I’m not going to lie to you. This week I am feeling rather smug. Why, you may ask? Well, on Saturday I did the Race For Life. And not the 5km version either. Oh no. I well and truly jumped in at the deep end and went for the 10km.
It was my mate who talked me into it. I was quite happily about to sign up for the 5k version when she convinced me otherwise.
“10k just says a bit more don’t you think? And you can already do 5k.” She argued. And, before I had time to think it through, we had both signed up. Within twenty minutes I was already regretting it, but it was too late. There was no turning back.
That was about eight weeks ago. Since then I have been getting up at 6.30am on a regular basis to meet my partner in crime for a training session in Finsbury Park, the lyrics of Blur’s Parklife running through my head. It hasn’t been easy, but we kept at it, and on Saturday we joined about 1,500 other women and set off.
My target was to finish the course without stopping. It was tricky (especially the last up-hill bit) but I did it. And I did it in one hour, six minutes and twenty seconds, a time that some may sniff at but I am immensely proud of. I also managed to raise over £500 for Cancer Research, which amazes me. Donations of mainly £5-£10 have added up and everyone’s generosity has been incredible.
I have to admit, this week has been a bit of an anti-climax. All that hard work paid off, but... well, what next? A half marathon? The London to Brighton Bike Ride (after a bit more cycling practise)? The Moonwalk? I don’t know. But I think I may have caught the bug. I need a new challenge, a new goal. And, let’s face it, a new reason to get off by backside and do some exercise. However, for now I am just going to bask in the glory of my latest achievement. There is always next year for my next sporting fundraiser.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to make myself a hot chocolate and go to bed. Because tomorrow I am going my first run since the big day. You know, for old time’s sake. Feel free to come along and join in. You never know, you might catch the bug too...
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Thursday, 21 July 2011
The University of Life - in London
Those of you out there with keen observational skills will see it’s been well over a week since I last blogged. Apologies about that, but this weekend was pretty manic and I have spent the rest of this week catching up with myself. On Friday evening I saw my old favourite Derren Brown in his new show Svengali – as always a fascinating night, and thankfully I didn’t end up on stage this time. Then on Saturday I trained it up to Stoke-on-Trent to go to good old Keele University for its “Homecoming”. Needless to say, I had a good time – a “spooky” tour of the old hall, burger and chips in the Sneyd Arms, two hours of pool followed by a boogie on the dance floor. Needless to say a lot of alcohol was consumed by all but I am pleased to announce that it was I who was holding someone else’s hair back on this occasion.
It was just like old times. And good times, too.
Funnily enough I didn’t really see anyone who I hadn’t stayed in touch with, but at the end of the day it didn’t matter. Whilst sitting down after another game of pool (I haven’t lost it!) I chatted to a girl who lived in my halls in the first year. We had recently got in touch again over the medium of Facebook and were soon chatting about our fellow Freshers from all those years ago. She too had noticed not a lot of people had turned up. We mulled this one over as we nursed our pints and came to the conclusion that the people who had come back had not returned to brag about their £100,000 salary, penthouse on the Thames and beautiful beau. The people who came back were good time people. Okay, they might not have set the world alight (yet) but they were happy.
This naturally made me think about the past ten years since I graduated. I moved to London the weekend after the ceremony and haven’t left the city since. I look back at the 21 year old walking into her first full-time job and there are parts of her that I hardly recognise. She is so naive, almost timid and a little bit lost. She has little confidence and is still licking her wounds after the ending of some pretty painful relationships.
It may sound corny, but London has certainly shaped that young woman who, quite frankly, didn’t really have a clue. Moving to a city where she only knew a couple of people made her crawl out of her shell and rebuild her social life. She met new people from every walk of life and saw the world from dozens of new perspectives. Nurturing those relationships that were supportive and based on mutual respect and love enabled her to develop a supportive social network.
Working with vulnerable adults forced her to be strong, to be confident. Her work with those who have found themselves addicted, homeless or on the wrong side of the law has opened her eyes to a side of society that she had never seen before, only read about in the papers. And the buzz of London drew out her curiosity and her desire to learn.
So, has she set the world alight? Maybe not. She never did do that MA in Art Therapy and although her salary is respectable, she still isn’t on the property ladder or bought her first car. But she has been infected by the energy around her. She is exploring her creativity and grabbing any opportunities that come her way. She is still meeting new people and going to new places. Okay, so there have been rocky patches, but she is feeling optimistic. Her life isn’t perfect, but it is headed in the right direction.
And that’s enough to keep her dancing.
It was just like old times. And good times, too.
Funnily enough I didn’t really see anyone who I hadn’t stayed in touch with, but at the end of the day it didn’t matter. Whilst sitting down after another game of pool (I haven’t lost it!) I chatted to a girl who lived in my halls in the first year. We had recently got in touch again over the medium of Facebook and were soon chatting about our fellow Freshers from all those years ago. She too had noticed not a lot of people had turned up. We mulled this one over as we nursed our pints and came to the conclusion that the people who had come back had not returned to brag about their £100,000 salary, penthouse on the Thames and beautiful beau. The people who came back were good time people. Okay, they might not have set the world alight (yet) but they were happy.
This naturally made me think about the past ten years since I graduated. I moved to London the weekend after the ceremony and haven’t left the city since. I look back at the 21 year old walking into her first full-time job and there are parts of her that I hardly recognise. She is so naive, almost timid and a little bit lost. She has little confidence and is still licking her wounds after the ending of some pretty painful relationships.
It may sound corny, but London has certainly shaped that young woman who, quite frankly, didn’t really have a clue. Moving to a city where she only knew a couple of people made her crawl out of her shell and rebuild her social life. She met new people from every walk of life and saw the world from dozens of new perspectives. Nurturing those relationships that were supportive and based on mutual respect and love enabled her to develop a supportive social network.
Working with vulnerable adults forced her to be strong, to be confident. Her work with those who have found themselves addicted, homeless or on the wrong side of the law has opened her eyes to a side of society that she had never seen before, only read about in the papers. And the buzz of London drew out her curiosity and her desire to learn.
So, has she set the world alight? Maybe not. She never did do that MA in Art Therapy and although her salary is respectable, she still isn’t on the property ladder or bought her first car. But she has been infected by the energy around her. She is exploring her creativity and grabbing any opportunities that come her way. She is still meeting new people and going to new places. Okay, so there have been rocky patches, but she is feeling optimistic. Her life isn’t perfect, but it is headed in the right direction.
And that’s enough to keep her dancing.
Saturday, 9 July 2011
Food Glorious Food
It’s Saturday evening and I am sat in front of the telly feeling more than a little bit sorry for myself. No, not because I am stuck indoors rather than out on the town, nor because I have just watched the last in the present series of Desperate Housewives and don’t know when it will be on again. You see, yesterday I returned home after five days down in Devon with one of my girlfriends. Okay, not a particularly exotic location and not even a full week away from the insanity of the city. But enough of a break to leave me feeling refreshed and, sadly, with a touch of the holiday blues.
The thing is, I haven’t been on a proper holiday in quite some time and five days was just long enough to remind me how much good they do me – time to explore new places, read the book that has been sat on my bookshelf for three years, and eat what the hell I like without feeling guilty about it. When my friend and I decided to hit the South West, one of the first things I did was mentally make a list of all the things I would have to eat (and drink) whilst I was in the region. So, on Monday I squeezed in my locally made ice cream (ginger flavour to be exact) within my first two hours in Torquay. On Tuesday I had a Devonshire Cream Tea for lunch – and clotted cream fudge for afters. On Wednesday I got my Pasty in (okay, so they are Cornish, but we were close enough if you ask me) and went out for a fresh fish supper in the evening. As for drink, I not only sampled a Devonshire Red cider but also tried a Bays –and an Otter ale to boot. Phew. Thank God for the five and a half mile walk along the coast or I don’t think I would have fit in the train seat home.
Needless to say, food was not far from my mind for most of the holiday. Which got me thinking, if I was going to do a culinary tour of London, to what delights would it lead? And where would I go?
Whilst considering this quandary I decided it was important to distinguish between London and British grub. Roast dinners and fish and chips are both mouth-watering meals, but do they say London? Not really. For me, if you really want a taste of authentic London, you have to go east. I mean, where else in the world can you buy proper jellied eels? Not to everyone’s taste, but most definitely a London thing. Don’t fancy the look of the slippery sea serpents? Just head to your local pie and mash shop. For the full London experience, go for a beef pie and plenty of liquor. No, not the stuff you find in your dad’s drinks cabinet, but that funny coloured gravy you can only find within the M25.
The delights of the East End don’t stop there. For a unique eating out experience, I would always recommend Brick Lane, the centre of London’s Bangladeshi community – and a bit of a curry conundrum. Okay, so you can probably get a better quality balti elsewhere (Tooting is a popular rival), but nowhere else will you be chased down the street by seven different restaurateurs trying to tempt you with today’s special offer.
Right, so that’s the East End sorted. Anywhere else worth a visit? I’m sure there is, but for me you can’t beat it - apart from at one very well known market next to London Bridge. Borough Market. Oh yes, the place that Jamie Oliver apparently frequents (when he isn’t in Sainsbury’s, of course) to buy his pukka ingredients. And they are indeed pukka – if a little on the pricey side. Ostrich meat? No problem. Boulangerie bread and Parisian pastries? Plentiful. Wild Boar sausages? Exotic fair trade fruit? Oils, vinegars, pickles? Eat your heart out. Then wash it down with a bottle of organic wine.
So yes, I have the holiday blues, but I’ll get over it. And if I don’t, I’ll just hop on the Overground to Stratford for a quick roll mop and a pint of London Pride.
If that doesn’t sort me out, nothing will.
The thing is, I haven’t been on a proper holiday in quite some time and five days was just long enough to remind me how much good they do me – time to explore new places, read the book that has been sat on my bookshelf for three years, and eat what the hell I like without feeling guilty about it. When my friend and I decided to hit the South West, one of the first things I did was mentally make a list of all the things I would have to eat (and drink) whilst I was in the region. So, on Monday I squeezed in my locally made ice cream (ginger flavour to be exact) within my first two hours in Torquay. On Tuesday I had a Devonshire Cream Tea for lunch – and clotted cream fudge for afters. On Wednesday I got my Pasty in (okay, so they are Cornish, but we were close enough if you ask me) and went out for a fresh fish supper in the evening. As for drink, I not only sampled a Devonshire Red cider but also tried a Bays –and an Otter ale to boot. Phew. Thank God for the five and a half mile walk along the coast or I don’t think I would have fit in the train seat home.
Needless to say, food was not far from my mind for most of the holiday. Which got me thinking, if I was going to do a culinary tour of London, to what delights would it lead? And where would I go?
Whilst considering this quandary I decided it was important to distinguish between London and British grub. Roast dinners and fish and chips are both mouth-watering meals, but do they say London? Not really. For me, if you really want a taste of authentic London, you have to go east. I mean, where else in the world can you buy proper jellied eels? Not to everyone’s taste, but most definitely a London thing. Don’t fancy the look of the slippery sea serpents? Just head to your local pie and mash shop. For the full London experience, go for a beef pie and plenty of liquor. No, not the stuff you find in your dad’s drinks cabinet, but that funny coloured gravy you can only find within the M25.
The delights of the East End don’t stop there. For a unique eating out experience, I would always recommend Brick Lane, the centre of London’s Bangladeshi community – and a bit of a curry conundrum. Okay, so you can probably get a better quality balti elsewhere (Tooting is a popular rival), but nowhere else will you be chased down the street by seven different restaurateurs trying to tempt you with today’s special offer.
Right, so that’s the East End sorted. Anywhere else worth a visit? I’m sure there is, but for me you can’t beat it - apart from at one very well known market next to London Bridge. Borough Market. Oh yes, the place that Jamie Oliver apparently frequents (when he isn’t in Sainsbury’s, of course) to buy his pukka ingredients. And they are indeed pukka – if a little on the pricey side. Ostrich meat? No problem. Boulangerie bread and Parisian pastries? Plentiful. Wild Boar sausages? Exotic fair trade fruit? Oils, vinegars, pickles? Eat your heart out. Then wash it down with a bottle of organic wine.
So yes, I have the holiday blues, but I’ll get over it. And if I don’t, I’ll just hop on the Overground to Stratford for a quick roll mop and a pint of London Pride.
If that doesn’t sort me out, nothing will.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
The Gigging Gospel
Sat at my desk at work, I can confirm that summer is well and truly here. I know this for three reasons; it is cooler in the office than it is outside, my skin is ultra soft after days of slathering on sun cream and I have just witnessed my first proper thunder storm of the year – and welcomed it. Added to this list are all the other indicators – an increase in ice cream consumption being one of them and a move from indoor activities to outdoor pursuits being another. And I’m not just talking about the walking/running/cycling I was on about last week. I am talking less physically demanding recreation. More specifically, gigs.
Alas, this year I have yet again failed to get my arse in gear and land myself some tickets to a festival somewhere out in the country. But never mind – London has got a plethora of outdoor gigs right on my door step. Last week I spent Thursday afternoon braving the elements in Hyde Park in order to the see the mighty Kings Of Leon. Okay so I got a bit wet (and managed to catch the sun too – only in the UK is this possible in a 12 hour period) but it was well and truly worth it. There was a real festival atmosphere, with plenty of beer and burgers, and no less than four supporting acts. For six and a half hours of live music, I came to the conclusion that it was fifty quid well spent – especially considering one of the acts was Paul Weller, another was White Lies (who also played Glasto) and, out of the other two, only one was a bit on the dodgy side.
However, as usual, there were those in the crowd who, after one too many beers and a little bit of sun, lost the ability to conduct themselves in a manner that was respectful to those around them. Okay, so it is a concert, and we are all there to enjoy ourselves. And yes, it is permitted to dance and jump up and down a bit too. But if you do decide to show your appreciation of the music in this way, surely it is not too much to ask you to try and not jump on top of everyone else in the process? It is possible – I know I have perfected my technique for bopping in crowded places over the years quite successfully.
But that leads me on to my second gripe. You see, I know when I have drunk enough get me happily merry but not so much that I am unable to stand up without support – or to the point where I feel the need to pee into a pint glass and chuck it over the crowd (just plain gross, guys), have to push my way out of the crowd to vomit (not cool) or collapse on my way home (highly undignified). Alas, not everyone has yet to figure this out.
And then there are those who feel the need to moan and groan throughout the entire show. Okay, so I am tall and probably don’t appreciate how annoying it is to be at a gig and not be able to see something. But I don’t see why I should apologise for it either. I imagine there are lots of advantages to being short (being able to fit on buses, buy trousers, not have men stare at your chest all of the time), but gigging is clearly not one of them. So suck it up – and go and stand towards the back where everyone gets a clear view. Harsh, maybe, but that’s life. And, yes, it is annoying when people bump into you all of the time, but for God’s sake, please don’t start pushing back and get into a fight. You’ll only end up pissing everyone off even more.
So, next time you go to a gig, please remember my golden rules. Actually, make that the Gigging Gospel: Show a bit of respect, to yourself and to others. That way everyone can have a jolly good time.
Amen.
Alas, this year I have yet again failed to get my arse in gear and land myself some tickets to a festival somewhere out in the country. But never mind – London has got a plethora of outdoor gigs right on my door step. Last week I spent Thursday afternoon braving the elements in Hyde Park in order to the see the mighty Kings Of Leon. Okay so I got a bit wet (and managed to catch the sun too – only in the UK is this possible in a 12 hour period) but it was well and truly worth it. There was a real festival atmosphere, with plenty of beer and burgers, and no less than four supporting acts. For six and a half hours of live music, I came to the conclusion that it was fifty quid well spent – especially considering one of the acts was Paul Weller, another was White Lies (who also played Glasto) and, out of the other two, only one was a bit on the dodgy side.
However, as usual, there were those in the crowd who, after one too many beers and a little bit of sun, lost the ability to conduct themselves in a manner that was respectful to those around them. Okay, so it is a concert, and we are all there to enjoy ourselves. And yes, it is permitted to dance and jump up and down a bit too. But if you do decide to show your appreciation of the music in this way, surely it is not too much to ask you to try and not jump on top of everyone else in the process? It is possible – I know I have perfected my technique for bopping in crowded places over the years quite successfully.
But that leads me on to my second gripe. You see, I know when I have drunk enough get me happily merry but not so much that I am unable to stand up without support – or to the point where I feel the need to pee into a pint glass and chuck it over the crowd (just plain gross, guys), have to push my way out of the crowd to vomit (not cool) or collapse on my way home (highly undignified). Alas, not everyone has yet to figure this out.
And then there are those who feel the need to moan and groan throughout the entire show. Okay, so I am tall and probably don’t appreciate how annoying it is to be at a gig and not be able to see something. But I don’t see why I should apologise for it either. I imagine there are lots of advantages to being short (being able to fit on buses, buy trousers, not have men stare at your chest all of the time), but gigging is clearly not one of them. So suck it up – and go and stand towards the back where everyone gets a clear view. Harsh, maybe, but that’s life. And, yes, it is annoying when people bump into you all of the time, but for God’s sake, please don’t start pushing back and get into a fight. You’ll only end up pissing everyone off even more.
So, next time you go to a gig, please remember my golden rules. Actually, make that the Gigging Gospel: Show a bit of respect, to yourself and to others. That way everyone can have a jolly good time.
Amen.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
The Great Outdoors
A lot of people don’t get London. Some of my friends and family who live out in the sticks struggle to understand why I have stayed here so long. My sister often smugly tells me about her weekends spent pottering about the rolling dales of Yorkshire. During a country walk across the border, my Lancastrian cousin once asked me what us city dwellers do in our time off, seemingly bewildered that some people actually enjoy more urban activities.
The idea of not having an expanse of unspoilt space within a five minute walk of home is for some people a little too much to comprehend. Don’t get me wrong - I like a bit of greenery too and every now and then find myself fleeing to Hampstead Heath or the nearest train station in pursuit of real fresh air and the sight of a horizon unspoilt by tower blocks.
Having said that, this desire to escape the sprawling metropolis has been less apparent of late. And I think I know why. You see, since signing up for the Race For Life I have ditched the gym for the local park. Not only is it far more interesting than trudging along on the treadmill (think Blur’s Parklife and you get the idea) but I think it is doing my well being the world of good too. And it isn’t only us joggers (going round, and round, and round) who keep their fitness up outside. In Finsbury Park there is not only a basketball and tennis courts, but a range of gym equipment for those who like to go their resistance work somewhere other than a sweaty studio. My recent attempts to learn (at the grand old age of 31) to cycle have also let me indulge in a bit of otherwise unscheduled greenery. My sessions (which are going quite well, thank you) are held in Highbury Fields which is not only very pleasant, but has a conveniently placed café and ice cream van too – perfect for when I need a bit of a break from pedal power.
About a year ago I met some volunteers who run Green Gyms across London. No, this isn’t an eco-friendly version of Fitness First, but an opportunity for people to get outdoors and get fit whilst doing a bit of conservation work – something that I would definitely commit to if I was a lady of leisure. And, although the Urban Jungle isn’t as rich in flora as its name might suggest, if you feel the need to get out and about and stretch your legs, London is a great place to go walking. I’m a big fan of my Time Out London Walks book and have been on a couple of guided walks too – great exercise with a bit of local knowledge thrown in for good measure. What’s not to like?
So, as I quickly approach the date of my 10k race (EEK!), I am considering more and more seriously cancelling my gym membership and getting myself out there. Okay, so when the weather turns a jog around park might be less appealing, but at the same time the idea of wrapping up in my thermals and braving the great outdoors sounds quite invigorating, even a little romantic. And, at the end of the day, I always have my Wii if I really can’t face the elements. And it will save me a heap of cash.
In my book, outdoors is definitely back in.
The idea of not having an expanse of unspoilt space within a five minute walk of home is for some people a little too much to comprehend. Don’t get me wrong - I like a bit of greenery too and every now and then find myself fleeing to Hampstead Heath or the nearest train station in pursuit of real fresh air and the sight of a horizon unspoilt by tower blocks.
Having said that, this desire to escape the sprawling metropolis has been less apparent of late. And I think I know why. You see, since signing up for the Race For Life I have ditched the gym for the local park. Not only is it far more interesting than trudging along on the treadmill (think Blur’s Parklife and you get the idea) but I think it is doing my well being the world of good too. And it isn’t only us joggers (going round, and round, and round) who keep their fitness up outside. In Finsbury Park there is not only a basketball and tennis courts, but a range of gym equipment for those who like to go their resistance work somewhere other than a sweaty studio. My recent attempts to learn (at the grand old age of 31) to cycle have also let me indulge in a bit of otherwise unscheduled greenery. My sessions (which are going quite well, thank you) are held in Highbury Fields which is not only very pleasant, but has a conveniently placed café and ice cream van too – perfect for when I need a bit of a break from pedal power.
About a year ago I met some volunteers who run Green Gyms across London. No, this isn’t an eco-friendly version of Fitness First, but an opportunity for people to get outdoors and get fit whilst doing a bit of conservation work – something that I would definitely commit to if I was a lady of leisure. And, although the Urban Jungle isn’t as rich in flora as its name might suggest, if you feel the need to get out and about and stretch your legs, London is a great place to go walking. I’m a big fan of my Time Out London Walks book and have been on a couple of guided walks too – great exercise with a bit of local knowledge thrown in for good measure. What’s not to like?
So, as I quickly approach the date of my 10k race (EEK!), I am considering more and more seriously cancelling my gym membership and getting myself out there. Okay, so when the weather turns a jog around park might be less appealing, but at the same time the idea of wrapping up in my thermals and braving the great outdoors sounds quite invigorating, even a little romantic. And, at the end of the day, I always have my Wii if I really can’t face the elements. And it will save me a heap of cash.
In my book, outdoors is definitely back in.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Oh what a night
I have confession to make. Last Friday I went out with some colleagues and got a little bit tipsy. Well, a little bit more than tipsy perhaps. Let’s put it this way, I was glad that by the time the Sambuca made an appearance the only person left more senior than me was the one buying the drinks.
I was supposed to be going for a pint with an old friend I worked with in Days of Yore, but she cancelled at the last minute (sorry but I fail to see how childcare arrangements are more important than beer). So, not one to be deprived of my Friday night drink, I asked a colleague if she fancied a swift one. Within an hour half the office was traipsing down to Kings Cross to Caminos.
I think it is fair to say fun was had by all. The more responsible (and sensible) amongst us drifted off at around 6.30pm, leaving the hardcore to venture up the road to Lincoln Lounge – where the Sambuca made an appearance. It is not a bar I have been to before, but, from what I remember (and it starts to get a bit hazy here) it had a pretty cool vibe, comfy chairs and chilled music. Just my cup of tea.
After a couple more beverages, we were down to three. I don’t recall what time it was, but we were hungry for more. The question was, where to now? A quick curry? A bit of a boogie? Nah, way too mainstream. So what did we do? Well, we went bowling.
You see, this is where living in London becomes a real advantage. Not only were we able to get a bus to our next destination well after 11 (not that I recall the journey particularly well), we were able to go somewhere other than a night club or a brothel for our late night entertainment. Excellent! And then, after two games of bowling – in which I managed to get a STRIKE, thank you very much – we decided it was maybe time to line our stomachs with some food. At two in the morning.
But, for our old chum London, this was not a problem. We wobbled over to a cab and in less than a hiccup later, we were at Green Lanes, tucking into a mighty fine Shish Kebab with salad, harissa and rice. Beautiful! What more could a girl ask for?
Alas, the night had to end at some point. After stuffing our faces with Turkish delights, we started to flag. It was time to go home. So, once I had secured a doggie bag for my lunch the next day, we wandered out to find a cab. How much for a cab to Finsbury Park with two drop off points, we enquired? £7.50 each. As in 15 quid. For a ten minute journey. We tried to haggle (not easy in the circumstances) and got nowhere. So, begrudgingly, we agreed our fare and collapsed onto the back seat.
I crawled into bed next to a snoring Him Indoors at 3pm a happy bunny. It had been a good night. Beer, bowling and ‘babs, all within easy reach at unreasonable hours. God I love London sometimes.
I just wish the cabs weren’t so bloomin’ expensive...
I was supposed to be going for a pint with an old friend I worked with in Days of Yore, but she cancelled at the last minute (sorry but I fail to see how childcare arrangements are more important than beer). So, not one to be deprived of my Friday night drink, I asked a colleague if she fancied a swift one. Within an hour half the office was traipsing down to Kings Cross to Caminos.
I think it is fair to say fun was had by all. The more responsible (and sensible) amongst us drifted off at around 6.30pm, leaving the hardcore to venture up the road to Lincoln Lounge – where the Sambuca made an appearance. It is not a bar I have been to before, but, from what I remember (and it starts to get a bit hazy here) it had a pretty cool vibe, comfy chairs and chilled music. Just my cup of tea.
After a couple more beverages, we were down to three. I don’t recall what time it was, but we were hungry for more. The question was, where to now? A quick curry? A bit of a boogie? Nah, way too mainstream. So what did we do? Well, we went bowling.
You see, this is where living in London becomes a real advantage. Not only were we able to get a bus to our next destination well after 11 (not that I recall the journey particularly well), we were able to go somewhere other than a night club or a brothel for our late night entertainment. Excellent! And then, after two games of bowling – in which I managed to get a STRIKE, thank you very much – we decided it was maybe time to line our stomachs with some food. At two in the morning.
But, for our old chum London, this was not a problem. We wobbled over to a cab and in less than a hiccup later, we were at Green Lanes, tucking into a mighty fine Shish Kebab with salad, harissa and rice. Beautiful! What more could a girl ask for?
Alas, the night had to end at some point. After stuffing our faces with Turkish delights, we started to flag. It was time to go home. So, once I had secured a doggie bag for my lunch the next day, we wandered out to find a cab. How much for a cab to Finsbury Park with two drop off points, we enquired? £7.50 each. As in 15 quid. For a ten minute journey. We tried to haggle (not easy in the circumstances) and got nowhere. So, begrudgingly, we agreed our fare and collapsed onto the back seat.
I crawled into bed next to a snoring Him Indoors at 3pm a happy bunny. It had been a good night. Beer, bowling and ‘babs, all within easy reach at unreasonable hours. God I love London sometimes.
I just wish the cabs weren’t so bloomin’ expensive...
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
Deal or No Deal?
You know what? I like a bargain, me. Put it down to my frugal northern roots or that feminine intuition that kicks in around the 1st January (and again about 6 months later), but nothing gives me more satisfaction than getting something that I want for not a lot of money.
This doesn’t mean that I buy things just because they are cheap. I like to think that I am savvy enough to only part with my hard earned cash when it is in exchange for something that I really want, or need. Just because those canary yellow hot pants are only a pound does not make them an investment. And although it is tempting to snap up yet another five course meal followed by laser hair removal via Groupon on a daily basis, you can end up with more beauty deals and nights out than you can fit into your diary.
That isn’t to say that I am immune to the charms of Groupon. I have succumbed a few times, I admit. There’s been my bi-yearly mani/pedi, a team lunch in a local gastro pub, a massage and, most recently, a champagne afternoon tea with my friend.
Okay, so afternoon tea is not exactly a necessity, but after a stressful few months at work my chum and I felt the need for a little treat. And, at £12 a head it seemed more than reasonable. So, last Friday we headed over to the Rafayel Hotel on the Left Bank. We arrived full of high expectations – okay so champagne tastes good anywhere, but sandwiches, pastries and tea in a five-star hotel was sure to be a real delight, right?
Well, you’d think, anyway.
Alarm bells began to ring when our sandwiches arrived. It didn’t bother me too much that the staff didn’t tell us what was in them, even if it would have been quite nice to have been in the know rather than having to peel back the bread and sniff the various gooey fillings to find out. But... the bread was stale. Not massively stale, but it was quite clear these sandwiches had not just been rustled up for us and had in fact been hanging around for some time.
Slightly disappointed, we waited for our cake stand to arrive. I looked lovely, loaded with scones, berries, cakes, and... Hang on, what was that? Well, it was pink and gooey, but not necessarily in a good way. When our tea arrived I politely enquired as to that the said item actually was. The waiter looked a little confused and said he would find out for us. Sadly, when we called him over two minutes later (because, erm, our MILK WAS OFF), he hadn’t had a chance to find out. He did however make a valiant effort to convince us that he hadn’t brought us off milk, but it was in fact double cream. You know, that really thin smelly variety.
So, when a different member of staff reappeared with a fresh supply of milk I asked her to help us solve our mystery. She just shrugged and said she didn’t know. And we were expected to eat this unidentified object.
By this point we were finding the whole situation decidedly amusing. It became a game to see how many waiters would fob us off rather than actually admit that maybe there was something wrong with our refreshments. So I was a little bemused when the next chap I collared actually took away the offending object and replaced it with a really rather pretty raspberry macaroon.
I have to admit that we didn’t bother to complain – although we certainly would have done if we had paid the full £30 a head the Rafayel usually charges for this sloppy service. Needless to say we won’t be going back, though. It makes me wonder why businesses bother with such deals – surely the point is to get the punters in, impress them with your product and welcome them back in the future as customers who are willing to pay top whack? Or am I missing something?
Sadly this isn’t the only business I know of which has fallen into this trap. In fact, I don’t think I would go back to the spa where I had my massage even if it was on offer again. But that doesn’t mean that others don’t get it right. Later that same Friday I went to one of the London Zoo “Lates” – think an evening at the zoo with no kids but plenty of food, drink and a silent disco. It was great night – made even better by the fact that I get the tickets for better than half price on Living Social. A true bargain – and the same experience that I would have had if I'd paid the full 18 quid. Now that is what I call a good deal.
So, the moral of the story? Pick your special offers carefully. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. That isn’t to say that there aren’t some real gems out there. Just don’t expect too much – that way you won’t be disappointed. Or, even better, you might even be pleasantly surprised.
This doesn’t mean that I buy things just because they are cheap. I like to think that I am savvy enough to only part with my hard earned cash when it is in exchange for something that I really want, or need. Just because those canary yellow hot pants are only a pound does not make them an investment. And although it is tempting to snap up yet another five course meal followed by laser hair removal via Groupon on a daily basis, you can end up with more beauty deals and nights out than you can fit into your diary.
That isn’t to say that I am immune to the charms of Groupon. I have succumbed a few times, I admit. There’s been my bi-yearly mani/pedi, a team lunch in a local gastro pub, a massage and, most recently, a champagne afternoon tea with my friend.
Okay, so afternoon tea is not exactly a necessity, but after a stressful few months at work my chum and I felt the need for a little treat. And, at £12 a head it seemed more than reasonable. So, last Friday we headed over to the Rafayel Hotel on the Left Bank. We arrived full of high expectations – okay so champagne tastes good anywhere, but sandwiches, pastries and tea in a five-star hotel was sure to be a real delight, right?
Well, you’d think, anyway.
Alarm bells began to ring when our sandwiches arrived. It didn’t bother me too much that the staff didn’t tell us what was in them, even if it would have been quite nice to have been in the know rather than having to peel back the bread and sniff the various gooey fillings to find out. But... the bread was stale. Not massively stale, but it was quite clear these sandwiches had not just been rustled up for us and had in fact been hanging around for some time.
Slightly disappointed, we waited for our cake stand to arrive. I looked lovely, loaded with scones, berries, cakes, and... Hang on, what was that? Well, it was pink and gooey, but not necessarily in a good way. When our tea arrived I politely enquired as to that the said item actually was. The waiter looked a little confused and said he would find out for us. Sadly, when we called him over two minutes later (because, erm, our MILK WAS OFF), he hadn’t had a chance to find out. He did however make a valiant effort to convince us that he hadn’t brought us off milk, but it was in fact double cream. You know, that really thin smelly variety.
So, when a different member of staff reappeared with a fresh supply of milk I asked her to help us solve our mystery. She just shrugged and said she didn’t know. And we were expected to eat this unidentified object.
By this point we were finding the whole situation decidedly amusing. It became a game to see how many waiters would fob us off rather than actually admit that maybe there was something wrong with our refreshments. So I was a little bemused when the next chap I collared actually took away the offending object and replaced it with a really rather pretty raspberry macaroon.
I have to admit that we didn’t bother to complain – although we certainly would have done if we had paid the full £30 a head the Rafayel usually charges for this sloppy service. Needless to say we won’t be going back, though. It makes me wonder why businesses bother with such deals – surely the point is to get the punters in, impress them with your product and welcome them back in the future as customers who are willing to pay top whack? Or am I missing something?
Sadly this isn’t the only business I know of which has fallen into this trap. In fact, I don’t think I would go back to the spa where I had my massage even if it was on offer again. But that doesn’t mean that others don’t get it right. Later that same Friday I went to one of the London Zoo “Lates” – think an evening at the zoo with no kids but plenty of food, drink and a silent disco. It was great night – made even better by the fact that I get the tickets for better than half price on Living Social. A true bargain – and the same experience that I would have had if I'd paid the full 18 quid. Now that is what I call a good deal.
So, the moral of the story? Pick your special offers carefully. If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is. That isn’t to say that there aren’t some real gems out there. Just don’t expect too much – that way you won’t be disappointed. Or, even better, you might even be pleasantly surprised.
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