Stolen moments

Today I found myself speaking at the most BORING conference in the world. Ever. Finished my slot at 2.30pm and just couldn't face politely hanging around for coffee, so I disappeared back into the world, and discovered to my delight that I was of course of Berners Street, and therefore very near the Sanderson hotel. A quick time calculation later (next meeting at 4.30pm) I found myself in there with a coffee fantasising about being the kind of person who (a) has amazing clothes (b) gets her hair cut at Vidal Sasson every 6 weeks and (c) is perfectly poised, even when no-one's looking. Lovely. The Sanderson is good, very good. I intend to return for cocktails, asap.

Even I struggled to spin an americano out for two hours, so I also had time (well, technically, clearly I should have been doing something else but hey) to check out the new M&S on Oxford Street. Their refurbishment is now complete and slightly bizarrely they decided to celebrate their re-launch by posting a woman on stilts at the entrance (not cool) and providing free rickshaws to and from the store (more cool). However - they have done a good job. Whatever you think about M&S, you can't fault their bras or sandwiches. So I bought one of each, and got to my next meeting happy and rather pleased with myself for reclaiming my day.

Non-blog

Why are there no good films on at the moment?????

At the end of the 344 bus route...

Today I dedicated two hours of my time to the lovely 344 bus (is there *ever* a time when there aren't roadworks between here and Liverpool Street??). But it was worth it: I was hot on the trail of Hidden Art, a bit like Open House for artists, designers and creators. It has reconfirmed, thank god, that not all of London has yet become one big chainstore (not that I'm complaining too much about TopShop). Visited tonnes of tiny little shops around Hanbury and Cheshire Streets, pretending I was a pro shopper for all things interior-related.

I also made my way to Spitalfields market, which was rammed, as ever, where I salivated as quietly as I could over various lights, sideboards and mirrors. I think I will be returning come January when the flat gets made over. There's something in those shops that just makes me want everything. Potentially lethal, but so much more fun than IKEA.

My trail tailed off as I got distracted by Columbia Road flower market, where I spent a good hour simply unable to decide what flowers to buy from such an embarrassment of riches. Predictably I have come home empty handed, but full of ideas and places to return to in January.

It's been a good day: my wanderings were to the music of St Vincent, which is surely one of the best albums of the year (although the live performance S and I saw of her at the Electroacoustic Club really sucked, disappointingly); also, there's a crispness in the air which always gives me a curious mix of nostalgia, whimsy, and anticipation all rolled into one. I want it to be Christmas now.

Distractions

So sometimes a girl just doesn't want to go out. Tonight, despite every bone in my body telling me to go home, I attempted some fun at Skylon, which I am determined to get to one of these days. Turns out it wasn't going to be today, as S and I were barred from getting in thanks to some camera crew, no doubt filming the endless chic and delicious cocktails that I probably shouldn't have been drinking on a Tuesday night anyway.

So we had a drink to celebrate S's new and beautiful relationship in the main hall. Shame I forgot I'm a member of the Southbank Centre - although let's face it, their member's bar isn't a lot to write home about; that said, first call on tickets to Doris Lessing and JG Ballard makes it massively worth it...

Anyway. I found myself home earlier than necessarily planned and trying to ignore a certain amount of post-last-week-date radio silence. I've been distracting myself thinking about all the things I could be doing if I wasn't working so hard, courtesy of Kultureflash - surely the best site of the year, and much less commercial than Urban Junkies, which I was horrified to see advertised on the crappy TV, otherwise known as noise pollution, that blights every journey I take on the Heathrow Express.

I plan to do the lottery on Saturday so that I can quit all my jobs and become a full time Londoner.

Au revoir, Lav

So tonight I visited the Lavender for the last time and now I'm sad. I've been going there for 6 years now, and still remember the first time I went, with M and my parents, to have a glass of wine and discuss why it was that buying a tiny, almost uninhabitable flat for £250k in Stockwell was such a bad idea (clue: it was none of the reasons stated here).

Since then I've been countless times, but in the last 18 months it really has come into its own as the haven that C and I retreat to every fortnight or so for exactly the same thing (she: chicken, no red wine jus crap, glass of chianti; me: tomato bruschetta and rocket, glass of sauv blanc; us: extensive gossip of all things work and boy related). I am just SO SAD that it is closing. We have yet to formulate a plan B that combines the same things of ridiculous proximity to both of us, great waiters who know us inside out, and guaranteed table.

There are of course other branches, as I well know - after all I did live above one of them for 2 years. The good news is that the closure of 'our' branch sees their pizza oven being donated to the Vox branch. And then there's the one on Lavender Hill. I remember going there once with GJ, only to find their oven was broken (this has happened to me three times, am I a jinx I wonder??) so there was nothing to do other than resort to wine.

Goodbye Lavender, we will miss you.

Railway stations: not just for transit you know

Against all the odds, and because I'm a hopeless romantic (or a transport geek) I love railway stations. So I am *very* excited that I've just arranged a night out at the new champagne bar at St Pancras. Can't wait to see what they've done to the station to restore it. And Paul Day's statue for the new Eurostar terminal gets at why stations can be so very sexy. They're about hellos and goodbyes, departures and arrivals, and as such most of us have at least one or two important and emotional moments that have taken place under the timetable boards, when everything goes still and we become oblivious to the noise of announcements, and the impatient rushing of the commuters determined to get their seat at whatever cost.

The thing is, until St Pancras, there's been nothing to like about stations apart from them being sites of these important moments. So despite the retail hell that characterises most London stations, I'm inexplicably happy every time I go to Paddington, reminded of the many hilarious train journeys I've had with friends as we head down to Cornwall. Victoria reminds me of being a teenager, finally allowed to go out with mates, and always being just a teeny bit panicky that I'd miss the train or end up on the non-stopping one to Bromely South. Kings Cross is somehow more associated with work; every time I'm there I seem to be late, worried the train I need is actually going from Euston, and too short of time to buy coffee.

But I guess it's Waterloo that holds the most history for me. First kisses at the top of the escalators, trips to and from Paris to see G, hell, I was even offered my first ever real job at this station. So why can't we have more stations in the St Pancras/Grand Central station genre, and less in the 'you wanna shit coffee? you wanna queue for 10 hours for a machine that doesn't work? you wanna pay 20p to pee in god-forsaken toilets?' vein. Let's hope that the interest and excitement around the new Eurostar terminal kickstarts a desire to find a way of recognising that curious place that railway stations hold in most of our hearts. And that St Pancras proves that all good stations should have champagne bars. That would make me very happy.

Random Italians that I love

I had a brilliant night tonight with a bunch of old friends brought together by the medium otherwise known as Facebook. Rather than waffle on about the power of social networking, or wondering how it is that we all ended up working in social policy one way or another, I'll talk instead about Italian restaurants that I think are cool.

That's because we wound up at Italian Graffiti, possibly a contender for my top five restaurants in London. B, who was there tonight, remembers going there as a kid with his ma for glamorous lunches. Don't think the decor has changed. Cheap, good house wine, great venue, all round top marks from me. Went there first with J-J, one brilliant night where we wound up at Trash Palace via some free champagne (thank you essex banker boy) at the Soho Hotel.

Other wonderful Italians. Well, Ciao Bella has already had its very own posting here. Then there's Donna Margherita, totally unexpected but a delight after any trip to the Battersea Arts Centre, as I found last night after seeing The Human Computer with yet another J. Spiga is a place I've not been to for too long but will be eternally seared onto my brain as the place my beloved G came out to me, over large number of negronis.

And of course there's the Vineyard of Italy in Vauxhall, worth going to simply to enjoy the rudeness of Jay, the human rights student slash waiter who is kind enough to grace said venue with his presence. Currently in receivership, which is gutting, but I am praying it returns in one form or another. Not least because it's five minutes from my house.

China in your hand

Ever since I went to Shanghai in 2004 I've been on the look out for good Chinese places in London. It's now the standard Time Out line to assert that the days of bad tempered waiters and MSG on Gerrard Street are over; but it's still hard to find places that really hit the spot. I'm not a Chinese purist but what I want is the tastes and colours of the orient. my that sounds colonial.

Of course, there's Hakkasan, where I went, unexpectedly, for dinner with J a few weeks ago. Sadly my unpreparedness meant I was carrying a luminous yellow Snappy Snaps carrier bag. Pure class. Not necessarily my accessory of choice for a place so stuffed with carefully produced women in expensive clothes. However, I don't think it's so much better than Bam-Bou that it can justify its eye-watering prices. Bam-Bou: heaven, via Caprice Holdings. I could eat their salt and pepper beef forever. And the bar at the top is one of the best kept secrets of the west end. Don't really know why I'm talking about it here in fact. Shanghai Blues also deserves a mention - the food's not anything special, but I love their upstairs cocktail bar and they play great jazz.

However, for those times when a full-on meal is not in order, there's always Yauatcha. Though it's not easy to get in there - in which case I am seriously impressed by a new discovery - Dim T. I went to the one on Charlotte Street, but there are others, including one at London Bridge, otherwise known as a depressing food desert. Really good dim sum, amazingly cheap and would you believe it, they even have a branch in Maidstone. That means there is a reason to go to Maidstone. Incredible.

Other places I'd like to try but haven't yet: Pearl Liang (Sheldon Squ), Royal China Club (Baker St), and Bar Shu (Frith St)...

Dancing queens and jive bunnies

So last night A and I were reminiscing about the time he threw me around the room (we called it 'dancing') at an otherwise rather dull party. Thanks to a good amount of wine drinking then, as well as last night, we were congratulating ourselves on our excellent moves, and thinking that we should perhaps hone our skills further at some dance classes.

London is being taken over by jive, it seems. I had a fabulously fun evening down in Catford (is this possible) a few months back, courtesy of the Rivoli ballroom*. It really is spectacular: a beautifully preserved dance hall with velvet trimmings, a proper sprung floor and an american diner-style bar. And a very fun way of spending the evening - starting with a class (good chance to check out the talent, naturellement) and continuing with being whirled around the room by various men. Am sure it's altogether a less stressful experience as a woman, as the men are very much in charge, although i confess i struggled a little with the whole letting go thing for a while before deciding it was really rather a relief.

Anyway. More please. This site has a useful list of dance classes by day; the Pineapple Studios one on a Wednesday looks most convenient - £10, call 01895 613 703 or check out their website. Incidentally, my male friend M can dance like a demon and he has never had so many interested women in his life. So boys, get your dancing shoes on.


* I note with some trepidation that the Rivoli has just been put up for sale. Watch this space.

Savoy there!

Now this is something that really can't be missed: the Savoy is about to have a huge facelift, and before shutting for 18 months it's holding an auction to flog some of the current interior. They're putting nearly 3000 little bits of swanky London history under the hammer - from beds to ashtrays to hatstands - between the 18th and 20th December. Never has there been a better excuse for taking a day off work. Viewings are on 16th and 17th December, and to get into that you need to buy a catalogue (£33). Call 020 7468 8200, or do everything you need to do online at Bonhams.

Tower of London

One of those places that you just start to take for granted as a grown up living and working in London. But I've just seen that they have started to do twilight tours, which sound super. I know they sometimes do gigs there too - it still grates that I missed the Pet Shop Boys one I had tickets for two years ago. Hey ho. Most excitingly, I read this morning that there is going to be yet another ice rink there: but this one looks amazing - it's set up as the moat. Fabulous. Running from 24th Nov until 13th Jan. Not to be missed. The Tower's also been in the news recently for appointing the first woman beefeater for 522 years. Well done, Moira, I salute you.

Floating my boat

When I was 13 I remember taking my first trip along the Thames to the Tower of London with my impossibly miserable (even compared to me) French exchange. Nothing made her happy. But I adored the boat trip, and it's one of the first times I remember thinking how great London is. Since then I've tramped up and down the Thames in London on a regular basis - from Thames Ditton through to Greenwich by foot - between Teddington and Kew is gorgeous; around Limehouse on the north bank, and Rotherhithe on the south bank is magical. I didn't realise until I moved to the gritty penthouse earlier this year how much the river bends. A good disruptor of the north/south divide argument.

There are loads of ways of playing on the thames which I haven't yet done but would like to. The trips around Kingston and Hampton Court look great. The tate-to-tate boat (ok, I've done that one lots but would happily do it again and again). The boat to the new O2 dome, which I'd also like to see. Oh and also those Rib boats which tear up and down the river, for any time when speed is what you're looking for.

But as I found out not so long ago, Regents Canal is another waterway that snakes its way through the city - and one that I've explored much less. Really want to go on this - a mercifully commentary free trip (if I want to know, I can read) offered by the London Waterbus company. They even do a day-long trip through 12 locks...

Time for some new music

So I got bored of my music collection ooo, about 3 months ago, and this morning have finally got round to blowing cash on i-Tunes. They just make it so easy. Am slightly depressed to realise that I've managed to purchase almost entirely female artists, again, but sod it, I like them. Thanks to L's blog all the way from Oz, I have stocked up on Rilo Kiley and Jenny Lewis. Bought the Killers album as I'm sick of everyone knowing it when I don't; Bob Dylan, a particular craving that hit me this morning, and just to satisfy those pop needs, Rihanna and Siobhan Donaghy. Who knew the latter was so good? (well, Pop Justice, apparently. And they know their stuff, being Dragonette's no 1 fan)

It means that next time I go to karaoke (am almost certain there will be a next time now, having broken through the pain barrier that is your first time with a microphone, sorry everyone else) I might have a bit more of a range than Tiffany - yes I know the dance moves too - and Tainted Love... incidentally, if there is a next time, Lucky Voice was pretty good - even if S did mistake 'perrier jouet' for 'prosecco' at some cost; I'd also be happy to sing my heart out at the all-new all-cool Bloomsbury bowling alley.

Natural Convenience

No, this isn't a reference to an ecologically sound toilet. It's the tagline of The Yard in Battersea - a genius new idea that fits right into my stupidly busy life (which also explains the long blog silence). It has 8 cooking stations where you can go in and prepare meals for yourself - all organic ingredients, recipes and stuff all there to speed up the process. You can take them home, stock up your freezer and avoid those misery-inducing moments of being hungry but too tired to cook, and besides all you've got is some peanut butter and noodles. I love it. On the corner of Northcote Road, tel no is 020 7924 1199. If you don't even have time to go cook, they deliver.