132. What a Pickle

10th May 2014, Shoreditch, London

Sometimes my soul gets possessed by Martha Stewart and some serious domestic madness occurs in my kitchen.

I am the first to admit that I frequently have Cheerios and Champagne for dinner, but I can actually both cook and bake believe it or not, even if me doing either is rare. So me trying to be a housewife from the 50's may not happen frequently, but when I do, I go all in.

This Saturday was one of those domestic devil days where the urge had come over me to get beetroot pickling. As you do normally on a Saturday afternoon.

It did generate some rather questioning looks from the Flatmate when the moose apron came on and the big pot came out from its' hiding place far, far back in the kitchen cupboard.

Out also came the trusted checked red and white cookbook that has been a trusted staple in Swedish households since 1980 that can guide you to cook just about anything that can be considered semi basic. Like time required to roast a moose shank, how to make lingonberry jam and a guide to all the different sorts of crispy rye bread, with local recipes county by county. In other words, the essentials.

So as it turns out, pickling beetroots is very time consuming. And kind of dull. Which I should have known, I'm no pickle virgin after all.

Firstly, the beets takes a very long 75 minutes to cook before you even put it on the pickle juice stuff. And secondly, the pickle juice stuff really smells awful. I think the acid fumes may even have killed a few birds flying by outside.

When it was finally all finished, they tasted just like I'd imagine pickled beetroots would have tasted like if either of my grandmother would have been the type to pickle beetroots on the spare time they never really had the luxury of having.

I am now officially out of things to pickle.

Both the red and the golden beets.

And another 3 jars sitting in the fridge - I will be having beets for the rest of the year.

131. Death By Ring Dips

10th May 2014, Reebok Gym, Canary Wharf, London

Oh holy mother of Jesus, how am I still alive???

I have done my first ever crossfit class. Why do people do this to themselves? Well simplest answer is, they are brainwashed and insane.

So I don't do a lot of 25 k runs anymore. But hell, I'm not that unfit! I go to the gym 4-5 days a week, I can still run 10 k and I'm apparently insanely strong for a girl. Nevertheless, after a one hour crossfit class I was shaking and I could barely walk myself home four blocks. Hell, my arms hurt so bad I could barely lift them to get my top off in order to hit the shower. At one stage, I even considered showering in my clothes alternatively die a sweaty mess until finally I wormed myself out of  my t-shirt.

Firstly, any workout making me feel like I'm part of a cult will immediately make me suspicious. This has so far been exclusive to yoga after an over-the-top joyous man at the bikram yoga studio in Old Street referred to me as a Yogi In Waiting before trying to make me go to a two week yoga workshop in Goa. Crossfit have now been added to this list of cult like exercise schemes. Only that whilst the yoga guy was over the top happy and upbeat, the crossfit instructors seems to have taken their inspiration from Gunnery Sergeant Hartman. I smiled at him and he hissed at me. At this stage I wanted to leave but was afraid he'd punish me with push ups and running through mud the entire weekend when my army pals got to leave the base.

Firstly the instructor preached for ages about the magical wonderfulness of crossfit and how its' followers were taking over the world... After this, he started talking about the WOD. What is a WOD you may ask yourself. My advise - stick to asking yourself. Because when you ask the instructor out loud, both he and the rest of the class will shoot you evils for having dared attend the class without reading up on the Workout Of the Day beforehand. No one wanted to work in pairs with me after this. I kind of would imagine you'd have the same effect trying to go to church and tell them that Judas wasn't so bad after all.

And it was all downhill from there. A very sweaty and painful downhill at that. An hour of running like a maniac, throwing dumb bells around the room and attempting ring dips for the first time since I was seven. Newsflash folks - if you can't manage if when you're in first grade and presumably at your most flexible, it's probably not going to happen when you're approaching 30 and have discovered mojitos and truffle fries. As if the torture I endured through the physical exercise wasn't enough, the god damn instructor was really channelling Gunnery Seargant Hartman and spent the entire session shouting at me.

So, after three days of complete and utter pain, barely being able to crawl out of bed in the mornings, I realised that most likely I would not be doing this again. I don't care what the instructor said in his recruitment pep talk after the session. Actually I can't really remember what he because I was busy trying to stop seeing stars. But I believe it linked back to them taking over the world and power walks being the source of evil.

Actually, let's be clear  I will never do this to myself again.

130. Farewell To Little Man And Family

9th May 2014, Kilburn, London

Vacancies available in a sometimes rather odd group of friends.

Must have a genuine interest in random Scandinavian traditions and be willing to eat beer boiled crayfish and dance around like a frog at least once a year.

Must have own Swedish folk gown, alternatively be great at making Danish desserts.

Must be willing to stay in London at least five years, preferably longer. 
 
Both pairs and individuals will be considered. Cute baby optional, but will be an advantage.
 
There will be a written contract.

Time wasters need not apply.


Yes, I do take it extremely personal and I do get very upset when people decide to uproot and leave London town, and more importantly, me. So what if there's a beach and great childcare and that great penthouse flat and the equally amazing job? It excuses nothing.

First Mrs Higginsson and now Yummy Mummy. Why do they do this to me?! My two rocks in the madness that is London life who have been there through broken bones, heartbreak and shoe dilemmas are both leaving me in the space of two months!

Whilst The Higginssons at least gave me a good six months to prepare myself for this ordeal, Little Man and Family gave me just a month to adjust to the massive change to my life and my phone bill.

To kick this move off, there was the leaving do. Desperate to cram in as much time as possible with these guys before the big move, I volunteered for nanny duty during the party preparations. And by volunteered I mean that I basically called Yummy Mummy up and informed her that I would be coming to hang with her son three hours before the event - non optional.

Now I'm not sure real nannies normally give two year olds the most massive ice cream in the store and then let them have their way with it as they please. Especially to the extent that the ice cream winds up in the stroller wheels, the child's shoes and ears as well as the fake nanny's hair.
Only catch with my nanny technique is that a child full of ice cream is a child that will not want to put his pyjamas on later that evening...

You have to give it to this family, midst a move across the globe they throw on a party with gourmet level canapés, magnificent wines and the best damn sticky Swedish chocolate cake I've ever had. And I'm somewhat of an expert in the sticky Swedish chocolate cake area.

One week later, it was time for the real thing though. The final goodbye. Fine, so it's not a super final goodbye, but Singapore is extremely far away. Why couldn't they decide to move to Barcelona or something? They have tapas there. Everyone loves tapas.

As expected, the day started, continued and ended in complete and utter chaos with Little Man and family sharing their time between the flat and a Kilburn hotel whilst trying to finalise packing and entertain an overly energetic two year old plus a sulky 29 year old.
Luckily for them, the same rule applies to both age categories; bribery does the trick. For the two year old this meant unlimited iPad time. In the 29 year old's case, the bribery object was 20 bottles of very nice wine from the kitchen clearance. It numbed the pain and scary prospect of being abandoned somewhat. And that was before any of the wine had been opened. I've been more or less tipsy since.

Packing ourselves into a cab with a toddler, the 20 bottles of wine, olive trees and a blue plastic sleigh for which the back story is still unclear, we left their Brondesbury flat for the last time. And Jesus, a lot have gone down in that flat. Teaching Little Man how to use his car shaped walking chair for the first time, Australian themed hen do's, impromptu seven course dinners and rumbling through Yummy Mummy's closet wishing someone would have force fed her lard throughout her 20's so at least some of her clothes would fit me.

Following a very confusing hotel drop off (they may have thought we were all moving in) and a final dinner with my favourite London family, it was that time. Technically it was probably that time 3 hours earlier at Little Man's real bedtime but hey ho. Hugging Little Man, his mummy and his daddy goodbye was a trauma at best. I will miss these guys to the extent where I even welled up a bit, and for someone who has spent a decade working hard at her ice queen reputation, that is a big deal.

Kilburn is a rather spectacular area, but it seems that a girl dragging 20 bottles of wine down the street on a blue plastic sleigh in the middle of May whilst sobbing is one of the more unusual sights judging from the looks some people gave me. Their mothers clearly did not teach them not to stare.

Singapore for Christmas it is!

Ice cream date with Little Man

Little Man and his lovely mum

The kitchen clearance stash!



Of course you place the wine on a blue plastic sleigh. Where else?







129. Jazzing It Up Scottish Style

8th May 2014, Boisdale of Belgravia, Belgravia, London

It’s hardly something to celebrate, but on one of these last nights with our favourite Yummy Mummy in London Town and the very last night out with the girls, we needed to go somewhere suitably one of a kind to fit the occasion.

 

Knowing of Yummy Mummy’s love for jazz, that seemed like the thing to go for. For some reason Singapore doesn’t strike me as a jazz loving nation. However, finding a restaurant or bar that plays live jazz was easier said than done as it turns out - this in the city where you can have dinner at a pig themed burlesque show, eat kangaroo steak with crispy deep fried bugs for dinner or drink your champagne cocktails out of a French horn. But jazz with your meal may be too conventional to work in good old London Town.

 

In the end I remembered Boisdale of Belgravia being known for their jazz gigs and as I regularly have intense meat porn themed daydreams containing the burgers at their East London venue, why on Earth not? After all, we were being abandoned for Asian adventures either way, so I may as well be selfish and choose a dining option based on the list and my food fantasising.

The thing to know with this group of ours, is that 7 pm can mean anything from 7 pm, on a good day, to just around 9 pm. It rarely means that Hell’s Bells having arrived both first and on time. I think she was as shocked as the rest of the crew. Shocked and uncomfortable at that. She later admitted to spending the 10 minutes of lonesomeness, before the arrival of the Kiwi, googling ‘things to do in a restaurant alone’.

So two hours after the agreed time, there we all were. Hell’s Bells and The Four Blondes (now this would be one hell of a 70’s rock band). Almost, but just almost ready to see one of the blondes off before her escape from Europe.  

So, Scottish restaurant – one is expected to try haggis right? I spent a good 30 minutes trying to ensure that someone wasn’t this particular blonde and that I could instead tick the haggis eating experiment off my list by taking it off someone else’s plate. I had very little success with this side project and instead wound up with some not-so-Scottish gravad lax. But oh well, that’s another excuse to go for a weekend in lovely Edinburgh soon.

One might say that they try to do one thing too many at Boisdale of Belgravia. It’s a Scottish restaurant, it’s a jazz bar, it’s a members club, it’s a cigar lounge and it’s a champagne bar - all rolled into one. But it does work. The tartan chairs somehow goes with the American jazz music and the smell of Cuban cigars somehow goes with the pre dinner G&T's. Plus we saw one of the NCIS cast members there which made the night for a crime TV junkie like me!

The truffle burgers here were as freakishly delicious like the ones over in the Wharf, if not more. I could however have lived without the more in this instance, seeing as three blondes and one Hell’s Bells spent the following night and some of the next day not really keeping the burgers or anything else down. Food poisoning really is a bitch and so is the girl at Boisdale picking up the phone being told of said food poisoning. I didn't say you were personally responsible for trying to kill me lady, just that someone at your restaurant clearly is.

Food poisoning or not, we did have a great night and it’s hard to believe it will be such a long time before we will all be in the same room again!

Then there were three…. And Hell’s Bells.

Hell's Bells and the Four Blondes

128. The Love Child of Chuck Taylor and Diana Prince

8th May 2014, Brick Lane, London

After months and months of searching the world for this canvas treasure, it is finally here!

Walking up and down the streets of News York, calling up every Converse All Star distributor in Europe, considering going to Yorkshire to buy a pair in the wrong size and even trying to track down Chuck Taylor's non-dead relatives as I reckoned they surely must be on some sort of an unlimited supply of Converse for life scheme. Some say I've taken it a notch too far, but I'm sure many a people destined for greatness have been told that on the way up.

Of course I am talking about the hunt for the limited edition Wonder Woman Converse All Star trainers that some greater power had apparently determined were not for me. Well, God, Buddha, 8 armed elephant-woman-creature or Thor - whichever one of you is calling the shots - I am having them. Period. Or amen. One of those.

I had to resort to eBay, which has caused me more stress than I could possibly imagine. Who are these people who have nothing better to do than spending their days bidding on super hero sneakers? Not only do they have too much time on their hands, they clearly have too much money as well since they continued to outbid me.

In the end, I got them. At 3.27 AM on a Wednesday morning to be specific. Well worth the lack of sleep, plus it allowed me to catch up on my recorded Twin Peaks reruns. So all in all, that's a win-win situation.

Now all I need is a lasso of truth.

My  most awesome pair of Converse to date!

127. Skippy the Swedish Kangaroo

6th May 2014, Virgin Active Canary Riverside, Canary Wharf, London

I was one of those clumsy kids who fell down a lot. I even had to go back to the doctor twice when I was 5 to re walk the dotted line since apparently my level of clumsiness was abnormal.

Due to said clumsiness I never learned how to skip rope. I also couldn't play football and had a disappointing selection of Lion King stickers. Needless to say I wasn't the coolest kid in the schoolyard.

At the tender age of 29, I thought that perhaps it's time to learn how to skip rope. I was going to teach myself in secret using YouTube clips. Unfortunately for him, my trainer realised that I didn't have this very essential skill and decided to teach me. Oh boy, did he regret that.

I really have no coordination. None. At the first 20 attempts I got my feet tangled in the rope at the first jump and the next 30 attempts I got so excited managing the first jump that I tripped myself when trying the second....

After an hour of 'jump' - 'jump' - 'jump' to teach me how to keep the pace, I finally had it. Current record is 48.5 jumps. The half skip before falling on my face totally counts.

Apparently you can teach old dogs new tricks.

(There is a video. It will never be leaked)

126. Mr Dickens and I

5th May 2014, Anglesea Arms, South Kensington, London

I just love a pub where I can be pretentious and pretend like I know of and appreciate its' heritage.

Anglesea Arms apparently used to be Charles Dickens local. Now, if I want to come across as well educated and culturally enlightened, perhaps I should read a Charles Dickens novel rather than priding myself at having prosecco at his local boozer.

So no, I have not read David Copperfield - in school when presented by this book I was amazed to find out some dude in the 19th century knew about Las Vegas magicians. I have not read A Christmas Carol - although I have seen both the Muppets and the Mickey movie versions, twice. I have also not read Oliver Twist - but I have quoted 'Please Sir may I have some more' in both appropriate and much less appropriate manners.

Mr Dickens can never know this.

Hidden in the corner of a residential and pretty darn posh street, is the Anglesea Arms. Lovely terrace where we obviously didn't get a seat on a sunny bank holiday and a very cute little pub. Cramped dining room. Getting to our table felt a bit like going through an obstacle course with a buggy.

Once at our table, with wine in hand and Little Man still snoozing away we finally got time to  be girlie and sentimental and just a bit silly about the big move to Singapore for Little Man and his family.

It is not Yummy Mummy's last ever time in an English pub. Deep down we know this. And although the wine is more expensive over there, the likelihood of Yummy Mummy having to start drinking cognac with dinner is small. Really, we know this. Nevertheless, we acted a bit like someone was on death row and it was the last of everything. Last ladies' lunch. Last pub grub. Last British author anecdotes. Yeah, women are silly.

Eventually Little Man awoke, interrupting our sentimental craziness and wanting ice cream. And if Little Man wants ice cream, ice cream it will be. Ice cream and Peppa Pig.

Last. Pub. Lunch. Ever.

With my girls!

Seriously the best fish'n'chips I have ever had.

Scrumptious rhubarb crème brulee.

Little Man and his mum!

125. Gucci Gucci, Louis Louis, Fendi Fendi, Prada....

5th May 2014, Victoria & Albert Museum, South Kensington, London

Here we go again. I will once more attempt a cultural outing that does not consist of going to see Muppets - The Movie.

My main reason for not having visited the Victoria & Albert Museum to date is simple; it's located in South Kensington which is the third worst tourist hell of London, only defeated by Leicester Square and Oxford Street. Needless to say, I rarely visit those either.

Trying to get as much time as possible in with my favourite Yummy Mummy and her Little Man before their big move to Singapore I dragged them with me to this cultural staple of London. More specifically, we were there to check out their latest exhibition, The Glamour Of Italian Fashion. As far as Little Man goes, I would say that this kid is more culturally well travelled than I am, but this time he fell asleep before we even got through the door. Point to me!

For the record, I'll take Italian fashion over French any day. So much more glamour, less cookiness and attention seeking and, well... Valentino.

Before I even get started with the couture porn to come, we need to cover the topic of Italian women as ultimately they were the ones these master pieces were originally designed to fit. How the hell do they stay so skinny? They're from the land of pasta, pizza and tiramisu for goodness sake! It just does not add up. They should by any normal metabolistic standards all be whales! Something suspicious is going on down there beyond the bunga bunga parties, you mark my words!

Once inside the exhibition space, I was in awe. Every single piece, to my taste or not, was simply exquisite. The detailing, the vibrant and unexpected colours, the fabric blends... For someone who reads Italian Vogue religiously without speaking a word of Italian beyond understanding the menu at Pizza East, this was simply heaven!

What I like the most with Italian fashion houses is that they constantly strive to maintain and protect their own individual style. This rather than jumping on anything deemed fashionably accurate at the time or considered highly stylish by some Hollywood wannabe who just decided her real passion in life, now that the acting career has crashed, is to be an artistic advisor. Yes, you good people at Ungaro - I am talking to you.

Without any designers simply repeating themselves, I can clearly see Capucci in the dramatic green and pink origami evening gown, Cavalli in the slightly over the top but simply fabulous leopard cut-out maxi dress, Missoni in the knitted multi patterned mis-match autumn coat ensemble and Dolce & Gabbana in the three-colour gold embroided ankle boots.

Now, all I have to do is figure out how to drop three dress sizes whilst eating wheat with cheese and how I am to pay for a £4,500 dress.

So many years of phenomenal fashion

124. The Not So Dead Poet's Society

2nd May 2014, Cotton's, Exmouth Market, London

My ex colleague and current friend the Poet has one of these amazing personalities that can change the atmosphere in a room full of people.

As one might expect, she does poetry, and she does it damn well. This is the girl who had me laughing myself to tears when reading her absolutely hilarious and genius poem on period pains. This is also the girl who once successfully shut up a room full of obnoxious bankers reading her beautiful and very intense poem on precious metals. I would trade my right arm to have the ability to shut bankers up - they normally love their own voices so much that quiet is a distant memory to them. Probably from before they could actually speak.

I have this far missed all of her many official performances and have also never been to any actual poetry reading, but finally the time had come!

Not being the type to go alone to strange parts of town outside of my usual clique, I had to drag someone along with me to this evening of pretending to be one of the cool kids. Getting the future Mr and Mrs away from frantic wedding planning is easier said than done these days, but I did manage to lure them out with the promise of dinner and culture. Honestly, I got the feeling they were rather happy with the prospect of socialising with any human being not solely there to feed them cake, take in suit jackets or over charge them for lilies. Which made my job of entertaining them an easy one seeing as I can't bake, sew or tell roses apart from tulips.

After several Jamaican Mules, loads of Caribbean chicken and our first proper catch up in absolute ages, my favourite Poet was finally on stage!

And, as per usual, she owned it. I really don't know anyone else who could write a poem on hair extensions that is both funny and insightful but not at all silly. The moving poem on precious metals made another appearance and truth be told, there was even some pretty raunchy stuff later on during her performance. And as a single girl, I take what I can get in that last department.

If you get the chance - make sure to go check this amazing performer out, I swear you won't regret it: http://kemitaiwo.com/

123. Some Very Exotic Islands

30th April 2013, Archipelago, Fitzrovia, London

I'm lucky to have friends who enjoys new and weird experiences as much as I do.

Me and my friend Scotty (not the goose) were off to dine at Archipelago, determined to try anything on the menu crazy enough for us to have never tried it before. And that says a lot seeing as in my country we eat Rudolph and in Scotty's country they eat Skippy.

Arriving at Archipelago I instantly adored it! I needed a password to get to my table and I got to eat my dinner sitting on a throne (Scotty got a regular chair) next to a peacock. Granted, a dead peacock - but never the less, a peacock.

Before I even had a chance to get excited about the menu, the lovely and Being asked to put the pill in the potpourri bowl in front of me was even more odd. Next thing we know, the mint pill has turned itself into a hot towel. This first oddity of many set the tone for the rest of the evening and that made me look forward for all to come.

 

Menu

Wine: Massaya Classic Red. Lebanese. Yummy. Who knew they grew something other than mezze platters?

Starters: Burmese Embrace and Serengeti Strut. Python carpaccio and Zebra jerky. One was delicious, the other disgusting. Guess which one I picked?

To be fair, the waiter did warn me that python snake is not to everyone's taste. And I shortly got what he was talking about. Very chewy, very funky. Needless to say I did not enjoy it.

Lucky for me, Scotty's parents' clearly taught him how to share. Thank you Scotty's Mum. Thank you Scotty's Dad.

Zebra is delicious as it turns out.

Main: Pontiac Rodeo and Peruvian Jumper. Bison and Alpaca. My new favourite non-cows.

I honestly don't know which was yummier. And yes, I do eat from other people's plates. Bison is like a proper good steak worthy of a man's man, or a Viking girl whilst Alpaca is an amazingly tender piece of meat worthy of kings.

So far, so good.

Dessert: Ottoman Bake and Pharao's Treasure. And a baby bee!

I soon as I saw the baby bee on the menu, I knew I needed to have it. Sadly, the brown butter ice cream on the side of the baby bee did not intrigue me. Lucky for me, bit of a trembling lip action scored me a baby bee and the dessert I actually wanted.

This time, I actually left Scotty's dessert alone after he made it clear I was not allowed to eat the 24 carat gold on his plate.

Instead I focused on my honey covered baby bee. It was surprisingly crunchy. And surprisingly tasteless.

I ate a bee! I ate a bee, on purpose!

Digestif: A Visit From The Doctor. Exactly as absurd as it sounds.

For starters. They gave us more pills. Multi coloured ones this time around. Blue one for me, yellow for Scotty. After popping the pills into a bowl of water, the doctor came.

With an actual doctor's bag. And a statoscope. I was intrigued to say the least.

In the bag the doctor held some of the most random yet amazing concoctions I could ever have imagined. We're talking gold flake schnapps, snake infused absinthe and 10 other types of fabulous booziness!

Narrowing it down to three we enjoyed some way too large shots and after this, I suspected that crawling would be my mean of transport home.

And to end the craziness, the blue and yellow pills had now turned into a bison and a lion.

I'm the bison!


I want to hang out here all the time.



Zcotty and the Zebra

I think it's quite respectful gesture to put the zebra on a zebra plate

Pieces of a Python. Don't do it. Just don't.

Bison steak, blue potatoes and seriously the best Caesar salad I have ever had

Alpaca. Nicer than a sweater.

Happy bunny!

Crunchy honey bee!

Me eating the honey bee



The dessert living in the honey bee's shadow.

Colourful pills!

The doctor's bag

Python infused absinthe....

Gold flake schnapps...

Lemon grass loveliness

Our magical pill creatures!

I could totally be a bison. Which would make me a cannibal. Now this may not work...

 

 

122. Reverse Facials

28th April 2014, Slim Jim's, Moorgate, London

Apparently back facials are a thing. Who knew?

I have no clue what my back looks like. So why would I spend good money on getting my back looking pretty? Then it dawned on me. I have no clue what my back looks like. Other people see my back. What if it's covered in spots and hives and looks like something out of the Exorcist? None of my tattoos are big enough to cover up a pizza face on your back.

Having bumped into my previous beautician who I used to hang with at least weekly before the Canary Wharf deportation, I had booked myself in for some new fun treatments she had going. Amongst them, the brand new back facial that I hear is not to be missed.

Having a mud mask put on your back is very odd and very sticky. And not a good sticky. The only thing I could think of during is that I must look very similar to a Bounty bar. And identifying yourself with a Bounty bar does not put you in a relaxing frame of mind to enjoy the relaxing massage following the back mask. Going forward I think I'll stick with face facials.

And I still don't know what my back looks like.

121. Pea in a Pod

28th April 2014, Virgin Active, Broadgate, London

I just love naps!

After a month of my break from working I have slipped into the habit of daily naps. Afternoon naps to be precise. At 3 a clock every single afternoon to be even more precise.

This Monday, my daily nap was messed with. The cleaner who normally comes by Monday mornings, had to reschedule for the afternoon this week. Hence no nap time. And seeing as the lady in my yoga class woke me up - it looked like my nap was cancelled and let's face it, that would not make me a happy bunny. Strangely people seem to struggle to sympathise with this story when I tell it.

I had actually saved the sleeping pots at the gym for a lunch power nap when I'm no longer a lady of leisure. But this was a time of need and the only way in which I would get my nap, was by getting into a one of these spaceships.

Because they do in fact look a bit like spaceships. Although I would have preferred the type of spaceships that covers your feet. It is a rather odd feeling lying there, napping, half egg, half human.

I can live with my feet sticking out. It would be worse if I had to sleep with my face visible, because believe me - I don't have a cute sleeping face suited for general exposure. We're talking mouth wide open and nostrils flaring. There's been more than one occasion of falling asleep on planes and waking up from my own snoring only to realised I have fallen asleep on the shoulder of the person next to me. With the drool stains to go with the full public sleeping experience.

The sleeping pods, unlike planes, worked a treat. The inside of the pod literally goes pitch black and quiet which makes you nod right off in spite of sleeping in a room full of strangers. Unlike the last time I slept in a room full of strangers, which was the Horrendous Hostel Happening of 2008. Not so surprisingly the first and last time I have stayed at a hostel.

And again, someone comes to wake me. What is the deal?! Why impose a 20 minute limit in the middle of the city - don't people have jobs to go to? I mean... The other people?

Tomorrow order will be restored and 3 PM will once more be nap time.

Spaceship sleeping arrangements

120. No Gravity?

28th April 2014, Virgin Active Broadgate, City of London

When the skinny bitch in pink lycra tells you that you can't fall on your face... She is lying her perfectly shaped ass off.

I, possibly the most ungraceful human being on Planet Earth, have been to anti gravity yoga. Funny enough, if there was one thing I did experience during these 60 minutes, it was gravity. In the shape of several crash landings.

The thing is - I don't even like regular yoga. Whether is the Ashtanga, Vinyasa, Anusara or something else that sounds like a curry, it is guaranteed to bore me half to death. I already know how to breathe, I can not identify with a tree or a frog and quite frankly - I think relaxation is overrated. Now, Bikram yoga I'm slightly more on board with, but that is primarily because it feels a bit like a sauna. And I like saunas. However, eventually the instructor will still ask you to get up and be a tree. I will never be the tree.

Someone suggested that anti gravity yoga may be for me as you actually have to make an effort beyond breathing and stretching. Plus the swings you hang from look kind of fun.

So, there we are, me, the skinny bitch in lycra and a bunch of bankers who look like deep down they believe in all this inner peace crap. I think they should find new jobs.

They make a big selling point of the fact that everyone will complete a head stand during their first class. And I'll give it to them, I did do a head stand for the first time in my entire life. The head stand per se was not the problem. No, the problem was getting back up from the head stand. At that stage, when you are hanging there turned upside down, all the blood rushing to your head and you really want to sink through the floor without necessarily hitting it - you really don't need a pep talk from the skinny girl in lycra:

Skinny Girl In Lycra: You in the back, do you need some help?
That Girl In The Back: Nope.... I'm good.
SGIL: It's only that... The rest of us stopped doing head stands five minutes ago.
TGITB: Yeah I know that.
SGIL: You know what, I'll pop back there.
TGITB: There's really no need. Really, I'm fi..... Oh you're here.
SGIL: Now, use your inner core strength to pull yourself up.
TGITB: Trust me, all my strength is pretty shallow.
SGIL: Now, stop being silly and stop clinging on to the rope.
TGITB: I like the rope.

I stopped clinging on to the rope. And that initiated my first close contact with the studio floor. I knew that skinny bitch was out to hurt me.

After another three crash landings, I decided on a different approach; Spinning around.

These anti gravity thingy bobs are basically awesome grown up swings. That spins. And spins and spins until you kind of want to throw up. Just awesome.

Spinning around, minding my own business, skinny bitch interrupts me yet again:

SGIL: You in the back... I get that you're having fun, but could you maybe keep it down a bit?
TGITB: WEEEEEEEEE.... Wait, what?
SGIL: Could you perhaps stop making that noise so loudly?
TGITB: Oh yeah. Totally.
SGIL: Thank you.
TGITB: WEEEEEEEEE....

And, at the end of the class, there is finally something I can get on board with. Nap time. So strictly speaking, it was apparently time to gather ones' thoughts. But when you are all tucked in the massive red swinging cocoon in the very dark room - how are you suppose not to fall asleep? And to wake someone up mid snooze is frankly really rude, even if there is a CXWORX class just after the yoga class.

Spinning or no spinning, I think I'll stick with body pump class and somewhat butch, scary instructor.

Swings!

119. Hipster Style Monsters Inc.

26th April 2014, Ministry of Stories and Hoxton Street Monster Supplies, Hoxton, London

 

During a mac'n'cheese and champagne induced migraine I dragged myself out to a place about as dreadful as I was feeling.

 

After a burger lunch with the Camel she once more had to partake in visiting the next place on The List. Whilst that normally entails Damien Hirst pieces, gourmet chicken in a bucket and mojito tastings - this time it was slime based candy, horrendous horror stories and all things Halloween.

 

Hoxton Street is one of those locations in East London that are still up and coming rather than full blown Hipsterville and going there reminds me of why I first fell for Shoreditch - before the Essex Hen Do's heard on the grapevine that it's well cool...

 

It's that combination of stinky fried chip shops and tacky Poundlands as well as cute bohemic restuarants and pretentious boutiques with the designs from the next big thing in fashion land. All in the midst of Hoxton Street Market, which is possibly the dodgiest and most plastic market in London. It makes Petticoat Lane Market come off as high class, do I need to say more?

 

Ministry of Stories and Hoxton Street Monster Supplies is one of those wonderfully weird shops that are hard to come by outside of Shoreditch and Hackney and my inner child, as per usual not very well hidden, absolutely loved all of it.

 

80's comedy horror films could have been filmed in there. We're talking the jars of eye balls and Frankenstein's monster charger - this is more exciting than the Tower of Terrors at Disneyworld! Granted, I'm too much of a scaredy cat for the Tower of Terrors - but this was just up my street in terms of general creepiness.

 

Of course I bought stuff. How does one get through life without salt taken from tears of anger, earwax toffees and humbugs with a side of escalated panic?

 

I love monsters.



 

The recipe for a good Friday night.

Your everyday essentials.

Night time stories and candy!

Never mind iPads - this is a useful gadget.

One happy bunny getting ready for the monsters!

I tried sacrificing the Camel for candy - they didn't want her even though she's adorable!



Vampires need not apply.



118. The Mac'n'cheese Masterships

25th April 2014, Brick Lane, London

 

Out of all comfort food there is, mac'n'cheese must be the best kind!

 

Although I love me some mac'n'cheese when I need a bit of cheering up, calming down or I just happen to have nothing better to do than eating  - the Floridian's love for this amazing pick me up is border lining a full fledged addiction. 

 

I don't think I have once visited a restaurant with this beautiful gooeyness of cheese and pasta on the menu without her ordering that in before even considering mains. She and I would also go through unhealthy amounts of Kraft's blue boxes coming home from crazy nights out when still living together. We even had mac'n'cheese for dinner when celebrating her 30th birthday, all whilst watching the Lion King in our pj's. That's grown ups for you!

 

If I may say so myself, I make pretty damn fantastic mac'n'cheese. And competitive as I am, I obviously can't settle for anything less than being the best, so the Mac'n'cheese Masterships were on. And who better to be the judge and declare a final winner than my favourite Floridian?

  

I had narrowed it down to my three greatest mac'n'cheese masterpieces, each containing enough cheese to cause a heart attack to the healthiest of people - but man, what a great way to go! After hours of shredding six types of cheese, cooking every shape of macaroni on the planet and burning my tongue repeatedly when ensuring cheese goo perfection, I must say I had outdone myself. And probably also increased my own cholesterol by 100% in a day.

 

Then to the big problem; what wine goes with mac'n'cheese? Google rambles on about good quality pinot noirs or full bodied chardonnays. Full bodied??? Is that the same as big boned? All bottles are about the same size aren't they? Get me right, I agree with supporting all sizes and shapes, but this seems a bit over the top.

 

In the end, I went with champagne. After all, champagne goes with everything. I know this after many dinners of soggy Cheerios and Pol Roger. Works every time. And, as it turns out - it goes even better with mac'n'cheese than with cereal'n'milk

 

Upon the arrival of the Floridian, I was pretty damn excited about the carb and cheese fest about to commence and she looked pretty excited too! Well, after an 80 hour working week odds are she may have been mainly excited about actually sitting down on a sofa and drinking copious amounts of bubbles - but I decided her excitement was simply because she had been dreaming about this moment for months. 

 

She approved of all of three candidates for mac'n'cheese champion, but after a lot of consideration declared a winner in The Experiment. 

 

The Experiment was developed throughout the breakdown of what may just have been the biggest train wreck of a relationship that have had actual survivors left to tell the tale. After months of wallowing in self pity, drinking copious amounts of vodka and eating a tub of Ben & Jerry's a day - at least something good came out of this 2010 disaster of a break up. Nothing mends a broken heart like cheddar, parmesan, nutmeg, pancetta cubes and elbow macaroni it seems. And alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

 

I officially declare myself the Mac'n'cheese Master!

 

Mac'n'Cheese Factory

One happy Floridian!

The All American; Cheddar, gruyere and mustard

The Experiment; Nutmeg, pancetta, cheddar and parmesan

The Posh One; White truffles and fontina cheese