50. The Cocktail and the Canary

6th February 2014, One Canada Square, Canary Wharf, London

When I was first deported to Canary Wharf, I thought my life was over.

Oh yes, I was being exactly that dramatic. When I told my managers that they would have to drag me there kicking and screaming they probably thought I was exaggerating. I was not.

In spite of a very detailed and lengthy sales pitch of how I could set up my office in the St Paul's Starbucks and allow my boss to use the money for my desk rent towards the annual Christmas party, I was shipped off to Canary Wharf one gloomy May day in 2012. It was awful. They put me on a bus and once I got there the coffee they gave me was disgusting and I suspect, instant.

My then boss was however very impressed by my presentation and financial calculations that came with it. I have a feeling he wished I applied the same passion to my actual work....

I have come to terms with the place. Get me right, it's grey, dull and lacks any type of personality - but at least I no longer step off the DLR and cry. Loudly. Whilst wailing 'why God, why me?!'... Actually, come to think of it. It is probably me because I only speak to God for having to travel to Canary Wharf and when the Christian Louboutin sample sale doesn't stock my size.

So I learnt how to deal with the abysmal shopping, the fact that my lunch always has bread in it and the people who sweat near me on the public transport I have now been reduced to using every day. But the worst must still be, the after work drink venue options. They now consist of All Bar One and Corney and Barrow. That is all. And that, my friends, is just not acceptable.

A few feasible options have turned up over the years and I have had a decent cocktail or two since the emigration from real London - but it is very much hit and miss and I generally land myself with very bland Pinot.

Then came One Canada Square. When I first heard of this place - a place in the land of doom with actual mixologists - I was convinced it was a joke. But it seemed that God had heard my prayers. As he clearly has nothing better to do.

As it was time for a massively overdue catch up with another ex boss, one who was present at the time of the 'I rather die than go to the Wharf' pitch, but not the subject of it - I decided we needed to try out One Canada Square. One, I really needed a drink and two, I demonstrated some maturity in having come to terms with my fate of eternal damnation in the CW.

This is the ex boss who both accepted and appreciated my obsession with keeping daily lists and tidy piles on my desk, one of few who can beet me in sarcasm and who also makes the damn best cupcakes in the world. I was thrilled to finally get some insight into the last six months or so of her very hectic schedule with travels, an adorable daughter and life back at the old office.

One Canada Square did in no way disappoint. Starting off with a simply scha-mazing shrimp and scallop burger, I am in love with this place. Combined with some fantastic wine and finishing off with cornflake sorbet and salted caramel popcorn ice cream, I am never agreeing to set foot at a bar chain again. No sir.

Then there was the cocktails. My rhubarb and rose water gimlet was orgasmic. Just watching the guy make the drinks was an experience and the drinks was delicious. Never give me roses in any other shape again.

Canary Wharf - I still hate your guts. But at least now I can do so with a good quality buzz.

Beautiful, delicious AND with rose water coming out of a 1920's perfume bottle. Thank you for saving me.

49. Gherkin

4th February 2014, 30 St Mary Axe, London

Granted, I hate sightseeing. Never had an interest to go see the 'must-have-been-to' spots in the world and prior visits to the Eiffel Tower (what's the deal with all those stairs?, St Marcus' Square (I can be pooped on by pigeons anywhere on the planet) and the Sydney Opera House (there's a bar there...) has been very much someone else's bright idea and I have basically been dragged there. Fact, first time in New York I insisted on a helicopter ride to get it all over and done with.

As much as I loathe sightseeing, after 7 years in London - all of them in the East End, it's pretty embarrassing to never have made it to the Gherkin. Or knowing how to get there when you can clearly see the building from anywhere.

Honestly, I never got what the fuss was about. It's a funny looking building and 'the Gherkin' is probably the most polite nickname it has, but other than that it doesn't seem so special. However - if it's between that and Madame Tussaud's, London Eye, Buckingham Palace or any other over crowded tourist spot, I'll happily settle for the Gherkin.

Rather than doing what a normal person would have and just go to the champagne bar on top - I decided to mix business with semi pleasure, and went for a lecture on expected changes in financial regulations in. It was interesting. I guess. Not to mention there was an open bar. And mini burgers.

I'd say that's my London sightseeing done for 2014. Thank God for that. 

48. Kicking it to the Curve

2nd February 2014, Virgin Active, Broadgate, London

Love running, hate the treadmill. With a vengeance. It just takes all the fun out of it and push you no way near as hard as actual outdoors running.

Having been afraid to try these new mystery gadgets having appeared at the gym a few weeks back, I tried to get my trainer to explain it to me. Well, first it took him about 15 minutes to understand what on earth I was talking about - apparently 'it's like a treadmill but shaped like a banana' was not a helpful description.

Apparently these things - curved treadmills - are designed to make you drive the run without the treadmill doing the work for you. Which in theory fixes the problem I have with ordinary treadmills.

So, on this very hungover Sunday I decided to give it a go.

I climbed up on it and immediately when I started to move my feet, the machine kicked off, took me by surprise which inevitably resulted in me flying off it and landing on a bozu ball. Twice. Elegance and grace - that's me!

I did pull it off in the end. Nevermind that one of the gym staff had to come hold my hand and block my flight attempts.

But you know what? Running isn't quite running without the crack dealers outside of Royal London Hospital, being chased by an angry mastiff in Victoria Park and colliding with bankers when running through Moorgate.

Treadmill or no treadmill - bring on marathon season!

Mystery machine from outer space.

47. Mojito Master

1st February 2014, Brick Lane, London

My favourite drink, all times, is a really good mojito. I could easily have buckets of it for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not that that's for, not with.

Although I am a fairly decent cook as well as an excellent champagne pourer, cocktail making is most definitely not my forte. I once made a post dinner coffee drink that allegedly tasted like smoked salmon. Says it all really.

Considering that I drink my weight in mojitos on a monthly basis, learning how to actually make them would probably do my finances a few favours - not to mention the close approximately to my bed once I've hit mojito number 12.

I like over complicating things. In other words - just making a plain mojito was obviously not a feasible option. Pear and Raspberry Golden Rum Mojito anyone?

Suddenly, I have loads more respect for several bartenders, who in all fairness, I already had a lot of respect for. Mojito making is freakishly hard word. I'd like to think I have pretty decent arm strength - but after 10 minutes of muddling I realised this is not the case. Serious arm cramps.

In spite of the fact that the mojito making was harder work than the chin ups in my PT session that same morning, my mojitos were seriously delicious.

Mango mojitos with my broken biceps next time?

The Mojito Master in action!

Hell's Bells enjoying my master piece!

Perfect start to a girlie night in!

 

46. And the Domestic Goddess

1st February 2014, Brick Lane, London

Confession time. Having lived in my flat for 4 months, I have not once hoovered any of the rooms in it. This is partially down to having a weekly cleaner, but mainly down to the fact that the hoover in my flat is a machine from outer space. I have realised this needs to be done, but there are literally no YouTube tutorials on the topic. Disaster.

Following two haircuts though, it had to be done. Much to the amusement of my hair dresser who had to step up as hoover tutor. I think she very much judged me for this. But after a quick demonstration of its' functions, a further explanation to simplify the demonstration to me as I did not quite grasp the full concept and a few failed attempts at getting the hoover to do anything other than blow the hairs around - I was finally doing it.

Martha Stewart would be proud! Or maybe not so much...

I'm doing it! It's happening!

45. Banging it

1st February 2014, Shoreditch, London

I look fricking adorable with a fringe. Truth.  

I also have the most amazing hair dresser in the world. The woman is nothing short of a hair genius. After 3 years, 2 salons, 4 house moves and 1 baby, I think she has accepted the fact that she is forever stuck with me as a client, slash stalker. And as if that wasn't enough, both Hell's Bells and Mrs Higginson also have realised the extent of her brilliance. Therefore, getting our hair done usually entails a full day of hair pampering followed by a girlie night out after having solved all the world's problems. I think the ammonia fumes encourages the most clever ideas.
Unfortunately, Mrs Higginson was off on a romantic trip to the Ice Hotel with Mr Higginson so she had to give it a miss this time. I almost consider that a reasonable excuse.

Having already decided to go with bangs this time around, I was already prepared for the cuteness to come. And after 2 hours of bleach in aluminium foil, chopping and fluffing - I was once again in love with my hair cut. I believe that everyone should cut a fringe at least once in their life, you're guaranteed to suddenly be cuter than Gizmo in Gremlins. God, I love the Gremlins.

Still not over the extent of my adorability; Zooey Deschanel - eat your bangs out. 

 

Rocking my fringe!

Bringing back the blonde!

 

Still banging it at 3 AM after countless cocktails.

44. King of Casseroles

31st January 2014, John Lewis, Canary Wharf, London

In the 10 years since I moved away from my parents' house, I have had approximately 16 changes of address. This is the beauty of renting in large cities with the global economy going like a rollercoaster.

After these 16 or so rounds of changing addresses, there's been countless pieces of home ware having gone missing or simply being thrown out due to lack of space and moves across Europe. After house move 8 or so, to a Hackney dump with a leaking roof and crazy flatmate with very little regards to personal space, I simply gave in and decided my flat inventory from then on would be purely IKEA.

Now however, after having stayed put in my previous flat for a whopping two years and being quite settled in my current flat - I've gone all domestic bliss and have actually started to purchase some relatively long lasting household items without any Hello Kitty patterns whatsoever on them.

There's a few essentials I've decided I needed and the crystal flutes have already been provided by my favourite bubble drinking buddy - the polka dot, smash safe, fake glass ones just didn't say 'class' anymore.

Another thing I need for my kitchen is numerous le Creuset pieces. They're cute and they make me feel like a grown up, even though I still maintain it's ridiculous to pay £100 pounds for the thing I'd mainly make instant noodles in. And occasionally conduct experiments with various blends of warm booze.

I started myself of with mini casserole pots. I like miniatures. Especially if it's miniature horses and pigs, but pots will do.

My new selection of tiny pots.

The mini pot debut - mushroom risotto, giant prawns and baby shark!