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.
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.
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...
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...
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...
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.
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.
Look! Someone else isn't quite thirty! Ah well. The best ideas are never completely unique...
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.
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.
I've heard there's this thing called 'the countryside', involving mud, narrow roads, and a lot of trees. So today R and I ventured out of town in a quest to find the New Forest. We failed on that front, but did however manage to land on the Devil's Punchbowl*, a mere hour from London. V cool. And *very* cold. A bracing walk marked the start of our inaugural SPARK awayday. Unfortunately R got a nasty dose of acid reflux on a particularly taxing hill, but apart from that, the day passed delightfully. Felt v uplifted by how beautiful the English countryside was on such a blue-skied, crisp day.
Still, such rural idyll is a bit of a disappointment on the opening hours front, as we discovered when we tried to get a much needed lunch at 2.15pm, only to find that all the pubs stop serving at 2pm, and fully close between 3 and 5pm, bar the Two-for-One somewhere near Greatham (found thanks to a combination of AQA and SatNav, hurrah). We hid in here until about 6.30pm, at which point the influx of local Christmas parties all got a bit too much and we scurried back to the Big Smoke, grateful for our urban existences and all that they bring.
* random facts about the Devil's Punchbowl. 1. It is owned by the national trust, which I must join, but not as much as English Heritage. 2. It's called that thanks to a myth about the devil hurling lots of mud at the god Thor, leaving a bloody big hole in the ground. 3. It is one of the BBC's seven man made wonders. fascinating.
Somehow, in the last 48 hours I have managed to watch two films involving Julia Roberts. Thankfully neither of them were Notting Hill, but all the same. I don't like Julia Roberts (in this, it appears I am not alone). Although I haven't seen Erin Brockovich, which I hear is excellent.
Anyway. Films what I watched. First up was Closer, which I enjoyed much more on second viewing, although I still don't understand why Jude's character falls for Anna (to be fair I never understand why anyone falls for Julia's characters). Dodgy storylines aside, I just love the scenes from London in it. I got very overexcited to see the Postman's Park featuring - a place I've mentioned before, and which I maintain is one of the more romantic corners of London. Had I know its significance in Closer, I *definitely* would have taken more care about who I went with...
If Closer is all about our endless capacity to screw up love, the second film I watched, this time tonight, over a tragic supper of old bread and broccoli soup (woe is me!), wants us to believe that true love wins through every time. Yep, it was My Best Friend's Wedding. Can't believe I chose it over an episode of Spooks... I must be feeling sorry for myself as I found myself just a tiny bit tired and emotional at the scene in the ladies' loos. Really must pull myself together. Or give in to the urge and re-watch Bridget Jones.
I am getting more and more excited about that fact that I am on holiday (Costa del Vauxhall, here we come) from 22nd December until 14th January. To that end I have spent this morning in a marathon Time Out session, finding things to do and places to go to keep me out of trouble. In no particular order...
Seeing is believing, on at the Bargehouse at the Oxo Tower. An exhibition which sounds like an about-time reminder of the shocking poverty that some people still live in - I'm relieved to see it as most of the time such living conditions are all but edited out of news and current affairs. On till 31st December, daily 11am-4pm.
The art of Lee Miller, at the V&A museum. If there was ever a multi-talented woman, she's it - model, photographer, journalist. Someone to admire and, in my ongoing quest for female icons, a brilliant counter to the current spice girls fever that's taken over london. Also on at the V&A is an exhibition of the 'golden age' of couture - a chance to bone up on the kind of look I'm going to need for K's birthday party in February. Both shows end on Jan 6th.
Dennis Severs' house in Spitalfields, which is rather like a permanent Punchdrunk production in a house. It's not open much, usually, but between now and 4th Jan, if you book you can go on 27th and 28th between 12 and 4pm, or Jan 2-4 between 6 and 9pm. Sounds magical.
The painting of modern life at the Hayward, until 30th Dec. I find the Hayward an odd gallery - fabulous space but often frustratingly used, and hopeless crowd control. But I do want to see this exhibition before it closes so I'd better get on with it.
War Horse, in rep at the National Theatre until Jan 12th. So many people have now told me that this show is brilliant, against all the odds, that I really must go.
The Potted Potter at the Trafalgar Studios. OK, so I got as far as book 3 and then struggled so Harry Potter has become another gap in my cultural knowledge, along with Star Wars and the Lord of the Rings. This show is just what I need. On till 5th Jan. May need to nick a kid so that I look less odd going...
Oh joy. I've just seen that Kneehigh are putting on a performance of Rapunzel at the QEH over Christmas. Review here. Booking here. Me banging on about last time I saw Kneehigh doing a fairy tale here. Bring. It. On.
On Thursday I pretended to be a lady of leisure, and met my lovely friend K for a late, boozy lunch at the Rex Whistler restaurant at Tate Britain. After a gentle meander around the Millais exhibition, I went down to the cafe and we were ushered into the beautiful room of the restaurant - murals all round, great food, and a very, very good way of wiling away the best part of an afternoon talking about boys (turns out we fancy the same ones, and emotional fuckwits generally. great...). I love hanging around with K. We followed it up with some shopping at the bizarre Army and Navy on Victoria St, whose only saving grace is the cafe at the top, which is good for hiding in. Still, shopping when a bit pissed is never that smart, and I now have a rather expensive jacket that B and J both agreed was 'overpriced and too many buttons'. hey ho. I'll just have to return it and buy something else...
The plan was to continue into the evening but for various reasons that didn't happen. So instead I headed off for more culture - this time a beautiful concert at St John's Smith Square (wicked) - carols and a bunch of Christmas music which was brilliant. All performed by Chantage, apparently the BBC Choir of the Year 2006, but to be honest even typing that makes me feel about 50. As my date put it - 'carol singing - karaoke for the middle classes'. Still, I sung my heart out, melted at the organ playing, and went home happy, and thinking I could get used to doing nothing very much with my time.
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.
