227. Sticky Fingers, Soggy Macaroni

8th November 2014, Sticky Fingers, Kensington, London

Possibly through some level of divine intevention, I succesfully dragged myself out of bed, put my face back on and forced myself Westwards once more for another outing with some rather fabulous ladies.

Following a hellish tube ride (there were other people there) to Kensington I finally arrived at Sticky Fingers where the other two members of the Blonde Ambition Trio were waiting. We used to be a quartet but then Yummy Mummy abandoned us for silly Singapore. 

Seeing how hungover I was at this stage, the one thing that kept me going was the idea of some properly greasy American grub. With cheese on top. Seriously, anything with cheese would basically have worked for me. Or so I thought.

It's quite a cool place - but what else would you expect from an ex Rolling Stone? Old fashioned diner style with plenty of rock memorabilia, even the waiters look all rock star-esque. So with regards to ambience - well done Mr Wyman!

After chatting for ages about exams (Blonde no 1), travels (Blonde no 2) and man drama (Blonde no 3) we came upon the horrible realisation that all this talking was done with very dry throats. Where on earth were our drinks?

It ended up being a 20 minutes wait for a very bland hair-of-the-dog mojito - which I in my very hungover state was not at all prepared for. Speed and strength  would have been two very strong selling points for me at the time. But, the waitress was so lovely and apologetic that I couldn't really bring myself to be annoyed with her. Damn, hungover me - loosing my touch completely.

After the bland drinks, we were onto the food. Now I really wanted this to be amazing. Nothing would fix me like a perfect all-American food orgy. That sadly did not happen. The burger was quite tasteless, the paprika fries over spiced and the Mac'n'Cheese terrible. How can you fail so badly at Mac'n'Cheese?! Pret a Manger manages just fine and theirs is mass produced and only £4.95!

It was somehow too cheesy - I did not even know there was such a thing! Well, the top was too cheesy and non-crusty whilst the rest was just soggy. It really was not an enjoyable experience and fixed exactly non of my hangover.

The ribs did look good though. And I don't even like ribs! So maybe that's where we went wrong.

After the unsatisfying meal I tried to wake myself up with an espresso martini and failed miserably. In other words, our grand plans of heading to Blag Club or Piano Bar post dinner were shattered as I attempted a power nap in our booth.

45 minutes after leaving I arrived back home in Shoreditch and could not resist grabbing a pizza slice whilst walking home from Aldgate. Now that is the type of cheesiness I'm talking about!

A trio of blondes!

Plenty of grease!

Failed attempt at waking myself up!

226. Fireworks and Flamingos

7th November 2014, Roof Gardens, Kensington, London

It did turn into one of those epic nights didn't it?

Seeing as I have never gone to see fire works on or around Guy Fawkes and seeing as I absolutely love fire works, it seemed like going to Kensington Roof Gardens for their bonfire party would be a great idea. And as it turns out it was until I woke up the next morning.

Following a fairly inedible meal at Aubaine with Crazy Canadian and SkandiQueen, we queued up on Derry Street, ready for some serious fireworking. Not to mention, wine drinking and flamingo kidnapping. But we'll get to that.

As per usual, Roof Gardens was packed and the odds of us getting any drinks in on the right side of midnight were slim. Instead, I wondered off to try and find the roofgarden flamingos. Armed with alcohol infused bravery, a semi genius plan and a big coat - what could stop me?

It turns out, the security people could. In spite of my extremely subtle questioning and a genuine interest in flamingo keeping they just refused to tell me where they keep the damn birds at night. Fine. I didn't want to get flamingo poo on my Pringle of Scotland cape anyway.  

After the failed flamingo hunt, I found my girls again and with no further luck at the bar, Crazy Canadian had a plan. She is so resourceful that one. Before we knew it, we were at some comedy club hidden behind the gardens and although we were probably not suppose to be there - drinks took circa 60 seconds to reach my hands. Which is about a hundred times faster than had we stuck to the main bar.

We found our spot to watch the fireworks and managed to win ourselves some Italian groupies whilst we were at it. We then spent 45 odd minutes listening to their disliking of anything London (know your audience boys!) whilst waiting for the fireworks to get started already. And when they did, I got so excited I may have drenched both Italian groupies and myself in champagne. I learnt that night that a champagne soak does nothing for a good blow dry.

Also, it turned out that my excitement was in vain as these were terrible fireworks. I strongly suggest that their pyro technician goes on a study tour to Disneyworld. 

Following the disappointing fireworks, the crazy really got started. As most people know, I'm not big on dancing at all and usually when I do dance - it's a sign of the kind of drunkeness leaving you still a bit tipsy the next day. Crazy Canadian knows this and out of nowhere the shots started to appear. And after that, there sure was dancing. Wear-out-my-Louboutin-soles-level-dancing.

The rest is all a bit blurry to be honest. But I did at one stage come across some rather dapper looking gentlemen in black tie gear who were clearly intoxicated (or possibly mentally unstable) enough to want to hang with us. In other words, they were basically asking for me to steal one of their bowties and wear it as an Alice band. And I looked simply adorable.

More craziness followed and at 4 am or so I stumbled home, Louboutins in hand and my bow tie adorned hair smelling like champagne and passed out in my bed, aka my very best friend.

I suppose the guy won't want his bowtie back any time soon?

Pre craziness

At the very beginning of crazy

 

Unsatisfying fireworks!

225. Jack and his Weird Cousin from the Country

1st November 2014, Brick Lane, London

For someone who obsesses with most big holidays, whether or not they're native to either of my home countries or not - people would be surprised to know that I've never celebrated proper Halloween.

Get me right, I've occasionally have been dragged out on Halloween at the last minute and been forced to buy a £2.50 black mask from Tesco - but that is literally it. No 4 week countdown, no sewing feathers onto a head dress, no witch themed cupcakes, no dry ice cocktails. It's extra surprising considering my general love for anything a bit camp. Seriously, the first time I saw a mardi gras I nearly cried because it was so beautiful in all its' tackiness.

Unfortunately there was still no real Halloween party for me this time around due to an outfit mishap. In other words, my sea shell crown had not arrived! Disaster.

In terms of Halloween celebrations, I had to settle for making pumpkin lanterns for the first time. Seeing as I'm not all that creative - this was never going to be a great success.

The frustration started with actually just carving the damn seeds out. It took frickin' forever and the world's most annoying seeds just kept reproducing and the more I dug, the more seeds were there. Why on earth did I have to get two pumpkins?

Once emptied (both pumpkin and patience) I thought it would be a clever idea to make myself a clown! Somewhere along the way I missed the note on learning to walk before attempting to run.

It was probably the creepiest clown ever - but that was sadly because he looked a bit like a clown whom someone had stabbed in the face with a fork. Which is pretty much what happened.

The next lantern was far more classic and much less freestyle. And coincidently, a lot less creepy than the clown cousin.

Halloween - still not my favourite holiday..!

Jack and the mutilated clown.

224. Peel off

28th October 2014, Pharaoh Beauty, Shoreditch, London

As previously confirmed, I'm in the midst of an about-to-turn-30-crisis.

So on top of fake face lifts and various other treatments where I essentially pay people to poke me with various objects to de-sag my face.

This time I decided to simply get my skin peeled off. No age preventing measure is too desperate.

Basically I let someone attack my face with an electric file. I'm sure I've seen a really bad 90's horror film with that theme. Or maybe that was an electric drill. Anyway!

As it turns out, the benefits of having your skin peeled up does not weigh up the time, money or agony spent on having it done. I still looked 29 (and maybe a half).

The battle continues!

223. Face Lift for Cowards

28th October 2014, Pharaoh Beauty, Shoreditch, London

Yep, the fear of turning 30 is most definitely there.

Hence, I am taking any action possible to keep my face from sagging – as long as it won’t entail people approaching my head with scalpels. I am not quite ready for that yet.

The latest trial in my war against a 30-something-face, are non surgical face lifts. In other words, someone prodding your face with a mini hoover to allegedly plump it all up.

I’m not sure it’s actually referred to as a hoover, but it’s essentially it. Looks a bit like a bar code scanner, only it sucks on your face rather than establish your price. And to be honest – I’d rather have that thing suck on my face than some disastrous first dates who failed to see the difference between a persons’ mouth and their cheeks, chin and nose.

So after 30 minutes of face sucking, 3 times in one week, was there any result? None, whatsoever. I definitely still look like I might enter a new decade next year.

I least I got a nap listening to dolphins!

222. Girlie Brews

25th October 2014, BrewDog, Shoreditch, London

I am by no means a keen beer drinker.

At midnight in Shoreditch though, I am far more keen to drink beer than paying to get into a crowded club and be forced to, god forbid, dance.

So rather than saving BrewDog  for my date the next day (and someone who was likely to be more impressed with the chosen venue), me and Crazy Canadian headed over for that ever famous last one drink. As two women both in an intense love affair with wine, we were really the wrong audience for this place.

At the bar I spotted a guide for wine drinkers to choose the right beer for them as they categorically don't serve anything other than beer. Although that is rather sweet, I still was suspicious. Which the bartender could probably tell as he approached me the same way you would approach a kid refusing to enter the dentist's practice. In other words, re assuring, calm and willing to promise me a new Barbie if I was a good girl and at least tried not to bite the dentist. That's good service for you.

He refused to call them girlie beers. But we both knew that's what they were. These fruit cake flavoured fizzy samples of all variety colours and bubbliness that he provided me with. And they were actually quite nice. In a girlie beer sort of way.

I won't be attacking the Guinness anytime soon - but I can get on board with more girlie beers. If they're pink.

Girlie Beers.

221. My Favourite Type of Club

25th October 2014, London Cocktail Club, Shoreditch, London

London Cocktail Club is a series of super quirky bars across the city rumoured to have some of the best cocktails in town.

The concept seemed like a lot of fun. Aside from a focus on well made and inventive cocktails, each venue has its' own theme - rather than the one-size-fits-all approach used by the likes of Drake & Morgan. We're talking punk and gin in Goodge Street, gangster and tequila at Oxford Circus, and now, biker club and whiskey in Shoreditch.

Not having been to any of their other venues, I couldn't very well get away with missing out on the new place in my very own hood. So, following dim sum at Drunken Monkey and cocktails at Beach Blanket Babylon me and Crazy Canadian headed over for opening night at LCC Shoreditch for even more cocktails.

At the first glance it already looked like a rather happening spot with it's concrete floors, exposed pipes and rusty stools for seating. The bartenders in flower garlands and Darth Vader masks added that extra bit of weird that I need to truly love a bar.

And the cocktails. Oh man. The first girlie fruity concoction to cross my lips was borderline orgasmic and could easily have survived only drinking that for the remainder of the year. However (there always has to be a but right?), my cocktail took a good 25 minutes to show, as did Crazy Canadian's wine. The waitress, adorable as she was, seemed very much out of her depth and after asking her for our order twice - we wound up having to rather bluntly organise our drinks with the bartender ourselves before finally taking our seats and preventing the death-by-thirst that was soon to be a reality.

We had managed to snag ourselves a great corner table which was great for people watching and although I spotted one or two Essex blogger girls having ventured away from the mainstream quirkiness at Old Street - it was overall a very cool crowd.

And then I spotted the condom on the table.

Worried that we had landed ourselves in some after hours swinger's club - some people definitely looked like the types - disguised as a cocktail club, we approached a bartender passing by asking him about our findings. On that note, approaching a stranger with a condom - never a good idea. After some strange looks and concerned facial expressions on his party, he kindly explained to us that it was part of a cocktail garnish before he basically ran away from us as fast as he could. I'll give them points for inventiveness.

As we were ready for another cocktail, the cocktail waitress sadly was not and after yet another 30 minute wait, we had to cave in and leave. We were not that desperately thirsty anymore.

So I never got to try the Pirate Radio. But I will definitely be back to do so. My song of choice? Baby Got Back, of course.

Just your standard bartender uniform.

Next time!

Fruity yumminess!

220. Something Fishy

23rd October 2014, Fish Market, City of London

As I'm back at being a working girl, the Camel has moved on to be a Lady of Leisure.

I therefore have an excuse to leave the office to have lunch and Camel has a reason to force her ass off the couch and come interact with other human beings than the Kardashians.

As none of my friends can spend any time with me outside the confinements of The List, our meeting spot of the day was Fish Market. Seeing as it was located on my favourite street in the City in between my favourite City wine bar and my favourite City cocktail bar it seemed promising.

Supposedly, this place has some of the best fish in London. Now if it only didn't take 45 minute to show.

Camel and I got to the restaurant and were greeted my the most confused waiter in the world. Adorable, but at my one hour lunch break I don't have time for that confused-and-adorable quality so many waiters still have their jobs because of.

We both ordered the squid for a starter. The most confused waiter in the world looked confused. We both ordered the sea bass. The most confused waiter in the world looked confused. When I proceeded to ask for a side of spinach he did an excellent imitation of my 14 year old self trying to grasp the concept of algebra (still working on that one by the way).

We got the starters and they were lovely! So far so good. Then the electricity went down for a whopping 90 seconds.  These 90 seconds delayed our meal with the already mentioned 45 minutes. Our meal specifically. Funnily enough, every other sea bass eater seemed to be getting their sea bass without having to wait for someone to go catch it on the other end of the United Kingdom.

So we asked the most confused waiter in the world about our food. Who looked confused and a tad like he was going to cry. So the most confused waiter in the world's manager came to offer some support and he ensured us our meal would be two minutes. Five minutes later, there was no food and by now Camel and I had successfully covered off the
specific details of one wedding, one honeymoon and entirety of two people's life ambitions. So we asked the most confused waiter in the world and the procedure repeated itself. Now the manager ensured us we were talking about another two minutes and of course we shouldn't cancel our order.

Another seven minutes later, we received some dry fish in foil. Not the most well spent 45 minutes of my life. They also forgot my spinach. I decided that was a battle I would choose not to pick with the most confused waiter in the world.

I guess wine and cocktails is all I'll be doing on New Street going forward.

Allegedly they have fish in here.

219. 21st Century Caveman

12th October 2014, Brick Lane, London

There is a vast variety of weirdo diets out there - the babyfood diet, the purple food diet, the Dukan diet to mention but a few.

And to start with, Paleo sounded just as weird to me.

The idea is that you eat like a caveman. That was enough to make me wonder what weird food following Flatmate had gotten himself into. However, as he preached the benefits of the caveman community and I read the book of faith and eternal allegiance, I was getting onboard with the idea. It was your basic cult indoctrination.

I have learned now, that this is the way to live ones' life. After all, if our bodies were made to eat gluten and dairy, people wouldn't be allergic to them. Now I'm not sure how to explain why cavemen couldn't eat beans and corn - but strict religion rarely makes sense.

After two weeks of slabs of meat, various vegetables and no diet coke whatsoever - I felt absolutely scham-azing. My skin was great, my energy levels were on top and my abs... Well, I didn't look ready to give birth - I'll take that for progress.

The negative side effect with finding a lifestyle (not a diet, this is important) is the fact that people with obsessive personalities may not stop talking about it. Ever. Your conversations with them that started off being about your cheating boyfriend will naturally fall into a recital of Practical Paleo, you will be forced to Planet Organic at your lunch date so that the Paleo freak that used to be your friend can stock up on Caveman Cookies and if you're invited over for Sunday roast... You guessed it - Paleo style! Which basically entails a long speech on which farmer bred your organic roast beef, why roast pumpkin is just as good as roast potatoes and the exact contents of your dessert cupcake, both gluten and dairy free.
 
At least we don't believe in aliens or jump on sofas.

218. Just Like Barilla Didn't Make It

11th October 2014, Surbiton, Kingston

During my one week of bootcamp during the summer, Dolly would go on and on about a mysterious new food group: courgetti.

Following previous major fails in the pasta replacement mission, I am always sceptical at anyone telling me that 'you should eat it instead of spaghetti'. Spaghetti is spaghetti and it is wonderful. No one is going to tell me anything made out of a courgette can satisfy me like seafood linguini.

After a day of shopping and chatting in Kingston, Dolly and I was spending our Saturday night like two old maids - dinner and ice cream in front of soppy rom coms. Dinner consisted of this mysterious dish of courgetti and beef stir fry and I watched the process of courgetti making with a lot of suspicion and even more confusion. After which I was removed from the kitchen as I was making the courgetti machine uncomfortable.

Once the food was served, it was tasty. But pasta it was not.

Yeah that's basically pasta....

217. No it isn't London

11th October 2014, Kingston

As previously established, I don't get out of London a lot.

It's the whole public transport and planning combo that I'm struggling with and sadly it's not yet socially acceptable to get a cab from zone 1 to anything outside of zone 6. Or to employ a chauffeur and not pay him. Damn this socialistic society (say the Swede).

The next stop on my list of UK destinations to visit; the lovely little town of Kingston. In spite of my favourite boot camp buddy Dolly's claim that she lives in London, it is not really London.

After successfully missing two trains due to my house not being next to Waterloo Station I had arrived in Kingston and was picked up by Dolly in the world's smallest car. We contemplated sights to see, culture to take in and the decision landed at Pizza Express and Bentall's Shopping Centre. I, after all, never was one for churches or museums.

Lunch consisted of two hours of gossip, veggies in place of pizza and more gossip - us meeting up was way overdue. After covering the topics of shoes (Louboutins), ice cream (Whey Hey), running techniques (appalling) and all the men in our lives (grand total; zero and none) in excruciating detail, we were off to do some serious shopping.

I was rather disappointed with us both as far as shopping went though. Visits to MAC, H&M, a dozen shoe stores and Zara - my usual safe bet - and I had not accumulated a single bag. For a girl who has permanent scarring to her palms breaking the shopping bag record in several major cities, that is not an acceptable outcome. Yes, the shopping bag record is a thing.

There was only one thing to do. Primark. There is no excuse not to shop when in there. Not buying a £3 pair of cut out brogues is hardly a valid option. Shopping bag disaster averted. Good old Primark and their wonderful advent calendar, motif sock and cartoon PJ selection. I did not have to admit defeat and shopped for dear life.

Like the old ladies we like to act as, we decided that 5 pm definitely was late enough and tomorrow was another day after all. Rock on. Unfortunately, we forgot to take into consideration the amount of time it will take two blondes to find the world's smallest car. In this instance, that was circa 30 minutes.

My visit to Kingston did in other words result in a superfood salad, Moomin pyjamas and a lost car.

I'll take it over sightseeing any day.

Greatest find of the day and some crazy lady in the background.

216. Slow Cooking for Fast Women

5th October 2014, Brick Lane, London

If I possess a single virtue, patience definitely is not it.

Cooking is no exception, in fact, it's probably my main outlet for my general lack of patience. In fact, most of the food I eat for lunch is lukewarm since I can't endure the three minutes wait required for the stupid microwave to just get on with its' job. I don't have all day you know. Or the remaining 45 seconds.

But with the ongoing Paleo Project taking place in our flat, protein rich stew is one of the most manageable staples - seeing as we can't grill whole boars on our balcony. Therefore, I had to make friends with our slow cooker.

The clue is in the name - slow cooker. I was not going to enjoy this. Slow is not my thing.

I get that it's practical, I really do. You pop all your food in a pot and it magically cooks itself overnight. Seems super handy.

It just sounds way too simple and I didn't trust it one bit. But as sceptical as I was, the option was to get up at 5 AM in the mornings to make myself a salad - which sounded way worse seeing as I can hardly muster up the energy to brush my teeth at that hour.

So I chopped up a gazillion vegetables, beef strips (thanks again, Abel and Cole) and about enough garlic to kill Count Dracula and all his children. Come to think of it, did Dracula even have children? I feel like he would have.

Anyway. Although every recipe specifically says just to leave it alone for the 6-8 hours and get on with your life meanwhile, I was still dubious about the idea. So dubious that I left my glitter bomb bath, a Skype session with my nieces and my bed four or five times just to check on it. I finally know what it's like having small children and I did not enjoy it.

The next day, I still ate it lukewarm. Those damn microwaves are far too slow.

215. Rapunzel of Shoreditch

4th October 2014, Brick Lane, London

Scandi girls are rarely too lucky on the hair front.

Yeah, we do have hair - no female pattern hair loss or anything - but there is not a lot of hair to go around for everyone. Which makes very little sense at the end of the day as it's freaking cold up North and we could do with any extra coverage we can get.

I have been avoiding the idea of getting extensions into my rather limp hair for years, for the same reason I don't do self tanning and teeth whitening. I am simply terrified to look like a TOWIE cast member. But after some convincing from my long trusted hairdresser I was ready to go full Barbie.

To anyone who think the 3 hours of colouring and cutting every other month is rather boring and time consuming - it's nothing compared to the amount of time it takes to actually add hair to the equation.

That said, my hair has never been this swooshy and I spent the entire day trying to create a draft in the flat (my wind machine was broken) so I could look like I was in a shampoo commercial. I probably should have waited until people left the flat before doing this.

Rapunzel out. 

Hair hair hair, everwhere!

214. Naked Burger

27th September 2014, Brick Lane, London

I have always been adamant that a bun free burger is not a burger.

But whilst I'm trying to go Paleo, I have no other choice than to bite the (carb free) bullet and have my burgers free from anything remotely exciting.

Thank God for Abel & Cole. Thank God for their organic beef burgers to be specific.

Because as it turns out, it is not so much about the buns making the burgers, as it is the burgers normally being awful slabs of tasteless minced meat that needs to be hidden between bread, cheese slices and dressings to taste anything other that dead sad cow. And even if the majority of the carnivores of the world does not seem to get it, the happy cows are the tasty cows. Still, people choose to eat their food straight from the meat factory - all that added antibiotics, hormones and taste of torture is just too hard to resist.

Pretentious lecture done.

So, following my Abel and Cole Thursday delivery I made an attempt to make a burger with focus on burger and I was getting quite inventive. Read cabbage where the bun used to be, sautéed chestnut mushrooms and mango pickle.

And it was delicious! Borderline best burger I have ever had. I may never have my burgers with bread again.

OK, so that might be a slight exaggeration. But I could easily see myself substituting Patty and Bun visits with my latest invention.

It's all about them happy cows.

213. VIPR Attack

27th September 2014, Virgin Active, Canary Wharf, London

In another attempt to do something else with our Saturdays than drinking wine, me and Hell's Bells were off to try out VIPR. Apparently it's the new craze of the fitness world and something you must have tried.

I'm not sure our commitment to new healthy lives were overly clear when we strolled into the gym only to go and sit on the café balcony with burgers and lattes. But eventually the clouds came out, the food was eaten and we had no more excuses.

With training gear and game faces on, we headed into the VIPR studio and checked out the VIPRs with scepticism. These purple pipe shaped objects that aren't even all that heavy - how hard could it be?

As me and Hell's Bells were soon to learn - pretty damn hard. We should have known as soon as the instructor came in and was 120 pounds of pure muscle. I was not that wise and even sniggered at her when she dared suggest I'd take anything other than the heaviest weight in my first session.

I work out a lot and what I lack in flexibility and grace, I make up for in stamina. Still - I was drowning in sweat 5 minutes in with Hell's Bells giving me evil stares and hisses for dragging her there. She could have been at the pub now!

So don't be fooled by the somewhat innocent appearance of a VIPR - they are deadly. Squat 150 times whilst swinging the VIPR above your head and you'll know what I mean.

Once done with the VIPR, we were desperate for some serious relaxation and went to the swanky spa section of Virgin Active Canary Riverside where we concluded that swimming in the same pool as Daniel Craig in Skyfall basically means that we've both have gone to at least second base with him.

After a long relaxation session, we both concluded that tomorrow would be painful. And as clockwork, the text received from Scotty the next morning read:

-So I hear you broke Hell's?

212. Tour de Michelin

24th September 2014, Galvin La Chapelle, Spitalfields, London

Following my first visit to a Michelin Star restaurant, I am ready to start with the attempt to tick off yet a few of the other ones off The List.

I was starting off with the beautiful Galvin La Chapelle where I have never before eaten although a very drunken drink has been had at the bar there once before. What I mainly seem to recall from that time though is that the dining room is one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. Gorgeous high ceilings, magical light display and beautifully arched windows that allows this former parish hall to combine classical building with modern interior.

Not normally being one to oooh and aaah over architecture, I did quite enjoy taking it all in during my time in the bar waiting for Miss Ukraine with my long awaited glass of Moet.

As Miss Ukraine arrived we spent some further time in the bar chit chatting to the lovely staff about this and that and I found myself having to accept this place as an exception to my judgemental belief that all French waiters are born to be rude.

Seated at our table we enjoyed a truly amazing starter of pea veloute - in other words pea soup. But it was possible the best pea soup I've ever had with delicious truffle crème and really good dinner rolls. A restaurant can really win me over with a good bread selection.

Our main was a gorgeous girolle risotto -  which may not sound like much but may be the greatest dish known to man if made in the right way. I might be biased being from a nation obsessed with chanterelles, but it was absolutely scrumptious.

At this stage we were a bottle of champagne in and not too far from finishing an additional bottle Muscadet - we decided to make best friends with our waiter. The patience of that guy needs to be commended, not everyone can handle mine and Miss Ukraine's lacking respect of boundaries.

Whilst talking to our lovely waiter I spotted one of the greatest cheese trolleys I have ever been faced with. In other words we skipped dessert and attacked the cheese selection instead.

Lord knows I love my cheese.



Mesmerising

Beautiful cheese trolley, harassed waiter

211. All Clucked Up

22nd September 2014, Truman Breweries, Shoreditch, London

New job equals new lunch opportunities!

And an income, a routine and a sense of security, but let's focus on the important parts.

After spending the last few years in Canary Wharf, the lunch options have been pre wrapped sandwiches, salty soups and some soggy salads. Fish'n'chips on a Friday if you're lucky.

With a close proximity to both Shoreditch and City of London - lack of alternative is no more. I nevertheless spent the first month getting sandwiches from Pret and salads from Eat. Time to put my money where my mouth wasn't.

Outside of Truman Brewery there is this little square - parking lot is probably more accurate - where they have some of the cutest little food trucks with organic and inventive foods of different variety, obviously with some Shoreditch quirkiness added to the mix.

Once dragging some non suspecting colleagues away from the banker digs, I based my decision between the food trucks solely on the funniest name. The top two in that contest were without a doubt Mother Clucker and Meat Porn - chicken wings or pulled brisket. In all fairness, Mother Clucker is probably wittier, but a white blouse and chicken wings wasn't going to be a great combo...

My lunch buddy who did try the chicken wings though said that they were the best wings she's had outside of the States - and she as a Texan should know!

I was very happy with my brisket though, beats ready made sandwiches by miles.

New lunch hang out - found!

Bit of Shoreditch brilliance in the City

210. French Nandos

20th September 2014, Le Secret, Canary Wharf, London

Le Secret is one of those random little places where I've been planning to go but haven't gotten around to.

It is in Canary Wharf but randomly located on the river away from the business area and away from anything else really. That and the fact that they really only serve chicken makes it weird enough for me to want to go there.

Luckily I get an invite from the Camel to a birthday dinner at "some French place in your area". Her sense of location never fails to impress!

After revisiting my old stomping grounds of the Canary Wharf shopping centre and my old gym, I made my way to the restaurant ready to eat some serious chicken.

Unsure of why the restaurant had it's name in the first place, I did the grave mistake of asking the waiter about it. Apparently it has to do with some sort of 'Secret Sauce'. That was enough to put me into the same sort of fits of laughter as being on the Piccadilly Line towards Cockfosters. Seven years on and that still isn't getting old.

It is a nice little restaurant, cute, clean and chicken loving - but to quote another party member "it's basically posh, French Nando's". I'm not sure the secret sauce  made it all that special. But it did make it funnier, I'll agree with that.

Turns out that not everything French is all that fancy.

209. Four Eyes

15th September 2014, David Clulow, City of London

Not having seen properly for the past three years, it was time to give in and actually go to the optician and get my slowly approaching blindness confirmed.

She should not have given me candy first thing. Just saying. In all fairness she is not a paediatrician and may not know the tricks of the candy-as-a-reward procedure, but she'll hopefully know next time that the candy is at the final stage.

Or this will happen:

Optician lady who gave me candy (concerned): Uhm. You basically see nothing. At all.
Me (upbeat and on a sugar high): Oh. OK! Can I have more candy now?
Optician lady who gave me candy (still concerned): Do your current glasses actually make any difference?
Me (getting slightly bored): Yeah, they're Ralph Lauren.
Optician lady who gave me candy (rolling her eyes in the dark room): Right.... Do you not find yourself bumping into things a lot?
Me (hopeful): If I say yes, do I get more candy?
Optician lady who gave me candy (irritated): You must be struggling with sitting in front of a computer all day?
Me (disappointed): So no more candy then?

In the end, after making me sit still, Optician Lady confirmed what we all now - the blurriness in my eye sight is not necessarily immediately linked to the blurriness in my head. New glasses it was. Quilted leather Chanel ones even.

It's like I'm smarter already.


 

Look how smart I am!

208. Cast a Vote

14th September 2014, Swedish Embassy, Marylebone, London

Most people who knows me would probably say that I'm highly opinionated. Actually, few people would probably be that polite and chose very different words to describe me and my constant debating my views on things.

Politics are no exception from me and my highly vocal (read: loud) take on the world. And you would have expected someone who has such strong opinions on every single political party and their stands to drag her ass and vote when given the chance.

Truth is, I have never voted in a general election. In fact, last time I went to vote for anything other than the X-Factor was in the Swedish elections for the Euro Zone. And age 18, I primarily voted because I had just turned 18 and I could. I also voted no solely because I thought the EUR bills were ugly. I was clearly a very mature voter.

So, having spent the last 10 years complaining about politics globally and Swedish politics more than anything, it was time to drag my ass to the embassy and actually vote.

To sum up Swedish politics in one word so that people outside Sweden can understand at which level it operates; playground. Only a bit less mature.

The ongoing war between the left and the right wing parties have gone something like this along the last few years:

Lefties: You're stupid.
Righties: Well, you're stupid-er.
Lefties: Well... Your mummy's stupid too!
Righties: Well, you... Smell.

I wish I was exaggerating.

So whilst the two biggest parties in Sweden are arguing about who is the most stupid, we've had some lovely development amongst the smaller parties.

There's the Swedish nationalist party, whose opinions I don't necessarily agree with, but they're scoring more and more votes on the fact that every other single party is terrified to even mention immigration and integration in spite of that being the biggest chink out of the Swedish national budget. People are not stupid and they will sadly support a party who stands for a rather concerning view of human beings based on the lack of options - which spreads beyond their views on immigrants (although people tend to get stuck on that bit).

And how do the other parties deal with their success? Do they listen to their voters and try to figure out why people are still sympathising with the Swedish Democrats to maybe see if there is a focus in their own politics that may be lacking. No, they instead refuse to say hi to the party members in the corridors of the parliament and exclude from the office Christmas party. Your basic school ground bullying on other words. And it's OK as per Swedish media because 'they are racist'. Apparently Swedish media missed the memo on two wrongs not making one right.

And God forbid anyone mentions that we still have communist in parliament. It's not like the commies have ever done anything to oppress people...

Whilst the racist debate is taking more and more juvenile turns, we have the Feminist Party creeping out from the ashes of a burnt bra bonfire from the 70's (let's face it, choosing to wear a bra or not is what feminism is really all about)... It doesn't sound too bad does it? Feminism is a lovely thing right?

Sadly, these are not the Emma Watson (whose UN speech I can not praise enough) type of feminist that simply believes in equal rights for all human beings - but the remains of the man haters of the last century that gave feminism a bad name to begin with. A party that informs us that all men are actually animals and needs to be re educated/programmed. Men of Sweden, I am insulted on your behalf.

Aside of these goodies, we have party leaders being attacked for having the audacity to work in politics and also be attractive, the denial that our financial minister is the greatest thing to have happened to the Swedish economy and the even harsher denial that Sweden has the social democrats to thank for the amazing social system that we do have.

Playground. Can not be said enough.

Anyway, it was time for me to go and actually vote for the least bad of the immature children running my home country, so off to Marylebone and the Swedish embassy.

I was met by two of the things I like the least: queues and admin. I'm not quite sure how many ways in which I can confirm my identity and how much arguing it is worth to go behind a curtain to put a cross in a box on a piece of paper.

In the end we got there, although I doubt I made any new friends at the embassy. That's OK, wasn't much love there to begin with.

A blank vote is still a vote right?

207. Out of my Comfort Zone

14th September 2014, Jackson + Rye, Chiswick, London

The bad thing about living in the greatest city in the world is that you explore that city very little as you are feeling more at home in it. It doesn't help if you have a deep hatred towards public transport either.

There are a lot of areas in London that I haven't set foot in. Fact is, if it's outside of zone 1, it's a safe bet that I have most likely not ventured there before.

But as we get older and people are settling down and getting mortgages, I find myself having to travel to the more affordable areas of London - in other words, zone 3 or worse.

In my attempt to cross a few unexplored areas of The List, off to Chiswick I was to meet Hell's Bells and Princess of Persia for shopping and brunch.

And I get it. Sort of. In the almost-suburbs, there are all these trees and green stuff which people seem to be super into and like... Fresh air. Which is also this big frickin' deal as it appears. Well I like my air smelling slightly of marijuana and no trees getting in my way when I stagger home at 4 AM in my Manolos.

However, as we were walking through the cute little streets of Chiswick I had to admit that it really was a rather nice little area. We went antiquing, strolled through the park and had brunch and cocktails at the lovely Jackson + Rye. We were basically an annoyingly perfect couple in a Woody Allen film who covers up their inner dysfunctionality with a shield of faultlessness.

I would say I'll be back soon. But the tube ride is 55 minutes. I'm not a masochist.

206. The French Invasion

13th September 2014, Aubaine, Marylebone, London

I have an intense love-hate relationship with anything France. 

I love the cheese, wine and macaroons but not so much the rude French waiters - which is essentially all French waiters. 

I have for the latter reason been avoiding the Aubaine restaurants seemingly cropping up in every other corner of London for the past few years - but as they are said to have the best Moules Frites in town, a visit had to be paid.

On one of those beautiful, sunny, first few crisp Autumn days, I really could not think of anything better than some warm buttery mussels in Marylebone Village (which by the way is slowly becoming my favourite area in London).

Fresh from the gym, I met up with Bambi (sleepy) and Hell's Bells (hungover) on this adorable little bistro overseeing the square and trying it's best to lure you in with beautiful chocolate éclair's and mille-feuilles, a top notch wine selection and fluffy quiches galore. It was the perfect spot for a ladies lunch.

Or so I thought. We pretty much managed to cover off two weeks of Bambi on South African Safari, including flights, before a waiter bothered to come take our order. I did the mistake of ordering a Virgin Mary and was met with a look more offended and disgusted than I had expected from calling his mother fat. You can take the waiter out of France but you clearly can't take the French out of the French waiter.

After the initial annoyance with the slowness and less-than-enthusiastic attitude of the waiter, he brought out my Moules Frites and all was forgiven. How these ugly little creatures can be so delicious is beyond me, but never the less. Yummy in my Tummy.

No matter what - I can't fault the French when it comes to their food!

Brilliant Lunch Companions

Mussel Mania