18th June 2014, Brick Lane, London
As much as I hate to admit to it, being a lady of leisure is starting to make me climb the walls, and sadly not in an exercise related manner.
So I decided that it was time to actually take one of the countless courses that I've already paid for and have planned on completing for ages and ages. This was kicked off with PRINCE2 in order to officially be decent at project management.
In school, I was a big believer in last minute cramming as a studying technique. Sadly, nothing seem to have changed since 2004 when I aced my English exams by reading the six books I should have studied over the last three months, in one night whilst inhaling coffee and then lying my way through the essay questions. Apparently the true meaning of Grapes Of Wrath is that Hollywood is the American Dream. I don't think my teacher had ever read Grapes Of Wrath. Or anything Steinbeck for that matter. She should.
See, back in school I had some reasonable excuses for not being as well prepared for my exams as I should be; needing the study time to pick my graduation outfit, dating the cute bartender from the the next town or being the school party committee. Now, in theory, I should not be able to find any excuses - I've quit my job and I'm in no hurry finding myself a new one. I should have all the time in the world.
Instead, other things keep getting in the way. The fact that Criminal Minds are being taken off Amazon Prime in a month and I therefore need to get through all 10 seasons before then. The fact that it's too nice outside to be inside studying and I can't read anything on my computer screen if not indoors. The fact that maybe I wanted some cookies after all and obviously have to make a Tesco run to sort out the cookie situation.
On average, my studying kicked off at 10 pm, kept going until 4 am after which I got 6 hours of sleep with the intention to get studying again at noon. Six Criminal Minds episodes past noon, I obviously needed some fresh air and a nice run, before it was time for dinner and maybe just one more episode before it was 10 PM and by then, perhaps it was time to get studying again.
Somehow I managed to get my principles, themes and processes together in time for the exam. And proceeded aced it. Apparently, studying project management strategies isn't so different from Great Depression fiction.
Cramming is the shit.
Sunday, 29 June 2014
Friday, 27 June 2014
153. At Night at Ronnie's
15th June 2014, Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club, Soho, London
As Hell's Bells had the audacity to have a birthday on a Monday, we celebrated this wonderful occasion by going to see a jazz band rather than doing tequila shots in a dodgy night club until dawn. We are officially old.
Seeing that I missed out on Flatmate's birthday due to dying from the flu, I was happy someone else arranged an outing at Ronnie Scoot's so I wouldn't have to be one of the weirdo's going to jazz clubs by themselves drinking pretentious chiantis. I fear being one of those people as much as they fear being caught drinking a pint of Fosters at an old man's pub.
As it turns out, this was a rather low key and chilled out for a jazz club. Which is a great thing, seeing as I seem to lack the ability to part take in deep, meaningful conversations about the inspiration behind a bridge of a song, that isn't a bridge seeing as jazz music doesn't even have choruses. I still don't know when I'm suppose to clap as there is no way to identify the end or beginning of a jazz song. At Ronnie Scott's, at least I didn't have to discuss the original inspiration behind Blue River with a guy in a beret.
You would think that after 29 years on the planet and 13 years of friendship Hell's Bells would answer the question of 'what are you drinking' with something other than 'I'm fine for now thanks'. I therefore made it my mission to keep a full glass of alcohol with a side of juice in front of her at all times. Because that's what real friends do.
If only it didn't take absolute ages to get a drink. Let's face it, jazz clubs on a Monday night aren't busy, so to have to wait 20 odd minutes for a vodka soda does not make me want to bring on my jazz hands, nor does it assist me in helping Hell's Bells forget that 30 is lurking around the corner. I didn't even need them to put ice in it!
I also learned the hard way that jazz clubs do not carry sparklers, in my attempt to get Helen a birthday cake replacement. You can however always set a lemon on fire and decide it's close enough. And Helen seemed to enjoy her Mai Tai cake more than any other cake we could have served her.
Of course no birthday is complete without a jazzy version of Happy Birthday. Such a great thing a jazz singer, plus band was at hand. I am also fairly sure you're not allowed to kill people on your birthday, which is why we are all here today.
To sum it up, an entire night of jazz and slow coming cocktails - not my cup of tea. Celebrating my dearest Hell's Bells existence by setting fire to things - much more my cup of tea.
Happy Birthday Hell's Bells!
As Hell's Bells had the audacity to have a birthday on a Monday, we celebrated this wonderful occasion by going to see a jazz band rather than doing tequila shots in a dodgy night club until dawn. We are officially old.
Seeing that I missed out on Flatmate's birthday due to dying from the flu, I was happy someone else arranged an outing at Ronnie Scoot's so I wouldn't have to be one of the weirdo's going to jazz clubs by themselves drinking pretentious chiantis. I fear being one of those people as much as they fear being caught drinking a pint of Fosters at an old man's pub.
As it turns out, this was a rather low key and chilled out for a jazz club. Which is a great thing, seeing as I seem to lack the ability to part take in deep, meaningful conversations about the inspiration behind a bridge of a song, that isn't a bridge seeing as jazz music doesn't even have choruses. I still don't know when I'm suppose to clap as there is no way to identify the end or beginning of a jazz song. At Ronnie Scott's, at least I didn't have to discuss the original inspiration behind Blue River with a guy in a beret.
You would think that after 29 years on the planet and 13 years of friendship Hell's Bells would answer the question of 'what are you drinking' with something other than 'I'm fine for now thanks'. I therefore made it my mission to keep a full glass of alcohol with a side of juice in front of her at all times. Because that's what real friends do.
If only it didn't take absolute ages to get a drink. Let's face it, jazz clubs on a Monday night aren't busy, so to have to wait 20 odd minutes for a vodka soda does not make me want to bring on my jazz hands, nor does it assist me in helping Hell's Bells forget that 30 is lurking around the corner. I didn't even need them to put ice in it!
I also learned the hard way that jazz clubs do not carry sparklers, in my attempt to get Helen a birthday cake replacement. You can however always set a lemon on fire and decide it's close enough. And Helen seemed to enjoy her Mai Tai cake more than any other cake we could have served her.
Of course no birthday is complete without a jazzy version of Happy Birthday. Such a great thing a jazz singer, plus band was at hand. I am also fairly sure you're not allowed to kill people on your birthday, which is why we are all here today.
To sum it up, an entire night of jazz and slow coming cocktails - not my cup of tea. Celebrating my dearest Hell's Bells existence by setting fire to things - much more my cup of tea.
Happy Birthday Hell's Bells!
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| The Birthday Girl and her Mai Tai Cake |
152. Japanese Omelette Towers
14th June 2014, Abeno Too, Soho, London
When I thought no more culinary genius could come out of Japan, there was Okonomiyaki.
Celebrating that Miss Ukraine had finally returned to the Land of the Living after handing in her dissertation, we went to sample this mysterious yet delicious dish served at a lovely little Soho venue.
Great service can really make or break any establishment, be it Michelin starred gourmet restaurants in Paris or a Hong Kong hole-in-the-wall. Because of this, I took a liking to this place as soon as I sat down next to Miss Ukraine who had in exactly five minutes of being there been befriended by the chef.
Said chef was in all fairness quite easy to befriend and also had the patience of a god damn saint, putting up with my one million questions on the detailed history of Okonomiyaki, all the different types of Okonomiyaki and the specific background as to how a white English guy chooses Okonomiyaki as a full time profession. Not even my own parents have ever dealt with my questions for that long.
If you google Okonomiyaki it will tell you it's a Japanese pizza, which clearly indicates that there are people in the world who have never had pizza. Some will say it's like a pancake, and a brunch expert like me can promise that is not the case. Closest thing to it in the Western World I'd say is an omelette. Only with cabbage and extra everything. And by everything I mean everything. Everything as in pork, mushrooms, prawns, lotus roots, some type of beef and three different sauces on top of each layer of the Japanese omelette tower.
Whilst waiting for all of the layers to finish up, there was the sake menu to tie us over. It was bigger than the food menu. My kind of place this is.
After a giant wooden glass of sake, the omelette tower was good and ready to be ruined. It was the closest to smashing sand castles a grown up can get without making a small child cry. On top of all the fun I was having destroying it, it tasted yummy. Whilst I initially suspected it may be too much even for an extra side dish junkie like me, it all went together perfectly and I will definitely be having Okonomiyaki again soon. Especially if the lovely chef who puts up with my nonsense and gets me my drink before I can say sake to me is there.
Who would have known cabbage and eggs could be so tasty?
When I thought no more culinary genius could come out of Japan, there was Okonomiyaki.
Celebrating that Miss Ukraine had finally returned to the Land of the Living after handing in her dissertation, we went to sample this mysterious yet delicious dish served at a lovely little Soho venue.
Great service can really make or break any establishment, be it Michelin starred gourmet restaurants in Paris or a Hong Kong hole-in-the-wall. Because of this, I took a liking to this place as soon as I sat down next to Miss Ukraine who had in exactly five minutes of being there been befriended by the chef.
Said chef was in all fairness quite easy to befriend and also had the patience of a god damn saint, putting up with my one million questions on the detailed history of Okonomiyaki, all the different types of Okonomiyaki and the specific background as to how a white English guy chooses Okonomiyaki as a full time profession. Not even my own parents have ever dealt with my questions for that long.
If you google Okonomiyaki it will tell you it's a Japanese pizza, which clearly indicates that there are people in the world who have never had pizza. Some will say it's like a pancake, and a brunch expert like me can promise that is not the case. Closest thing to it in the Western World I'd say is an omelette. Only with cabbage and extra everything. And by everything I mean everything. Everything as in pork, mushrooms, prawns, lotus roots, some type of beef and three different sauces on top of each layer of the Japanese omelette tower.
Whilst waiting for all of the layers to finish up, there was the sake menu to tie us over. It was bigger than the food menu. My kind of place this is.
After a giant wooden glass of sake, the omelette tower was good and ready to be ruined. It was the closest to smashing sand castles a grown up can get without making a small child cry. On top of all the fun I was having destroying it, it tasted yummy. Whilst I initially suspected it may be too much even for an extra side dish junkie like me, it all went together perfectly and I will definitely be having Okonomiyaki again soon. Especially if the lovely chef who puts up with my nonsense and gets me my drink before I can say sake to me is there.
Who would have known cabbage and eggs could be so tasty?
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| This guy knew how to pour sake! |
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| How to drink a cup full of sake. |
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| Layer non-pancake |
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| Every single side possible. |
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| A topping or two! |
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| And some toppins on the toppings. |
Thursday, 19 June 2014
151. The History of the Orange Chairs
14th June 2014, Geffrye Museum, Hoxton, London
Part of this whole blog project is to motivate me to actually go and get things I'm talking about doing, done.
Going to Geffrye Museum is one of those things that I 'just haven't gotten around to'. This is in spite of living basically next door to it for two years and a five minute walk away from it for the prior three years. I am after all the queen of procrastination.
So, all said and done I made it to my old stomping ground and met up with my friend Babushka at Haggerston, primarily so I could get a bit of nostalgia down me by taking the 242 bus and stare into my old bedroom window. The new people are using it for storage and I didn't see my shoe closet anywhere. The new people also seemed a bit uncomfortable being starred at from across the street. People are so sensitive these days.
After a quick coffee and successfully scaring the man at the table next to us by crawling in under it and smashing my head on his right knee, we were off to the actual museum.
Museum like the Geffrye one, I can get onboard with. No crazy odd unidentifiable art, 500 years worth of evolution or anyone sitting in a box painting her toe nails with her tongue. No, this is on the history of the home. Totally relatable. Most people have a home and people have always had places to live and keep their chairs and beds and tables and shoes. And shoes.
It turns out that Geffrye Museum has an amazing little herb garden for me to get excited about seeing as my attempt to grow herbs on my balcony ended up in what can only be referred to as a spice massacre. It would seem like most plants don't appreciate sitting in the shade next to the train tracks. Luckily, the guys at Geffrye's did a much better job than me.
In true inclusive spirit Geffrye's have a kiddie trail throughout the museum. You know, flaps at each section with questions on the origins of the interior piece in question, be it a wallpaper or a porcelain plate. Educational and funny - it had a dog with glasses on it. Dogs don't wear glasses. Silly dog.
So me and the 5 year olds skipped ahead, turning the flaps and learning about the history of all the furniture and homes, from the orange fluffy 60's arm chairs to the servant quarters of the 18th century estates. This whilst Babushka and the grown up walked at a normal pace behind us. At some stage I was even told to calm down before I broke something.
Learning is fun!
Part of this whole blog project is to motivate me to actually go and get things I'm talking about doing, done.
Going to Geffrye Museum is one of those things that I 'just haven't gotten around to'. This is in spite of living basically next door to it for two years and a five minute walk away from it for the prior three years. I am after all the queen of procrastination.
So, all said and done I made it to my old stomping ground and met up with my friend Babushka at Haggerston, primarily so I could get a bit of nostalgia down me by taking the 242 bus and stare into my old bedroom window. The new people are using it for storage and I didn't see my shoe closet anywhere. The new people also seemed a bit uncomfortable being starred at from across the street. People are so sensitive these days.
After a quick coffee and successfully scaring the man at the table next to us by crawling in under it and smashing my head on his right knee, we were off to the actual museum.
Museum like the Geffrye one, I can get onboard with. No crazy odd unidentifiable art, 500 years worth of evolution or anyone sitting in a box painting her toe nails with her tongue. No, this is on the history of the home. Totally relatable. Most people have a home and people have always had places to live and keep their chairs and beds and tables and shoes. And shoes.
It turns out that Geffrye Museum has an amazing little herb garden for me to get excited about seeing as my attempt to grow herbs on my balcony ended up in what can only be referred to as a spice massacre. It would seem like most plants don't appreciate sitting in the shade next to the train tracks. Luckily, the guys at Geffrye's did a much better job than me.
In true inclusive spirit Geffrye's have a kiddie trail throughout the museum. You know, flaps at each section with questions on the origins of the interior piece in question, be it a wallpaper or a porcelain plate. Educational and funny - it had a dog with glasses on it. Dogs don't wear glasses. Silly dog.
So me and the 5 year olds skipped ahead, turning the flaps and learning about the history of all the furniture and homes, from the orange fluffy 60's arm chairs to the servant quarters of the 18th century estates. This whilst Babushka and the grown up walked at a normal pace behind us. At some stage I was even told to calm down before I broke something.
Learning is fun!
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| The Museum. |
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| Good old proper green house |
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| More Greenery |
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| Herb Garden |
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| Catnip |
Wednesday, 18 June 2014
The List, Thus Far
18th June 2014, Brick Lane, London
Having reached 150 out of my bucket list, I'm recapping the items ticked off to date. Another 350 to go folks!
Having reached 150 out of my bucket list, I'm recapping the items ticked off to date. Another 350 to go folks!
- Try Oysters: They're just as slimy as they look.
- Cut Down On Coffee: Although successful, it feels like I've removed a bit of my arm only having a cup a day.
- Visit a Pop Up Pub: I really am not a beer drinker.
- Go Up Heron Tower At Night: I just love that lift!
- Eat Duck With Waffles: Surprisingly yummy and unweird!
- Try Nail Art: A-maze-balls
- Watch a James Bond Film: Daniel Craig in trunks or not - still not sold.
- Go Sled Riding With My Nieces: Nearly killed a child, won't be doing that again.
- Try Elin's Cinnamoffins: Hell yes!
- Buy an Advent Candle Stick Holder: Swedish for grown up
- Find the Best Bloody Mary In London: Bloody Marvellous at Beard To Tail, the name is not misleading.
- Go to Panto: He's behind you!
- Get a Christmas Tree: We had one sparkly Christmas!
- Spend Christmas in Swedish: Christmas for commies.
- Learn How to Cook Goose: I'm a goose genius
- Go for a Trip with my Bestie: Mexico baby!
- Visit Dallas: The golden city of Ewings
- Go See Tacky American Christmas Decorations: Some people have too much time, ttoo much money and too much Christmas spirit
- Go to a Line Dancing Bar: O for Awesome!
- Wear a Cowboy Hat in Dallas: Trying to be J.R. Ewing
- Visit Mexico: Arriba!
- Eat Tacos in Mexico: Actually prefer them in the UK...
- Drink Margaritas in Mexico: Very much prefer them in Mexico
- Visit a Turtle Orphanage: It's official - any baby animal is cute!
- Celebrate New Years on the Beach: 'There are bubbles in my champagne!'
- Swim with Dolphins: I am totally getting a pet dolphin when I grow up
- Get an iPad: Stepping into the 21st century
- Visit Hooters: About as pathetic and silly as I expected
- Buy Tequila with a Maggot in it: Yeah, still haven't tried it
- Spend a Beach Holiday Not Frying Myself: No crayfish for me this year!
- Explain VHS to a Child: That'll make you feel ancient
- Learn How to Cook the Perfect Steak: Never need to visit Hawksmoor again!
- Try Carb Free Noodles: Kid of like I'd imagine rubber bands with sweet chili dip would taste
- Try Carb Free Bread: Who knew broccoli would make for yummy sandwiches?
- Have Afternoon Tea at the Bluebird: Making you feel like a Made In Chelsea cast member.
- Go to Tramshed: Chicken fit for kings!
- Write a Non Bucket List: Some things are just for stupid people.
- Go Ice Skating: Being a Viking did not help
- Try Shellack: Chip free!
- Read a whole Economist Edition: Never doing that to myself again
- Have Brunch at Hoi Polloi: Name was funnier than the food
- Drink a Mrs Branning: Taste just like I'd imagine she would
- Visit Spitalfields City Farm: Donkeys!
- Buy Le Creuset Casserole Dishes: Yes, food tastes better when it's cute!
- Cut Bangs: You and me Zooey.
- Learn how to use my Hoover: Not so impressive is it?
- Make Home Made Mojitos: I am the Mojito Master!
- Try a Curve Treadmill: Banana shaped treadmill - what could possibly go wrong?
- Go Inside the Gherkin: Not as spectacular as I'd had hoped!
- Find a Decent Cocktail Bar in Canary Wharf: That only took years!
- Go on a Blind Date: Awkward!
- Go Vintage Shopping: Still prefer new clothes.
- Drink a Goldfish Bag: Massive disappointment.
- Buy a Proper Coat: Proper but pink.
- Get my Eyebrows Tinted: I no longer look like a cancer patient.
- Go Running in Battersea Park: Posh people run the same as bohemians.
- Have Sunday Roast at Hollywood Arms: Pretty pub, boring roast
- Try Online Dating: Meh....
- Try Multi Dating: Double Meh....
- Cross Millenium Bridge: No Death Eathers attacked me.
- Go see a Paul Klee Exhibition: Cultural marvel me.
- Try Peruvian Food: Another raw fish to love.
- Have Drinks at Mr Foggs: Officially my new favourite cocktail bar.
- Eat Dinner at a Michelin Starred Restaurant: Little food and big glasses of wine.
- Give the Higginssons a Proper Send Off: Sad faces!
- Go see the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition: Wild Life even I can get on board with.
- Get a Proper Suitcase: No more giant backpack for me!
- Going on a Trip with Hell's Bells: We survived!
- Visit the Caribbean: Yah Man.
- Test Scuba Diving: I was truly gifted.
- Try Para Sailing: No one fell in the water and was eaten by sharks.
- Go to a Rum Tasting: On the beach in the sun - great plan!
- Attend a Beach Party: Nothing says par-tay like sand everywhere. Everywhere.
- Swim into a Pool Bar: Why cool off post drink?
- Have Dinner at New Street Grill: Where I ate a sweater disguised as a steak.
- Have Drinks at Bengal Bar: Awesome garden!
- Go Feed the Ducks: Me, the toddlers and the little old ladies.
- Say Goodbye to Mrs Higginsson: More sad faces!
- Try the Chocolate Shop at Brick Lane: Chocogasms.
- Celebrate Little Man's 2nd Birthday: And only yesterday he was a baby!
- Check Out London Balthazar: Manhattan Magic!
- Try Soufflé: Gooey and icky.
- Have Dinner at Giant Robot: No robots in sight sadly.
- Make Pirate and Princess Themed Cupcakes: The birthday cupcakes I never had at age six.
- Assemble an IKEA Product: By my frickin' self!
- Do Multi Colour Nails: Pulled them off.
- Turn 29: Inevitable
- Eat Lobster Benedict: Stroke of Genius at Riding House.
- Visit W Hotel: Still not getting the hype.
- Watch the 1st Season of Girls: Lena Dunham, I think I love you.
- Take a Few Months Off: Still going, still loving it.
- Try Ladurée Macaroons: Gorgeous French fluffiness.
- Learn How to Make Lentil Soup:I can move into the Hippie Village any day now.
- Have a Meal at Elk in the Woods: Soggiest full English in London.
- Go to Forge & Co: That 70's show, with food.
- Try Soldiers and Eggs: Breakfast cleverness I had missed in spite of 7 years in the UK.
- Try Red Church Coffee: Black Gold
- Dye My Hair Pink: Turning myself into a My Little Pony
- Go to the Phene: I thought the Made In Chelsea kids only liked fun places
- Learn to Poach an Egg: How hard can it be?
- Thread My Eyebrows: Pain, severe pain. But beauty is pain I hear.
- Eat Eggs PIG at Beard To Tail: Oh my goodness.
- Watch The London Marathon: Why run when you can watch?
- Buy a Pair of Casadei Shoes: Italian masterpieces.
- Have a Louboutin Manicure: Well it's cheaper than the shoes....
- Show My Sister New York: Finally, my sis met the love of my life.
- Have Drinks at a Manhattan Rooftop: Why see it all from the ground?
- Visit Katz' Deli: Someone was less impressed than I.
- Go to Spotted Pig: Thankfully no suspicious spoiting whilst we were there.
- See Grand Central Station: About flaming time.
- Go to Harlem: In one word; fan-freaking-tastic!
- Try Waffle Fries: Two of my favourite things all rolled into one.
- Walk Across Brooklyn Bridge: That is one hell of a walk!
- Have Brunch at Market Table: I just love an NYC brunch!
- Go to Little Italy: Sadly, no mafiosos.
- Go for Drinks at the Fable: Not so fabulous.
- Buy a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles top: Feels like I'm finally one of them!
- Make the Best Mac'n'Cheese in the World: The experts have spoken!
- Check Out Ministry of Stories and Hoxton Street Monster Supplies: I always want to do my shopping there.
- Go to Anti Gravity Yoga: Gravity there was.
- Test a Sleeping Pod: Could do with one for the flat please?
- Try a Back Facial: And then I realised I don't see my own back.
- Have Dinner at Archipelago: Eating the whole of the Jungle Book.
- Go to a Poetry Reading: With my favourite poet.
- Visit the V&A Museum: Museum of fabulous.
- Have Sunday Lunch at Anglesea Arms: I'm still claiming Mr Dickens credit
- Learn how to Skip Rope: And 20 years later she's got it.
- Buy Wonder Woman Converse Trainers: It's you and me and awesome, Diana.
- Have dinner at a Jazz Club: All god apart from the food poisoning.
- Say Goodbye to Little Man and Co: Even more sad faces!
- Try Cross Fit: Never again.
- Pickle Beetroots: Still have a fridge full
- Go To 98: Great birthday venue!
- Visit the Ceramic Museum: The best of my home town.
- Visit the World's Greatest Cheese Store: The less sarcastic best of my hometown.
- Visit My Nieces in School: I still suck at sitting still!
- Go Inside Stockholm's House of Culture: So what it was only for lunch?
- Have Dinner at Grand Escalier: The secret garden of Stockholm.
- Go for Drinks at Anglais Rooftop Terrace: The bets of Stockholm in summer.
- Have Dinner at Pocket: You and me, Pontus.
- Watch Searching for Sugarman: Best documentary for ages
- Try Bi Bim Bap: Hot plate!
- Visit the Martini Factory: Best martinis in town.
- Survive an Episode of Honey Boo Boo: Barely.
- Celebrate the Swedish National Day in Style: Depends on your definition of style.
- Make my nan's cookies: It was close enough.
- Go to a Matisse Exhibition: Doodles!
- Visit the Southbank Food Festival
- Go to Maison Trois Garcon: What's French for bland?
- Get Over My Angelina Jolie Hatred: It's OK, we're friends now.
150. No Hard Feelings Angie
15th June, Vue Cinema, Islington, London
I've held a grudge against Angelina Jolie since Brad Pitt divorced Jennifer Aniston in 2005. Needless to say I was on Team Aniston.
And yes, I know that if a man cheats, the other woman is really not the one to blame for it although us ladies are great at acting as if that is the case. I really don't condone that behaviour normally, quite the opposite. I am frequently the one preaching to my friends' that if your boyfriend sent dirty pictures of himself to another woman, she probably didn't trick him into it. If he ends up sleeping with another woman, she most likely didn't cause him to slip and fall inside of her. If he falls in love with another woman, it is not because she actively tried to get him away from you and slipped him a love potion. It's all the responsibility of the cheater, not the person they're cheating with. Still, men's cheating continue to be at the fault of the other women. 'She knew he was taken' the girlfriends and wives will moan accusingly. Well, didn't he know that?!?! Oh the hatred against these other women, these vixens, actively devoting their lives to luring our husbands and boyfriends into their beds, backseat of his car and the backrooms of night clubs. These poor guys clearly can not be safe from their own lusts with all these other women ready to snatch them from their true loves.
See, guys don't do this. I have had male friends be cheated on and I have had female friends cheat on their boyfriends. This happens just as frequently if not more than the other way around. Yet never, literally not once, have I met a guy who's blamed the man giving it to his lady for said lady agreeing to having it given to her. They still get pissed off, heart broken and devastated though. They get pissed off, heart broken and devastated with the girl who actually betrayed them. Which makes sense as it is them who you trusted and who took that trust, threw it on the floor, poured gasoline over it and set it on fire. I should have been born a man and therefore not have to pretend to get the illogical emotional games of other women.
For reasons listed above, my utter disliking of Angelina Jolie, based on a divorce I really know nothing about and a presumed cheating in a marriage she was not part of is rather ridiculous. It was time to end the Angelina boycott after nine years running.
At the end of the day, she is great at her profession (they don't hand Oscar's out without good reason unless your name is Gwyneth Paltrow), an admirable view on family values and she supports the causes few others are brave enough to take on, that also happens to be causes that I personally am very passionate about.
So in my attempt to get over my disliking of miss Jolie and hopefully also deal with my hangover in an air conditioned movie theatre, I went to see Maleficent.
Sleeping Beauty was without a doubt my favourite film growing up and it's still up there in the top three with Clockwork Orange and The Graduate. I will still watch it regularly and most definitely think it's Mr Disney's best work.
So trying to get over my Angelina Jolie annoyance by watching a prequel to a film I hold so dearly to my heart is obviously quite risky and may not only mean my mission has failed, but it may also ruin my Sunday afternoon feel good fix for all eternity.
I'm not even embarrassed to admit that I actually prefer the Angelina Jolie version of events, she's given the Disney villain more depth than ever before. I do love a good villain, but I love them even more when you look beneath the surface. It's a gorgeous piece of film and Angelina Jolie really shines in it, it has all the pixies, trolls, magical crows and dragons that I'd expect from the original and it has bit of a feministic statement towards the end. You don't have to wait for the prince to come and save you, a message I still think isn't made clear enough to little girls of 2014.
Angelina, I am sorry for hating on you all these years. Now all I have to do is get over my disliking of your hubby.
I've held a grudge against Angelina Jolie since Brad Pitt divorced Jennifer Aniston in 2005. Needless to say I was on Team Aniston.
And yes, I know that if a man cheats, the other woman is really not the one to blame for it although us ladies are great at acting as if that is the case. I really don't condone that behaviour normally, quite the opposite. I am frequently the one preaching to my friends' that if your boyfriend sent dirty pictures of himself to another woman, she probably didn't trick him into it. If he ends up sleeping with another woman, she most likely didn't cause him to slip and fall inside of her. If he falls in love with another woman, it is not because she actively tried to get him away from you and slipped him a love potion. It's all the responsibility of the cheater, not the person they're cheating with. Still, men's cheating continue to be at the fault of the other women. 'She knew he was taken' the girlfriends and wives will moan accusingly. Well, didn't he know that?!?! Oh the hatred against these other women, these vixens, actively devoting their lives to luring our husbands and boyfriends into their beds, backseat of his car and the backrooms of night clubs. These poor guys clearly can not be safe from their own lusts with all these other women ready to snatch them from their true loves.
See, guys don't do this. I have had male friends be cheated on and I have had female friends cheat on their boyfriends. This happens just as frequently if not more than the other way around. Yet never, literally not once, have I met a guy who's blamed the man giving it to his lady for said lady agreeing to having it given to her. They still get pissed off, heart broken and devastated though. They get pissed off, heart broken and devastated with the girl who actually betrayed them. Which makes sense as it is them who you trusted and who took that trust, threw it on the floor, poured gasoline over it and set it on fire. I should have been born a man and therefore not have to pretend to get the illogical emotional games of other women.
For reasons listed above, my utter disliking of Angelina Jolie, based on a divorce I really know nothing about and a presumed cheating in a marriage she was not part of is rather ridiculous. It was time to end the Angelina boycott after nine years running.
At the end of the day, she is great at her profession (they don't hand Oscar's out without good reason unless your name is Gwyneth Paltrow), an admirable view on family values and she supports the causes few others are brave enough to take on, that also happens to be causes that I personally am very passionate about.
So in my attempt to get over my disliking of miss Jolie and hopefully also deal with my hangover in an air conditioned movie theatre, I went to see Maleficent.
Sleeping Beauty was without a doubt my favourite film growing up and it's still up there in the top three with Clockwork Orange and The Graduate. I will still watch it regularly and most definitely think it's Mr Disney's best work.
So trying to get over my Angelina Jolie annoyance by watching a prequel to a film I hold so dearly to my heart is obviously quite risky and may not only mean my mission has failed, but it may also ruin my Sunday afternoon feel good fix for all eternity.
I'm not even embarrassed to admit that I actually prefer the Angelina Jolie version of events, she's given the Disney villain more depth than ever before. I do love a good villain, but I love them even more when you look beneath the surface. It's a gorgeous piece of film and Angelina Jolie really shines in it, it has all the pixies, trolls, magical crows and dragons that I'd expect from the original and it has bit of a feministic statement towards the end. You don't have to wait for the prince to come and save you, a message I still think isn't made clear enough to little girls of 2014.
Angelina, I am sorry for hating on you all these years. Now all I have to do is get over my disliking of your hubby.
Tuesday, 17 June 2014
149. Another Three Boys
15th June, Maison Trois Garcon, Shoreditch, London
Don't you just hate getting your great expectations completely smashed when you are on top of it all suffering from the hangover from hell?
Maison Trois Garcon really had so much going for it. It's connected to one of the most renowned restaurant groups in East London, is located right in the middle of the part of Shoreditch that is still cool and it has an awesome, quirky interior that looks super intriguing and inviting. I like a place with a Wizard of Oz neon sign, balloon lamps and animal heads on fabric.
I do however also like a place where I will get my coffee eventually. Especially on a champagne hangover. And let's face it, I'm not a petite person, it's not like it is hard to spot me if I stand in front of you. I take up a far bit of space. Especially not when I am the only costumer there, waiting at the counter for someone to take my bloody order.
In the end, when someone from the staff of 6 finally acknowledged my being there amongst the other 4 guests of the café, someone attempted making me a latte. Meanwhile, I had a look around the place and checked out the merchandise available for sale - lingonberry jam, Chinese teas, porcelain dolls, dog faced cushions - in the greatest of detail. And I mean great detail, because after 10 minutes of waiting for the simplest of coffees at a close to empty coffee house, that was all I could do to keep myself entertained. Apart from eating cake, and my champagne hangovers only craves coffee, sans cake.
Finally getting my coffee and I obviously expect it to be good, seeing as they took enough time to be thorough with it. Oh how I should stop making presumptions with a positive twist, because they rarely come out right. I've had hospital coffee out of machines that tasted better, or for anyone having visited a London hospital - that says hell of a lot. Plus the sleeve was too big for the mug. At this stage of annoyed, frustrated and grumpy, that mattered massively.
Do over and do it properly.
Don't you just hate getting your great expectations completely smashed when you are on top of it all suffering from the hangover from hell?
Maison Trois Garcon really had so much going for it. It's connected to one of the most renowned restaurant groups in East London, is located right in the middle of the part of Shoreditch that is still cool and it has an awesome, quirky interior that looks super intriguing and inviting. I like a place with a Wizard of Oz neon sign, balloon lamps and animal heads on fabric.
I do however also like a place where I will get my coffee eventually. Especially on a champagne hangover. And let's face it, I'm not a petite person, it's not like it is hard to spot me if I stand in front of you. I take up a far bit of space. Especially not when I am the only costumer there, waiting at the counter for someone to take my bloody order.
In the end, when someone from the staff of 6 finally acknowledged my being there amongst the other 4 guests of the café, someone attempted making me a latte. Meanwhile, I had a look around the place and checked out the merchandise available for sale - lingonberry jam, Chinese teas, porcelain dolls, dog faced cushions - in the greatest of detail. And I mean great detail, because after 10 minutes of waiting for the simplest of coffees at a close to empty coffee house, that was all I could do to keep myself entertained. Apart from eating cake, and my champagne hangovers only craves coffee, sans cake.
Finally getting my coffee and I obviously expect it to be good, seeing as they took enough time to be thorough with it. Oh how I should stop making presumptions with a positive twist, because they rarely come out right. I've had hospital coffee out of machines that tasted better, or for anyone having visited a London hospital - that says hell of a lot. Plus the sleeve was too big for the mug. At this stage of annoyed, frustrated and grumpy, that mattered massively.
Do over and do it properly.
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| Crispy bread, mugs and ornaments. Makes total sense. |
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| Love me a bit of the Wizard of Oz |
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| Yet they can't make a coffee right... |
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| Just looks so promising and then... Nothing. |
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