rather foodie (and therefore calorie-ridden) kind of a week. From bargain basement noodles to a Ramsay recommendation, London has, as always, been able to offer me a range of culinary delights to suit any budget.
Soho can be a bit hit and miss when it comes to good nosh at a reasonable price, but I went to one of my favourite cheap and cheerful noodle bars on Thursday, Mr Taro’s on Old Compton Street. I had my usual Ramen, a huge bowl of noodle soup that has never failed to satisfy my hunger, and a cup of cleansing green tea. At just under £8 for the seafood option (chicken is about £7), you can’t go wrong. My veggie friend went for the meat free Bento Box, which at £12 looked to be enough food to keep you going for an entire week. For £3 we could have indulged in one of their unusual flavours of ice cream (ginger was particularly tempting) but didn’t quite have room. Darn it.
On Friday I went out to quite a different eatery, Fino’s on Charlotte Street. It took my fancy after seeing in on Gordo’s Best Restaurant, so Him Indoors treated me for a belated birthday present. It was pretty smart to say the least, but I have to say I would expect nothing less for that price! Don’t get me wrong, the food was lovely but the small plates were very small. We came to the conclusion that it was definitely only for special occasions and was probably a good 10-15% over-priced. Having said that our waitress was incredibly knowledgeable and personable, but the food was very slow to come out. However, the extensive cocktail menu (try the Dark and Stormy), cava by the glass (oh, go on then) and a range of Spanish wine and sherry kept us well lubricated. Food-wise, the squid with pancetta, chorizo and potato chips and black pudding tortilla were particularly nice, and the Turron (nougat) rounded off my meal nicely, washed down with a rather lovely dessert wine.
One of my mates from Derbyshire commented on London’s range of eateries when he came down last month. It is true, we are spoilt for choice down here, but, be warned, when you are in Central London a lot of places cash in on their location and over-charge tourists for sub-standard food. But you could do a lot worse than the above.
Bon Appétit.
Monday, 6 December 2010
Holidays are coming...
Today, it is my sister’s Birthday. Happy Birthday Big Sis! This is good, not just for my sister who gets to open lots of pressies and eat lots of yummy food. But it is good for the rest of my family too. Why? Because, my dear friends, in our household my sister’s birthday marks the beginning of the official Christmas Countdown. Never mind the opening of the first window on your Advent Calendar. As from today, I have permission to get festive.
I admit, however, that I have been getting into the Yuletide mood for a few days now. I think it all started when I realised I had finished all my college coursework and made a real start on my Christmas shopping (thank Santa for Amazon). Okay, so I still have quite a few bits to get, but I reckon another online flurry and a trip to Oxford Street (an inevitable evil made a lot more bearable because I will be going with Mama Berry) and I will have got my St Nicholas act under control and can, well, enjoy it.
Let’s face it, the snow has helped. Yes, it has been very unhelpful in general, but nothing says Christmas like a sprinkling of the white stuff and getting cosy with a mug of hot chocolate in your pyjamas. Then, on Saturday, Him Indoors took me to the Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park. Think a German market with plenty of Bratwurst, mulled wine, ice skating and a fun fair with a couple of pop-up Bavarian pubs thrown in for good measure. A perfect family day out for all, surely? Hell, I could have easily spent the day there despite the cold – shopping, fun, food and drink, all in the same place.
Then, yesterday, I was listening to the radio whilst catching up on my housework in a bid to clear the way for the Christmas decs when it happened: The First Christmas Song of the Year. Okay, so the shops have been playing various versions of Jingle Bells for weeks already, but the radio? A clear indicator that it is time to get Merry. Oh ho ho!
So I might have had my first Gingerbread Latte of the season a fortnight ago, and I admit that I started drinking mulled wine on my birthday last month. But, today it is official.
Bring on the Mince Pies.
I admit, however, that I have been getting into the Yuletide mood for a few days now. I think it all started when I realised I had finished all my college coursework and made a real start on my Christmas shopping (thank Santa for Amazon). Okay, so I still have quite a few bits to get, but I reckon another online flurry and a trip to Oxford Street (an inevitable evil made a lot more bearable because I will be going with Mama Berry) and I will have got my St Nicholas act under control and can, well, enjoy it.
Let’s face it, the snow has helped. Yes, it has been very unhelpful in general, but nothing says Christmas like a sprinkling of the white stuff and getting cosy with a mug of hot chocolate in your pyjamas. Then, on Saturday, Him Indoors took me to the Winter Wonderland at Hyde Park. Think a German market with plenty of Bratwurst, mulled wine, ice skating and a fun fair with a couple of pop-up Bavarian pubs thrown in for good measure. A perfect family day out for all, surely? Hell, I could have easily spent the day there despite the cold – shopping, fun, food and drink, all in the same place.
Then, yesterday, I was listening to the radio whilst catching up on my housework in a bid to clear the way for the Christmas decs when it happened: The First Christmas Song of the Year. Okay, so the shops have been playing various versions of Jingle Bells for weeks already, but the radio? A clear indicator that it is time to get Merry. Oh ho ho!
So I might have had my first Gingerbread Latte of the season a fortnight ago, and I admit that I started drinking mulled wine on my birthday last month. But, today it is official.
Bring on the Mince Pies.
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