A Suitcase and a Spatula

There are moments in a friend’s life. Birthdays 18… 21… 30… (god, 40), the first dates, the weddings, frequently babies. There are dream jobs, first houses, fuck, sometimes there’s just a really awesome pair of new shoes and a bottle of good wine. And then, well then there’s the launch of a first book.

Easter: the Pemberley and other bits

So we survived bike riding in the snow, a little muddier for the experience but otherwise intact and made off for the town of Buxton. Our accommodation for the night was the Old Hall Hotel, where Mary Queen of Scots used to stay. It was more tired granny grandeur than anything once regal but a huge bed, a hot shower and a good night’s sleep left us with zero complaints. We hadn’t originally planned to stay somewhere old school shabby posh but it was the only place in the entire region that welcomed single night stays, this being the Easter long weekend and all so really, we were just grateful they’d have us.

Has Spring finally sprung?

I've gone a bit postal the last couple of days. Has there been a full moon? I don't know. All I know is that this morning, and yesterday (ok, and the day before) I've just wanted to cry. Cranky, inarticulate, toy-dropping tears.

Hormonal, homesick too maybe, and really just ready for a break in the weather.

At Lovely Boy's suggestion, this afternoon we left the house. It was 18 degrees - heatwave, I know - and headed for a stroll through Hyde Park and Come What May.

The crowds in Hyde Park willing the sun to get its shit together

The sunshine was weak - like a muscle released from a six week cast, withered and not sure it really remembers what to do. But undeterred, it seemed everyone was desperate to make the most of this mirage of Spring, running towards it literally and otherwise and just hoping not to end up with a mouthful of sand.

No sand thankfully and no real need for sunscreen - but sunglasses and slip on shoes sans socks! Woo!

Easter: the bits with the walking and biking

If it were not for the lingering chocolate in the house, I’d swear Easter never happened, it really does feel like that long ago. I’m not sure what that fact bears witness to – the slightly insane work situation perhaps (when four became two) or the fact that Spring has, almost, nearly, kind of, sort of sprung and the longer days and (albeit weak) sunshine feel like the end of the apocalypse and the start of life anew? Either way, Lovely Boy’s and my week away traversing the northwest and west of the UK feels like a surreal, visually stunning intermission between “before” and “now”.

The plan was to cram in all the parts of the UK that we hadn’t seen before, in the way that only Australians can. And by that I mean, casually intending to spend seven days driving 1252km and explaining to English colleagues who look at you like you’re fucking mad that hello, it’s only 876km from Sydney to Melbourne. 1252km is but a scenic spin.

Doughnuts and a vitamin D deficiency

We've been back from our mind-blowing, bum-numbing Easter driving holiday for a week now and already it feels like forever ago. It was an incredibly memorable week, for all the right kinds of reasons this time, and I'll get to a succinct digestion of all that we saw this weekend with any luck. But for now though, I want to talk about doughnuts and other things that start with D.

Driving into Snowdonia National Park

Just Desserts

Last week it was poetry and opera, this week it’s been about dessert...

I took LB out for another adventure last night, only this time I didn’t have to drag him. Probably because it involved three courses of adventurous eating all in the name of pudding.

Another find, another pop-up, After Hours Dessert operates on the premise that the two best bits of any meal are the drinks and the sweet finales. And so that’s what they do - just the cocktails and just the dessert. Hello, friends.

Poetry in the pub and an opera in a warehouse

I still haven’t been to Sadler’s Wells or the Royal Ballet or the Royal Opera House and I can’t remember the last time I saw a play (as in, I literally can’t remember, but I’m vaguely convinced it was 12 months ago give or take six) but London being London, that doesn’t mean we haven’t been out getting cultured.

Last Thursday we joined my friend Jenny for a night of poetry, spoken word and comedy at the Roebuck pub in Borough. It wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that I had to guilt LB into coming along but even he had to admit afterwards that it had been mostly great and only occasionally awkward. The event is called Bang Went the Gun and it has quite the cult following. And for a night of poetry, it was pretty raucous. As the compere said in his opening salvo, this is the poetry event for people who don’t like poetry.

Pae

We had a new exhibition open at the gallery last night – an installation by the American artist Pae White. I’m a bit smitten.

Pae White, Too much night, again, 2013. South London Gallery