Trains are the new bars

This week has officially been the most dull week I've had for *ages*. Thanks to the building site formerly known as my flat I've been indulging in a rather too intimate relationship with M&S ready meals; and thanks to silly amounts of work I haven't got out a lot. In fact, possibly the highlight of my week (and let's face it the only night out I've had is with a bunch of old school local government chief execs, mmm lovely) was the train ride home tonight with E and a bottle of wine that fell into our hands, as if by magic.

On that note. I like drinking on trains. It feels naughty. I remember when I was little going up to see my grandparents on the train and being completely fascinated by the hardcore Glaswegians getting more and more rowdy as the empties piled up around them. Ma disapproved. I stared. And they fell about laughing as we played 'I spy' and my bro went for 'something beginning with L'*. Anyway. More recently, the hilarious 'work' trip to Cornwall with S&P - and G&Ts - is one to remember. Ditto the endless and beery journey with L & A on our way to see A in southern Italy, where we nearly ended up in Paris rather than Bari thanks to my Italian pronunciation. I never thought I'd have much in common with tough Scottish men but, looking back, maybe I'm wrong...


* the answer? 'Lectricity'. yep, begins with L, and he could see it. Clearly.

Escapism is the answer

Good grief, I've got a temper on me tonight. Too many variables, too much to think about, too many egomaniacs around me and too little clarity about what on earth I want to do with myself this coming year. I found out M was going on some enlightenment intensive course this weekend to try to find himself, but I think I'll go for the simple escapism option instead. Seems easier and a whole lot more enjoyable.

So to that end I am going to book tickets to see Tango Por Dos again. It's on at the Peacock till the end of Feb, and is quite possibly the most sexy, life-assuring, uplifting piece of dance I've ever seen. It's funny, I thought of it for the first time in ages on Saturday, as S and I watched the finale (from separate parts of the room, of course) at the Masque of the Red Death and I was remembering how much I love dance. And then there I was this morning, picking up a coffee, when I saw a flyer suggesting the show is on again. Bring it on. I'm there.

I am also deeply excited about a delicious weekend escape from London at the end of Feb. Alistair Sawday may be a bit weird, and a little too chatty for my liking (if I'm staying somewhere I'm not necessarily looking for some new best friends in the owners) ((god that makes me sound horrible. it's my mood. forgive me)) - but whatever, it's thanks to him that we found the amazing looking Pump House in Suffolk, complete with telescope, stream and starry skies. Can't wait.

Vox in Observer Food Monthly shocker

Blimey. Jay Rayner has got off his ass and come down to Vox to review Hot Stuff on Wilcox Road (thanks, I). Now, given it's in Vauxhall, you'd be forgiven for deducing from its name that this venue is the latest fisting club or something similar but less salubrious. In fact, it's a pretty cool sounding curry house. I think the fact that the Observer have been down here is a good thing, if only because it's reminded me that I've wanted to go there for a long time. BYO, no corkage, and the inevitable formica tables. As if that weren't enough, it's got fairy lights and plastic peppers too. Perhaps one to combine with my newly christened local, the Vauxhall Griffin.

Friday night a-gender

Tonight I had a narrow (sorry G) escape from a work-related medieval banquet - instead I've had a lovely evening thinking about sexual politics in a whole range of settings....

First off, the minging (hello, am I 18??) Ha Ha bar on Villiers Street where I found myself testing and proving my current theory about the increasingly gendered nature of book covers. As a girl, I am apparently supposed to be drawn to silly lettering, pinks, abstacts, words like 'love' in the title; the depressing fact is that try as I might, those publishers are right - I'm just not interested in those boy covers featuring embossed words, hints of adventures, greys and reds...

Anyway. Second setting. We wound up in one of my preferred London streets, at one of my preferred chains - Bertorelli on Charlotte Street, where I had a super evening with A, full of prosecco and retail chat. He amused me by combining the ultimate girl pizza (fiorentina) with boy ingredients (jalapeno peppers and pepperoni). It reminded me of when I worked at Pizza Express and a particularly loved up couple asked me to guess their order, and nearly fell off their chairs when I got it exactly right. What they didn't know is that *every* new couple who came in wanted a fiorentina (well done egg) and american hot. Comfortingly predictable. But worth the generous tip.

And finally - the rather lewd fag + vodka chat that finished off our evening outside the Fitzroy Tavern. I'd last been there with H, where we'd had a huge argument about what constitutes a true feminist. We ditched any arguments about principles tonight though, instead zoning in on sex, and laughing ourselves silly about how men and women react so differently to coming. Definitely teenage; but despite the whole notquitethirty thing, helpfully illuminating at the same time... for us as well as for the other people around us, I suspect...

Happiness is...

... a walk along the river at night. Today is supposedly the most depressing day of the year but I beg to differ. I'm just home after a lovely evening of talking cults, social movements, the tyranny of online life (erm...), and political gossip with D. In a marked departure from our usual line in dire bars, we went to one of the nicer hotel restaurants in town, Refettorio (forgive the pretentious name) at the Crowne Plaza hotel near Blackfriars. Being vaguely sensible for a Monday night, we said goodbye in enough time for me to meander home via a windswept walk along the river.

After all my recent London restlessness, it's refreshed me, and now, like the loser I am, I'm feeling rather soppy about the place. The lights of the southbank looked so pretty; the wheel has switched from its standard blue light mode and is doing all sorts of crazy things; and I crossed the river at Westminster so that I could do my favourite part of the walk, accompanied by some old-skool Pixies, on the south side opposite the houses of parliament. It's the one time that I forgive tourists for standing in the way of my power walking - man, if I 'd had a camera with me I'd be taking pictures too.

So now I'm home, putting off the packing up I'm supposed to be doing in advance of the arrival of the builders tomorrow morning... one of these days I'll live somewhere else, but right now - it's all about London...

Muchos tapas

OK so my Spanish leaves something to be desired but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy tapas every once in a while. I wound up in Cigala last night, having briefly considered Barrafina, which I really want to try but as S and I agreed, perhaps not at 9pm on a Saturday night when apparently the whole of London was out (if the amount of booked-upness is anything to go by). Perhaps everyone is tiring of the whole January detox tedium.

I really like Cigala, esp their squid in mojo sauce (yes, really), and esp after having such a brilliant evening there. We ended up in the downstairs bar, empty but for us and a miserable couple who were taking their bitterness out on the lovely waiter. As we'd just seen No Country for Old Men - N was right about it being a film of pure genius - we found ourselves imagining ducking bullets and oxygen cylinders behind the various red pillars as we sipped our mighty fine sherry.

London tapas can be pretty dodgy and I confess I haven't ventured that far into the posh tapas territory of places like Fino and The Providores and Tapa Room. However I am much more familiar with the local Vox mish-mash of Spanish and Portuguese places where the tables are formica, the beer costs a pound a bottle, and the football's never off (the pic here of Little Portugal aka South Lambeth Road was taken on the day of the world cup final). I love a few of those places depsite the fact I've had a few really unpleasant meals to sort the wheat from the chaff....

Rebato's is probably my favourite, with its faded red velvet banquettes, and a fancy back room full of ferns and mirrors. I wish I'd known D and A when they had their 'we're not married' reception there - must have been a brilliant night. Estrela is perfect for coffee and people-watching. Madeira cafe, now that it's opened up its restaurant, is great fun and has a good line in blue lighting, which shouldn't work but somehow it does. Others that come highly recommended by people who know more than me are A Toca, not so far from the gym; and O Cantinho - on the Stockwell Road but don't hold that against it.

Coming home, or am I getting boring?

So one good thing about going back to work is that I get to experience that uniquely warm and reassuring feeling of letting yourself in at the end of a long day, pouring a glass of wine, changing your clothes and luxuriating in how much you like your home. I'm happy tonight. Not least because yet again I've shunned the bloody cookery programmes all over the place at the moment, and have invented what turned out to be a delicious supper of ham (baked myself, mais oui), new potatoes and - innovation alert - pan fried salad. sounds grim; tastes divine. I think it's all about the dressing. So now I'm full, warm, comfortable (Maslow would be having a field day here) and about to embark on reading slash daydreaming to the tunes of the new Radiohead album, which, like everyone else I know, I think is amazing. Turns out Monday's not so bad after all.

Sunday night feeling

I've got it bad. Turns out that taking three weeks out makes going back to work a pretty scary prospect. So tonight I've been trying to cheer myself up by thinking about all the good things coming up this month. My lovely ma helped by emailing me a scan of the horoscopes from some magazine she was reading to prove to me that this is year is to be my best yet (thanks, Jupiter...)

Anyway. Think I might not rely purely on the stars to make this true. So, in no particular order, and to make up for the fact I'm not jetting off to Thailand like B, some things that should bring inspiration into the rest of January... and that probably require ticket purchasing...

Sweeney Todd. Tim Burton, Helena Bonham Carter (who it turns out I really like - see here for a great interview with the wonderful Barbara Ellen), and, of course, Johnny Depp. It's got singing but I'm intrigued enough to get over my usual musical-phobia. Launches end Jan here.

Lust, Caution. I suggested going to see this with S next weekend but have just noticed that it runs for 3 hours, and I think I'd rather spend some of the evening actually interacting... still, Ang Lee doing Shanghai, 1940s, affairs (hetero this time, in case you were wondering) - a pretty irresistible combination. And it's high time I saw another Shanghai film - the last one was 2046, which I loved, but was too long ago.

The Importance of Being Earnest. This is the first theatre performance I really remember going to. I was v excited, and remember laughing a lot - probably thanks to the wonderfuls Jane Horrocks and Maggie Smith, both of whom were starring in it. This time round it's Penelope Keith. On at the Vaudeville Theatre, 22 Jan to 26 April. I *pray* that this means that the Stomp run is finally over...

I will go to the Roundhouse very, very soon. I will I will I will. I will.

Also I must book tickets for Goldfrapp THIS WEEK before they sell out. Playing at Southbank Centre (of course) as part of the Ether festival in April.

Ah, the Lyric Hammersmith. My favourite. Even typing it brings a smile to my face. This time, they're doing a production of Kafka's Metamorphosis, between Jan 11th and Feb 2nd.

And for those nights when I can't face the glittering lights of London's West End (or its cold grey pavements), I've read somewhere that there's going to be a programme or three about Thatch's early career, but I can't for the life of me locate the little torn out bit of magazine that gives me any more info than this, dammit. But it sounds so promising...

Return to form: films with subtitles

I've been straying some distance from my usual taste in films, what with Notting Hill and My Best Friend's Wedding, not to mention Die Hard 4 at Christmas (D and R: "you won't like this film, it's not romantic and girly"; me: "bugger off I'm not like that". 2 hours later I'm bored out of my mind but I've made my point). But I've been putting that right in the last 24 hours.

First up I saw The Kite Runner last night, a completely amazing film, and unexpectedly so. I'd never been that taken by the book cover (always judge by them, a personal failing in more ways than one) and so haven't read it, but I just loved the film. It was beautifully shot and so understated, thanks to some genius direction by Marc Forster - he of another favourite film of mine, Finding Neverland (no, not just because it's got Johnny Depp in it). There's something he does that allows the characters to leap out of the screen; something that enables you to think about what's going on rather than being overwhelmed by the action. Wonderful stuff.

And then today, I made a small diversion to one of my favourite solo cinemas, the Curzon Mayfair, to watch 4 months, 3 weeks, 2 days, which I blogged about months ago when it won the Palme d'Or. God, it's an unrelenting film - it's got a similar feel to the brilliant Lilya 4 Ever - set in a cold, dark Romania, and exploring the horrendous experience of women forced to resort to backstreet abortions. It's made me want to watch Vera Drake again. As well as feeling very grateful to live in a country which values and endorses women's rights over their own bodies.

Only problem is, that I came out to a grey, wet and miserable London and feel a bit damp in body and in spirit now. Contemplating going straight back in to watch St Trinians (despite it being panned) or PS I Love You. I perhaps won't be mentioning those here though...

Blogging karma*

It's biting me on the ass. I'm watching Notting Hill. I should not be doing this, esp on a Saturday night. For reference, it's as bad as I remember it. And I'm not even at the dinner party scene yet...

* a new concept introduced by L... thanks...

Hmph

Today I am cross and grumpy thanks to a very very sore back induced by some unnecessary experimentation at the gym. I got all excited to see that my wonderful gym has installed new power plate machines - I've read loads about how wonderful they are, how they tone you up twice as fast as normal exercise etc - all sounded a bit to good to be true to be honest. Especially when you see the kinds of pictures (see the example I've included here) on the website. And it turns out that all they did for me was knacker my back. On my holiday. Grrrr. Think it'll be back to the standard workout, via a very useful sounding sports clinic which comes highly recommended by G. Should have stuck to the running.

I am not Sarah Beeney, but...

When I bought my place, I promised myself that I would not become one of those unacceptably tedious people who talk about sub-prime mortgages, obsess endlessly about home improvements, and make decisions about decor on the basis of the selling value. BUT. Today, I visited Lassco, a convenient two minute skip from my house, and where I spent a good hour and a half breaking my own promise.

God, that place is like a treasure trove. It barely feels like a shop: more, like an old house you've stumbled across, where you're the trespasser who has clambered over brambles and 'NO ENTRY' notices to find another world. It's full of things you'd only ever be able to buy if you (a) owned a hugmungous (sp???) pile in the English countryside and (b) you had more money than the public sector is ever going to give me. Oversized fireplaces, copper baths, the world's biggest dining tables. Not exactly suitable for my flat, but man, I fantasised. I'm not going to say 'one day' now, but it's entirely possible I did whilst there...

Either way, it's made me look forward to my weekend in a couple of weeks where I'll be vacating London, and visiting Oxfordshire's antique showrooms with T. Should be fun. But please someone remind me that I live in a London highrise, not a castle.

Twin blog shocker!

Look! Someone else isn't quite thirty! Ah well. The best ideas are never completely unique...

Bookish geekery

I've spent a solid 5 hours reading this evening. What a pleasure*. Thanks to all my books still being packed up (no sodding shelves yet in the gritty penthouse) I have been panic buying new ones to make sure I've got enough to see me through to whenever it is that my builders are kind enough to start work on the flat and I can finally install bookcases all over the place.

I love bookshops. Today I decided to head to Foyles, first the surprisingly well-stocked one on the Southbank, where I was for a delightful solo lunch and think; and from there I walked over Hungerford Bridge (another London winner) and up to the original Charing Cross branch. I like it a lot in there, and the cafe is brilliant, playing jazz and making you feel rather pleased with yourself for knowing it exists, and that you're not in the Borders across the road, which the cafe overlooks.
The hot competition for Foyles in my books (ha ha) is the huge Waterstones on Piccadilly. I spent 23 years not knowing it existed, and the last 7 making up for this loss. I love the sofas they've dotted around the store, just inviting you to browse. I love the beautiful and original art deco staircase. I love the staff who are not only passionate about their stuff, but also quite funny too. Again, the 5th floor bar is a super find, and one of my favourite places to hide away with books or girlfriends. Once the guy sitting next to me and K was forced to interrupt our conversation to offer a male perspective (he was pretending to read a book but clearly we were providing more entertainment with a particular dilemma K was facing).

Lots of people go on about the importance of independent bookshops, so maybe I am guilty of selling out to big chains like Waterstones. Vauxhall sadly doesn't appear to have much of a market for such things (yet). London's favourite in this category seems to be Daunt Books in Marylebone, which I do like but somehow feels a little contrived. My two top local bookshops were both in Camberwell when I lived there, but sadly they (and a third one) have apparently closed down. Boo to that.



* for me, anyway. Book of choice was Anthropologists and Anthropology. Better than it sounds.

Stop press: booze that helps your memory

Hmm. Not sure about the logic of the argument that vodka in any form can improve your memory, but given the dire state of mine these days I'm willing to give anything a go. So (apart from being a welcome reprieve from last week's turkey and family overload) the Shochu lounge on Charlotte Street came in very handy - it sells shochu, a Japanese version of vodka that comes in hundreds of flavours, including the raspberry one which is the memory-helping infusion. You can also get help for virility, depression, humour (sounds like a number of my dates should be paying this bar a visit...)

The website for this place is bloody annoying but the actual venue is great. Perfect lighting, a wicked gimmick in the form of a HUGE ice block that they use to make the drinks, lots of enticing reds and dark woods which (a) make you feel cocooned and safe and (b) make you want to stay for much longer than you probably should. Clever eh. I'm pretty keen to go back there and try out the restaurant that Shochu hides beneath - Roka, the sister restaurant to Knightsbridge's Zuma, which has had all sorts of mouthwatering reviews.

For the record, despite my eager raspberry shochu drinking efforts, I can't really remember what we did afterwards, but to my shame I think it involved doughballs.