An almost oops....

I am currently house sitting a large abode in Muswell Hill for a journalist that I am currently working with, a well established woman in the food and travel arenas hereafter only ever referred to as 'EE' (El Eccentrico)
EE has jetted off to Barbados where stories await her, and in her absence I am to make sure that the dog is walked and fed (insert snotty 'Eloise can't look after a living creature' joke here. Because that hasn't gotten tired. At all.) and that the house basically remains in one piece. Today, after walking the dog (Insert another joke. Go on. I'm loving it. Eye roll.) I got home and made my way into my bedroom. And there was the distinct smell of something burning. Panic ensued.
Okay, let's backtrack a second here.....
Today is the second day of Spring. The sky is blue, the sun is shining. Sure, it's cold, but this is England and we take what we can get. So in a fit of spring madness, I flung open my blinds (Can one fling open roller blinds? Can blinds be flung? 'I rolled up my blinds with enthusiasm' doesn't have the same ring.....anyway....) and threw open the window (I am almost certain one can throw open a window. It has a certain 'Sound of Music' feel about it.) and let the sun shine in. (Cue background music from Hair) Then I took the dog for the walk. The sun continued to shine. I got back. There was burning. Are we all up to speed?
So, I frantically searched all the plug points in the room to check that I did not have an electrical fire on my hands. And I didn't. Couldn't find a thing. I was perplexed. I sat down at this very computer to check that the charger hadn't blown (again) and as I reached around to the back of it, I caught a distinct whiff of smoke and then saw a thin stream of it rising, like some ethereal totem pole of doom. Something sparkled. The sun momentarily blinded me.
Oh fuck.
The glass paperweight on the desk had caught a beam of light, and like a magnifying lens, had concentrated the rays into one incredibly hot spot. The stack of paper that it was holding down, was now smouldering, a fiery ring spreading underneath it. OH fuck fuck fuck. Please, oh please, do not let me get caught in some situation where I inadvertently burn this house down.

Anyway. I put it out. I shut the blind. I put the paperweight in a drawer. That thing is a goddamn fire hazard.

Miserablism and absolutely nothing for those not automotively* inclined

Miserablism, that rough tongued sonofabitch, has set up home amongst my insides. It’s my own fault really. I did a Bad Thing. Bad things often lead to similar nauseating circumstances, but I must confess I did not think that the Mother of the Blueness would have come to stay for quite so long. I thought I could be done with it, that I could shrug and duck my head and it would, if not be forgotten, at least not be spoken of. No such luck. Having said that, while the repercussions of the Bad Thing have been further reaching and more damaging than I initially thought possible, this overwhelming sense of sickness does have some glimmer of hope on the horizon. Sadly, I do not speak of some sort of time travel where I can go and undo the Bad Thing. No, this is far more selfish. (One would think, after the aforementioned Bad Thing, I would seek to be less selfish. But apparently my fallibility remains wholly intact, and I do not.) Instead, I speak of the holy grail of distractions. The one thing absolutely guaranteed to hold my attention in such a way that I do not dwell quite so obsessively on this wrong that I cannot right.

That’s right. I speak of the return of the season.

It’s F1 time again and I can assertively say that it’s with a momentous sigh of relief that the cars have been unveiled, the teams announced and the drivers decided. There are big changes this year. Huge. Drivers are all over the place. Great teams no longer exist. This is also true for shit teams. Old teams of legendary status have returned. Richard Branson has poured an incredible amount of money onto the grid in what I can only foresee to be a massive hydraulically challenged waste of time. World Champion Button (or, to quote Shelley, ‘Stitch, Button, whatever that guy’s name is’) has moved to McLaren (the world’s most morally bankrupt team) to partner with Hamilton. Remember the last time McLaren signed a World Champion to drive with Lewis? Remember how well that went? I expect a similar scene. I am on the edge of my seat about it. Toys will be thrown. Tantrums will take place. Expect two very stroppy British World Champions any day now. Ayrton Senna’s nephew makes his debut. Alonso, the severely browed Spaniard, has scooted EVERYONE’S favourite party boy Kimi out of his Ferrari seat and into WRC. Does this mean I will start watching WRC? I don’t have time for this shit. Really. I’m not ruling it out though. In matters such as these, I am easily swayed. The new Renault looks like a giant, aerodynamically inclined bumblebee. The new Lotus livery is lovely, it’s been too long since there was racing green on the track. Rubens didn’t retire. Irritating. The good news is that I doubt the Williams will be fighting at the front, so we won’t have to see him cry too much on the podium. New boys are everywhere. Kobayashi got a drive with Sauber. He is insane and I like it. I am excited to see that crazy, brilliant Jap fuck with everyone’s races. (Well, not everyone. When he gets in the way of you know who I will be fuming.) No more refuelling. Pit stops down to 3 seconds. THREE SECONDS. Renault has said in practise they can change the tyres in under that, but we’ll see what happens. Test drivers back on the grid. That preemie beast, Alguersuari, he who cannot finish a race for love nor money, is back in the Torro Rosso. Vettel’s neck is thicker than ever. His head is in danger of looking like a baseball on a tree stump.

And then there’s Merc GP.

Oh Mercedes. I want to weep with joy when I see you. Ross Brawn, the strategic genius. The return of Schumacher. And of course, be still my wildly beating heart, Nico Rosberg. I’m pleased to report that Nico has been kicking ass and taking names (that’s right, I went there) in winter testing and I do believe that the 2010/2011 season will be that of his inaugural grand prix win. I am willing to put money on it. I really am. I’m not prone to gambling, I’m just THAT confident. For those Schumacher haters out there (and you know who you are) I am not saying that this team is without fault. I mean, did you SEE the press pictures? Tragic. But let’s be honest. They are a formidable team. There was a lot of shoulder shrugging and confused looks when Button was looking to leave his world championship winning team at the end of last season and it was only when the rumours of a Merc buyout surfaced that the whisperings of an all German team were heard. The rumour mill was pretty spot on and the return of Schumacher has caused much consternation amongst those who care about these particular cars. Will he still be great? Can he do it? Is he too old? I’m not sure really. He’s a fiercely competitive driver who has not yet stopped looking for occasions to go as fast as possible. And let's face it. He is SCHUMACHER. The Mercedes engines, last year at least, were unsurpassed. Brawn in a genius. And Nico.... well, we all know how I feel about that beast. So a German team running German engines with German drivers it is then. I just hope this doesn’t go the same way the last time the Germans attempted world domination.

From now until November, I am no longer available on Sundays. Not even to talk on the phone. That is unless you’re calling to talk about the illegal overtaking on corner 9.

*I am fully aware of automotively’s meagre credentials as a bona-fide word. In this particular instance, I don’t care.

An open letter to my sister

Dear Corlia

It started with long winded emails that invariably described in unnecessarily loquacious detail the exceptional turn of a hair pin bend in a winding road in yet another far off place that I had gone to; another place to lay my hat in some vague attempt to find my home. You said, 'Write this stuff online.' So I did. And so, sometimes when I am somewhere between here and there, I write down small bits and pieces of my fragmented days; the funnier things, the things that don't tell too much about the long and lonely hours and the gaps in time and the large cold question mark that follows me to bed, sleeps with me like a lover, its cold bones pressing along my spine. I am the small spoon to my own self doubt.

You said, write it online. So I did. As if I were telling you the story. Just like all those emails I'd written you. But it's not quite the same. My computer is a battered piece of weathered goods and if it weren't for my withering detest for the carrying of stuff, I'd get my typewriter out of storage and work on that instead. There is also the small issue of being unable to source ribbon for the antique. The last time I wrote on it my prose was blind embossed into the page. I prefer letters, real ones, written on paper, sealed with wax. They are tangible. Handwritten letters, like typewritten prose, exist in a way these words on these screens do not. If it exists on paper, I treat it differently. I am a fastidious writer. But I don't consider this real writing, this internet thing. I leave spelling mistakes as is. Grammatical errors. Missing words stay lost, clumsy sentences continue to clunk along, tripping over their heavy feet. I'd prefer the paper mail and wax seals, but in truth I am not a particularly dedicated letter writer. I begin with the best of intentions, but after several courses of correspondence, I find my dedication flags, and the one week response rate slows to two then three then a sluggish four and soon the letter and the blank paper and the unaddressed envelopes and my very intent is buried under a pile of debris on my desk.

So it seems that no means of correspondence suits me quite completely, but we continue in whatever form of it we can lay our hands on. These are the breaks when you live across oceans from your family. On a Monday, I'll send you an email. You'll catch me on skype for four minutes three days later. Sometime before the weekend, I'd get a facebook message from you. I'll respond in a text message. So many words that don't exist. No typewritten letters, the x always a little low on the line, on ivory coloured linen paper. No wax seals or personalised stationary or calling cards.

In some ways though, these words that don't exist do have their benefits. The ability to instantly connect. The way that when I'm walking down the street in some dilapidated European city and see a foreign language magazine in a newsagent with a brooding australian actor looking painfully serious on the cover I can pull out my phone and send you a quick message and within a few minutes you'll be agreeing with me that the beast does indeed belong on the list of those whom get their dark shipped all the way in. And so it will be, momentarily at least, that I don't feel we are quite so far apart as we really are. And then there is the way that I can write a letter like this one, and put it up here, in the space where words don't really exist.

This is the way it is for us. Everyday I make a choice, and that choice leaves me with phones and wires and cables and screens and shitty wifi connection. And that's the way it is. Those are the breaks. But I wonder if one day I'll be able to write small notes, in quink, on thick linen folded cards, my initials embossed subtly in the corner and drop them through your front door when I am passing through the neighbourhood and find you're not home. Or send you handwritten invitations to dinner, or thank you cards. I wonder if we'd live close enough that these words that don't exist ceased to be, and instead it would be my looped handwriting in a day planner and a glass of wine and something tangible, and I'd say, "Let me tell you about this thing I saw today...."

And I don't know if that's how it will ever be... But I hope so.

xx

Fashion Reich

My guide to vintage shopping in Berlin, as featured in the lovely, shiny, press your face to the pages glossy magazine Black Book.

The Impoverished Writer's Survival Kit

My cousin Shanna is a rock star. I went to go have a glass of wine with her last night and she presented me with this:
Which I opened, to find this:
"It's your survival kit," she told me. "as it's only a matter of time before you run off to some far away city and can't afford to eat.... again."
In the little suitcase (which, by the way, belonged to her as a pre schooler and I have coveted since we were 5 years old) was some Sanctuary bath soak and body butter
a bar of micky mouse soap
a nail file and band aids
an easy open tin of baked beans
for which this fold up spoon was provided
and naturally, a packet of rice.
No writer can ever be without a pocket sized bottle of whiskey, complete with teeny tiny hip flask.
For when I am in need of something sweet, there are shortcake biscuits on hand
and bite sized rolls of sweets
Just because I will not always be in a position to drink Chateau Lafite, does not mean that my carry on wine stopper should be anything less than crystal
and obviously I will need to keep a bottle opener at hand for when I need to open beers. (You know, when the crystal stopper is in the in the Lafite.

And of course, a lighter with which to light my Marlboro Reds.
and most importantly, the piece de resistance of the writer's survival kit, as rice, whiskey, body butter and biscuits can only get one so far......
my beloved moleskin notebooks
As I said, my cousin is a rock star.
Thanks Shan. YOU ARE THE BEST.

(there was also a tiny bag of chocolate coins. I must confess I molested those before I even found my camera. But know, they existed.)

An unexpected continuation of The Saga of The Black Leather Mini Skirt

The trouble with fashion is that certain pieces don’t always translate. The smooth long vowels of one language become jarred and awkward in another setting, and soon enough all that was great about a certain thing gets lost in what comes from being a slightly different you, in a very different place. As someone who moves around a fair amount, I am very aware of this. The yards of brown string and wooden beads, while perfectly fitting on a Kenyan beach, will lose any appeal under a grey London sky. London shoes are not Berlin shoes. A Parisian outfit in Cape Town will suddenly look overdone. And I know this. I really do. Which is why The Skirt has taken to a shelf since my return to London. In Berlin, The Skirt was in its element. It was a perfect piece. It solved all of my skirt dilemmas. I was absolutely content in my skirt wearing. Oh, how I loved that skirt. However, when I got back to London, something about The Skirt wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something certainly was amiss. Some days I would put the skirt on, um and ah, and invariably, just before leaving the house, throw on an alternate leg covering instead. Needless to say, The Skirt hasn’t exactly been on centre stage since its Berlin heyday.

But last night, that all changed. I decided I was going to embrace the long lost love of said skirt. I wore it to work. Obviously, as it a SMALL skirt, made of LEATHER, one walks a fine line with it. Things that are not recommended as a pairing, unless Eastern Bloc Prostitute is the look one is trying to achieve: Stilettos, very low cut tops, extremely tight tops, any other form of leather clothing (not shoes, read: bustier, jacket, waistcoat, etc.) In light of this, I wore my skirt with a pair of light beige ankle boots, an oversized sailor striped t-shirt and my customary top knot. It’s a casual look. IT WAS CASUAL. Anyhow, happy enough that my skirt was back in the game, I picked up my record case, donned my fur coat and headed out the door. Now, in retrospect maybe the fur wasn’t the best idea, sartorially speaking. Maybe, when the casual sailor shirt was hidden under the hip length fur, the look was decidedly less..... dare I say casual again? But it was cold and it’s my warmest coat, so I wore it.

On my way to the bus stop, an SUV that was driving by slowed down and pulled up next to me. In the style of every bad film noir movie ever made, the driver’s window slid ominously down. In the car, two huge Russians leered at me. In Russian, they had a brief exchange. The driver leaned out of the window, his one arm reaching toward me. His lip curled. And then he asked the question that no girl ever, ever ever ever wants to be asked.
‘How Much?’
I literally stopped walking I was so shocked. Appalled even. Insulted. And a bit hurt. I could do nothing but gape. I didn’t even have a caustic remark, not even an acrid sound to defend myself. A few days ago, when I was having a particularly trying day, a drunk man on the tube made a snotty comment about my top knot, likening it to a pineapple on my head, and I actually hissed at him. What I would’ve given just then to find within myself the sharp, snake like sound that would be an all encompassing portrayal of my reaction to the question, the hiss that would not only say, ‘No, I am not a prostitute’ but would also convey the sentiments of ‘Fuck You Very Much.’ But no. There was no sound in me. Instead, I shut my mouth that had previously fallen agape, gave the driver a withering look and shook my head in bewilderment, mostly to myself. And on I continued to work, every so often looking down at The Skirt and berating its existence. ‘I thought we were in this together.’ I told it. ‘How can you betray me like that?’ And ‘It’s all your fault you know. If I had just left you at home and worn one of your more sensible wardrobe buddies that never would’ve happened.’ The Skirt said nothing. It didn’t even try and defend itself. So as far as it all goes, I don’t know if London is ready for The Skirt. Maybe it’s a Berlin thing after all.

Later that night, when I told Laura the story, in all the horror of being so easily mistaken for a prostitute, she linked her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. “On the bright side,” she said, “you look so hot that they wanted to pay to have sex with you.”

In which a hotel bar is the order of the day

I could spend hours sitting in the perpetual dusky twilight of a hotel bar. I love hotel bars, good hotel bars, fancy ones with monogrammed coasters and deep buttoned sofas and flocked wallpaper and ancient books and cocktail menus and wine lists thick and heavy; weighty tomes. I love the dark light that seems to live in them, the palpable air, the rows and rows of single malts, the steady hum of the day passing unbeknownst to the quiet souls within it. Yesterday, Tam and I, in celebration of her birthday, spent much of the afternoon nestled in the nook of one, glasses of red wine winking up at us in the moody light.

First, we went for lunch at Kitchen W8 – a superb pick of Tam’s that did not disappoint. I had a rib eye so meltingly tender and utterly delicious it made me re-evaluate my whole ‘last meal on earth’ dinner plan all over again, and go back to the original menu, of which steak was the star of the show. There was also the added benefit of after having felt a bit peaky and somewhat wan for the last few weeks, the steak made me feel as if I had mainlined iron. Lunch was long and leisurely and there were guest appearances by chanterelles and wild mushroom foam, foie gras mousse, Roast John Dory and dark chocolate truffles. After lunch, we took a stroll up High Street Kensington, popping into a shoe store so that Tam could purchase a pair of lovely tan brogues and I could stroke the soft leather of as many pairs of boots as possible without being frogmarched from the shop by world weary shop assistants, desperate for a commission and tired of the sighs and gasps and lip quivers of terminal window shoppers, such as myself. As we exited she shop, we partook in a bit of Chelsea beast spotting (yes, you, in the grey jumper. I’m talking about you.) and made our way to The Gore.

The Gore is a small hotel moments away from Hyde Park, hidden inconspicuously down a very Kensington looking street without much to-do. Through the austere stone pillars, typical of the area, a little bit of wood paneled heaven awaits. The Gore is opulent, but not ostentatious. There are huge gold gilt mirrors, oils of not entirely attractive women hang proudly on the wood paneled walls, elaborately carved staircases lead, white rabbit like, up tantalising plush red stairs. There are bronzed bits and pieces all over the place, soft carpets underfoot, wrought iron candelabras that wouldn’t look out of place in a medieval castle, and beams of coloured light that peek through the stained glass windows. Quite simply, old world charm personified. After seeing pictures of The Gore on the Lisa Borgnes Giramonti’s breathtaking blog, A Bloomsbury life, I knew that the bar and I simply had to get acquainted. Oh, and how we did. Tam and I ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and reclined into the oddly deep leather armchairs and sat for hours and hours and talked and joked and laughed, and spent the afternoon in the comfortable confines of the chasm of time that exists solely in hotel bars.

A Moveable Feast

A long overdue photo post. Think of this as a quick tutorial in how every day can be turned into an event that uses food as its focal point.

To begin with, there is the casual sunday lunch, with a bit of ferocious car related debate and the customary Brawn/Ferrari/McLaren stand off.


Sometimes, Shelley makes us mussels. Pots and pots of steaming mussels in a deliciously hot, fragrant winey soupy base, begging for thick hunks of baguette to mop it up.

Which we enjoy with fine wine......

and dispose of our shells responsibly.

And then, sometimes we celebrate Christmas in November
And so begins the season for mince pies in cloches shone to a christmas bauble shine


with multiple servings of spiced pear bellinis, of course,


and scoring pig fat to create masses of crackling of crisped to perfection. Which goes nicely with



slow roast pork. Once again, courtesy of the dab hand of Shelley, culinary genius.


Sometimes (not often, but sometimes) we eschew linen and clean lines for fun tables, complete with board games, jenga and DIY decorate place mats.


And wipe the mess from smashing food into our faces with polka dot napkins.


Occasionally, I bake my body weight in Christmas Cookieswith these happy little cookie cutters

until I've made mountains of gingerbread trees


and spicy love hearts.


Reverting to type
we shrugged off the circus colours of Christmas in November and went for white tulips, linen and candles for Christmas Eve dinner.


We picked succulent roast marrow from the bone.

And made crockery and cutlery pirate flags.

In the aftermath of Christmas, when we were enraptured with playing with our presents, Shelley shared her white alba truffle with us
Which was heaven on a white plate.

And then, I retreated back up to the great white north, to The Hale
where Tamaryn's birthday dinner looked like this.


And this.

And this.

A heart two sizes too small

Whatever the New Year equivalent of the Grinch is, I fear that is who I find myself in the likeness of this new year. I must confess that the general joviality a fresh set of calendar pages has brought to most has passed me by and I feel tattered, weathered and downtrodden, as if still languishing in the last of the so called ‘Nasties.’ There seems to be a certain hubbub in the general population, the shedding of a decade’s worth of misery in lieu of embracing an air of impending prosperity. I read it put best today, in an article reporting the significant increase in like for like winter sales figures for London this year verse last year, saying that after nearly two years of recession Londoners were determined to enjoy themselves at the sales; they called it ‘frugality fatigue.’ It does seem that way, that the general populace has en masse decided the recession is over, that bankers shall stop jumping out of windows, bonuses shall return, champagne shall flow through the city streets, there will be riches, bespoke suits, Louboutins and cocaine for all! And it seems to be regardless of the fact that no one is shopping with wads of cash. No, it’s all on credit, the very thing that got us into this mess in the first place. Utter, depressing delusion. Just because we want something, does not mean it will simply BE. If that were the case, I would be typing this with a pair of Acne Atacoma wedges on my feet. And it does not stop there. How apt that this is the week the world’s tallest (and possibly most pointless) skyscraper opens? The Burj Dubai is a 206 floor hotel/apartment/office/parking/shopping space. Of that, 160 floors are habitable. It’s 828 metres high and its interior covers just over 3.5 MILLION square feet. Because that’s what Dubai needs. More empty spaces it can’t fill. It’s a state $100 000 000 000 in debt.That’s one hundred billion US dollars. BILLION. As of October 2009, 1 in 4 homes was vacant due to oversupply. Similar figures applied to offices. That’s before the Burj Dubia spat its 3.5 million square feet into the mix. Obviously I’m fully aware that the initial conception of the Burj happened long before this economic hiccup we are experiencing came to fruition. Back when the Burj began construction, Lehman’s had a gainfully employed workforce and people trusted Bernard Maddoff with their money. Remember all that time ago?

Needless to say (....don’t you wish it had been?) I am late to the party of New Year cheer. It’s going around like a bad head cold and I do hope I am not immune to it. Being a Grinch is boring and does not make for pleasant dinner conversation. And so, as to not be the bearer of altogether bad tidings, I can say that it has not been all doom and gloom these first few days of the year. Shelley received a beautiful white truffle from Paul for Christmas and I was lucky (/sneaky) enough to be with her the night it was eaten, shaved in gorgeous pungent slivers over silky pasta. Walking up Regent Street, I was pulled by the hand up onto a platform to pose for a photo with one of the Hamley’s pirates, as my 30 odd strands of pearls apparently made me look a bit like ‘a very stylish treasure chest’. That’s a direct quote from the main pirate, who took his personal camera out of his inside pocket, handed it over to Pirate #2 and demand I have my photo taken with him. Followed almost directly by a small kerfuffle when some Japanese tourists who had been witness to the scene then thought I was famous. I giggled all the way to Liberty, where Magpie and I drank several cups of tea, admired other customer’s expensive handbags and even more expensive plastic surgery. This evening, Robin and I went to see La Boheme (my absolute favourite opera) at The Royal Opera House. And right now, its snowing.