eating our way around london #3

That’s it! I’ve worked like a slave this week and now, on this fine Thursday afternoon, I have decided that it is imperative I take a break and free my dormant writer within.
The most prominent thing on my mind right now is fabric (I love my job, really) so this weeks report back on our Friday night dinner is bound to be colourful.
After a blue week all-round I think we were all red-dy for a relaxing evening. Unfortunately, the wait staff at Geales restaurant in Notting Hill seemed to have the same idea and as a result, the service was rather substandard. Although the atmosphere was bright and friendly, we spent a large part of the evening trying to flag down anyone in black. The fish was fresh, as promised, but bland enough to meet typical British standards. Bron and I savoured each piece of mouth-watering calamari but even that didn’t fool us into thinking we had been served a fair portion. The blue and white décor presented a suitable Greek-seafood atmosphere, but that was about as much as it had going for it.
Our ordinary dining experience was soon forgotten once we were seated in the Coronet. This once-West-End-theatre has been converted into a grand, royal-rouge cinema with ample legroom and balcony seating for those who may enjoy the novelty factor. Our movie of choice was Totsi and at the risk of turning this into a film review, I’ll stop at saying it is a combination of artistic brilliance and heartbreaking reality. I left feeling overwhelmingly impacted and Ian left with a wet sleeve (from my tears…just clarifying).
Although the days have been unbearably grey of late, life just gets increasingly colourful.

Closest tube: Notting Hill Gate

just taking a break

I haven't posted anything particularly heartfelt in a while. Perhaps I have lost sight of priorities in the dust left behind by the speed at which life seems to move these days. This weekend was quite balanced (1:1 - activities vs rest) but I just can't get my weeks to look the same. Try as I may, respite simply isn't an option when pulled in so many different directions. This is not me complaining; I'm simply justifying my lack of communication or contact (or blogging) with those who are feeling neglected (incidentally, this includes myself!).
Were we really created to be so many things to so many people? And if so, why are there only 24 hrs in a day? I lose track of how many times I intend to slow down and only dish medium sized portions onto my plate. From early days, however, my eyes have always been bigger than my stomach and now it is not just a physical shortcoming but a cause for attention in tweaking specific life skills.
I wish I was better at staying organised. Every January I buy a functional day-by-day diary with the intention of noting everything into it, never double booking myself and prioritising accordingly. But by February I've lost it in the pile of bank statements and other paperwork which needs to be filed and I find myself in the same overwhelming situation. Time simply shows no mercy.

eating our way around london #2

Last Friday saw us battling the St Paddy’s Day havoc (or taking part in it for some of us!) to sample Mexican fare at Arizona Bar in Camden Town. I’ve realised that I am really bad at navigating (how many times can one person get their friends totally lost?) and should not be relied upon to steer everyone in the right direction.
On arrival, the warm atmosphere we were anticipating to help us thaw from the bitter cold never really sufficed. Our Eastern European waitress seemed unimpressed with Steve’s chirps and equally unamused by Ian’s (hard earned) Guinness hat. The restaurant did have a somewhat deserted saloon bar vibe, so if it’s authenticity we were after, we can’t really nitpick. Entertainment, which was Top 40 music videos aired via wide screens however, was totally specious. The food was pretty mediocre but portions were decent so it served its purpose of filling the gap.
In a turn of events, I claimed the ching-chong-cha triumph this week and left £2 richer. Aahhh, the smell of victory (smelled a bit like burrito, but still sweet).
The trip to Camden Town was worth the change in scenery but, if its atmosphere you’re after, I suggest waiting until summer to pay this place a visit.

Closest tube: Camden Town

eating our way around london #1

Since we have decided to sample a new restaurant each week as a regular Friday night ritual, I felt it necessary to review the little Italian joint we dined at last week. I’d like it to be known that I sourced last week’s venue, only to be ching-chong-cha’d into finding another one next week. Guys will do what it takes to avoid being made to organize anything. I really need to learn how to stand up for myself.
Italian Grafitti has a really welcoming vibe…if you can find the entrance. I don’t think the owners of the private apartment we almost stumbled into would have been particularly happy to serve us the pizza we were craving. I was sold at the first mention of roaring fireplaces, but found my expectations to go unmet as we were seated at equal distance from either hearth. But I was in good company and the friendly waiters made up for the average bottle of house-red we had ordered.
The food was nothing to write home about, but tasty and enjoyable as if it had been prepared by a friend’s Italian mum. The biggest challenge was getting our toppings to stay on our pizza as they slid off each thin-based, cheesy slice.
A pleasant all-round dining experience, suitable for our ‘gang’ and definitely worth a visit, even if just to mingle with the diverse and trendy Soho locals.

Closest tube: Oxford Cirus / Picadilly Circus

meme me-meeee

I was tagged (resist the surname jokes) by Briggs to take part in a meme, apparently started by Flashman.
The instructions are as follows

"Go into your PC's music library and delete five songs. Then tell us what they were, and why you snuffed 'em, in the harshest possible terms."

The obvious snag in this is that I don’t have my own PC and not even an IPOD to speak of (I suddenly feel very uncool…). So, I have decided to alter the rules suitably and start a rebellion against 5 bands that I would like to see deleted off the face of the planet.

Pussycat Dolls – puke, puke, puke. Must we be tormented by yet another stick-insect, Jessica Alba look-alike, flaunting her perfect body ahead of 5 other pretty, pouting pop-princesses? To make it worse, Nicole Scherzinger actually has a half decent voice and her conventional moves would ensure that she had a semi-decent solo career. So why doesn’t she lose the posse and spare the world the agony of yet another waste of music video airtime? Ugh…

Eminem – This is where I become one of those maternal type, tut-tutting fogies who is horrified by the influence of such a try-hard. Both my little sister and brother have, at some point, been awed by the ‘talents’ of this guy and the protector in me immediately wanted to shelter them from the ugly world that he portrayed through his lyrics. I don’t care if he can rap well. And I’m sorry that he had a crappy childhood (who didn’t?!) but you need to get over it at some stage and stop making the world listen to where you came from. You’re a freaking millionaire buddy!! Buy a few nice houses and start helping people who are in the same situation as you were and maybe you will start to sing about something a bit more uplifting than trailer parks and dope. You’re slim and obviously shady, but would you please sit down!

Sophie Ellis-Bexter – I was told a few years ago that I had somewhat of a resemblance to this painful, not-quite-diva; this is probably one of the biggest insults anyone could throw my way. Did they not see that eye-shadow in Murder on the Dance Floor?? I was lucky enough to score tickets to Top of the Pops back in 2001 when it was still a good show. Imagine my horror when we were informed Miss Ellis-Bexter was performing that night. Not only did she look horribly uncomfortable attempting to move in time with the music, but I was aghast at how someone so off-key could sell so many records. Are we that starved for talent? Absolutely not. People are just too lazy to go out there and find it and would rather settle for the overplayed, manufactured rubbish that is offered on the Top 40.

This is more therapeutic than shopping…even though I do feel a bit mean…

Marilyn Manson – shame.

Backstreet Boys - Boy bands had their day. I will even go as far as to admit that I owned a couple of Westlife albums when they were big and I was young and naïve. But I can not understand how 5 boys on stage/screen doing ‘embrace me’ arm gestures and giving puppy-dog, ‘someone broke my heart’ looks can still be appealing. Just goes to show that record companies will exploit something until it is totally dead-in-its-tracks and then they will saturate the market with the next big seller and so an era is defined. Learn to play an instrument and show us some real talent, cause you’re old and you’re on the way out and you’ll need a fall-back plan!

It’s time for those of us who are wiser to step up and reveal to an impressionable generation what real music is.

Bron, you’ve been tagged.

store wars

I decided to take yesterday off to basically ‘veg’ and chill-out. Turns out I’m not great at either and thus cleaned our apartment, did my nails, washed my shoes, watched a DVD, read a bit of my book and by 3pm was ready to tear my hair out. I used to love my own company but I guess I got to a point where I realised that it is so much better spending my time with the people I care about and now I’m ruined for life!
I eventually decided that I had some urgent grocery needs and hopped onto a bus to ASDA. The supermarket, at that time of the day, is a whole new world compared to when we ‘9-5ers’ usually browse its aisles. I found myself demanding personal space while struggling against mothers and pensioners. The mothers, especially, appear to think that they have the right to ignore anyone who doesn’t have a kid in a trolley or that it’s alright to let their little angels run, screaming, around your ankles. The problem is that once you fall into your comfortable shopping rhythm, you end up battling the same insensitive individuals throughout the shop. I am a browser and often find grocery shopping somewhat therapeutic (unless I’m shopping with Ian!) as I drift through the various sections scanning the wares for my weekly requirements.
By the time a lady darted ahead of me in the checkout queue I was ready to scream, but instead took a moment to sympathise. They all have to deal with each other on a regular basis, whereas I get to go back to my job and most weeks I can share the grocery store with likeminded professionals who understand the torment of a long day and are courteous enough not to ride over your toes with their trolleys.

splashing out

On finding, not just my spirits but my body frequently dampened by London weather over the last few weeks, I deemed it necessary to purchase a new umbrella. Having left this task too late I was forced, dripping, into Boots which is directly opposite the bus-stop. After an awkward incident yesterday involving a few extravagant purchases and no debit card, I had some unfinished business in-store and was pleased to see a stand overflowing with umbrellas in one corner.
On principle, I do not spend more than £5 on an umbrella as I have a tendency to either lose or break them. On policy, Boots does not charge less than £10 for one.
An obvious dilemma ensued as I weighed up getting drenched once more against forking out. I figured that my umbrella really is ‘frequently used’ equipment and as a result decided to spend the little bit extra on quality goods.
After browsing the selection I picked out a little black beauty labeled ‘Mini flat steel’. This thing is like the Mercedes of umbrellas. It is so sleek that it would fit into the smallest of handbags and when tilted its black parasols give the hint of a classy shimmer. With one flick it opens up, ready to defend against the harshest of conditions. I checked its mechanisms and it would take a lot to interfere with those babies; no chance of this one collapsing on my head.
I exited the shop, bag in one hand, umbrella in the other, feeling as though I had stepped up a notch in living the London life. It’s funny the things you begin to prioritise when you find your feet and start to settle. I had to leave the bubble bath and lip gloss, once again, so I may not be relaxed or pouty but at least I’ll be dry.

parking off with parsons

It’s a good day when the sun remembers to rise over London. I sat in the park at lunchtime, reading my book as the sunlight danced off it’s pages and feeling blessed, once again, to live in the greatest city in the world.
I’m almost done reading a book by Tony Parsons, The Family Way. It’s a fairly straightforward story about your average messed up family; 3 sisters who had a crap childhood, went on to have dysfunctional families of their own and I’m sure will all find happiness by the end of the book. But clichés aside, Tony Parsons is a fantastic writer who teases his reader with cracking statements spattered throughout the book.

‘London was beautiful. He saw that now.
To see the moon on the great parks, or the sun rising over the docks, or the early morning mist over the river, and to witness all these things when there was no one else around to see them, to have it all spread out before you while you were driving alone through the empty city, was to feel completely alive’

Today, this passage seemed fitting as I basked in the splendour of a bright, but crisp London day. The trees are still bare and the Thames looks less inviting than usual, but I know that there is a beautiful city hiding on the other side of a long winter. In a few weeks the chill will lift and my frosty demeanour will melt away along with the memory of long nights and too short days.

passing recognition

Despite my aversion to routine, the familiarity of the faces on my way to work every morning is definitely growing on me.
There’s the lady who looks like a substitute teacher that came to teach at my high school once. I often wonder if the recognition in her eyes stems from there or if it’s just my imagination and it’s merely because she sees me every morning.
Then, there’s the au pair with the two little boys who look like angelic-faced terrors. The smallest one has taken to riding his bike ahead of her and his brother and more often than not I pass him waiting patiently at the corner, out of breathe, his bike tossed carelessly beside him.
A few paces ahead I meet the European couple who I’m convinced are joined at the hands. Other than that, they seem quite normal on the surface and there is little that makes them distinctive, to me.
As my heels continue to clip-clop along the path I go by the guy who must be Australian. I imagine he is one of those surfer types who, at some point, will realise that the strength of the Pound is not enough to keep him in London. Soon, he’ll go back to the beach and write this time off as an experience that made him appreciate the life he has back home.
Somewhere along the way I encounter the stereotype, chic London girl with her high heels, perfect blonde hair and stylish attire. My guess is that she grabs her substitute breakfast, a latte, from Café Nero around the corner before jumping onto the tube. I continue down the road, feeling a bit disheveled in comparison.
Finally, I smile at ‘Dad’ adorning his bike helmet and cycle gear and pushing his bicycle along the footpath. ‘Son’ is perched proudly on the saddle of his father’s oversized racing bike, happy to be chauffeured to school in this most novel of fashions.
I hope to never reach the day when all those faces have been replaced by new ones. This would simply mean that they have all moved on and I have stayed the same and frankly, I have far too much living to do. Maybe I’ll just walk the other way for a few days.