The pleasure that is Paris

“I’m not sure I can be bothered with Paris.”

Said my lovely, lovely husband on the eve of another decadent weekend away. I mean, talk about first world problem, talk about fucking sacrilege, more like.

I'm developing an unhealthy obsession with Paris doors

Last weekend we were in Reykjavik with LB’s parents, several weeks before that we were traipsing through France and Italy with my parents and this weekend just gone we’ve been in Paris, with my aunt and uncle on their virgin European adventure. I get the exhaustion – I myself may have also complained about it in recent weeks – but BUCK UP kiddo, it’s PARIS! And I love Paris, even when it’s nine degrees and raining.

Reykjavik

So Reykjavik is a funny little place. And I’m being literal about the little. Perhaps my expectations of a European capital city have been mis-managed after jaunts to Berlin, Istanbul, you know, Paris, but Reykjavik, as I suppose naturally befits the capital of a country where there are more sheep than people, is small, kooky, quiet and strangely, wonderfully contradictory.

Inside Harpa, Reykjavik

First class problems.

I was on the bus this morning, on my way to work, blah blah blah, on the phone to my sister.

Her: How are you?

Me: Oh, I don’t know. Tired. Hormonal. Busy. Distracted. In need of another day of nothing but we’re away this weekend in Reykjavik and away next weekend in Paris, which I’m really looking forward to but I’m going to be so tired.

(Pause.)

Me again: I know, I know, my life is a series of first-world problems. I should just shut the fuck up.

Her: No, no. Reykjavik one weekend, Paris the next – that’s not a first world problem. That’s a first class problem. So yes. Shut the fuck up.

Did I mention I’m off to Reykjavik on Friday with Lovely Boy and his parents? Whale watching, blue lagooning, eating, wandering. If only all my first-world problems were this awesome.

Party’s over syndrome

So the party is well and truly over. We got back to London on Monday, Mum and Max left last night and this has been the brutal shift in my reality:

I’m not expecting sympathy. I don’t deserve it (not least because I’m off to Reykjavik in three weeks time…)

But between now and then there’s still in excess of 300 emails to get through, 1000 words to write up on the Biennale for Artlink and my birthday this Sunday to contemplate.

What a killer trip – Paris, Provence and the Luberon, St Remy and Aix, Arles, Nice, northern Italy, Venice...

It’s been amazing, folks. AMAZING. 

Oh hey, Venice...

Just a quick one to say...

Oh Venice, I do love you.

It’s going to be a busy, dizzy, dazzling couple of days and I CANNOT WAIT.

I dipped my art toes this afternoon, disappearing off to spend a couple of hours at the British Pavilion, under the guise of work, to make a short film about what it's like to work as a steward at the Venice Biennale. Hashtag Frequently Love My Job. 

I  left Mum, Max and my Lovely Boy to drink beer and soak up sun. They coped. 

Anyway, tomorrow it is ON so you better bring it, biennale. Because me, my semi-art-literate family and an Artlink commissioned review are coming for you. 

Mantua, mouthfuls and a lesson about vinegar

So Mantua is a charming, funny little part of the world. Shakespeare banished Romeo to Mantua in the late 16th century so I’m not sure what it was like then, but today there’s definitely worse places you could send a lovesick teenager I’m sure.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a beautiful, quiet, medieval town surrounded by miles of farm land that’s only punctuated by other quiet, medieval towns, but the eating is good, the cocktails are pretty sensational, there’s a stunning theatre built entirely of wood and it’s easy driving distance to a whole number of other great spots, like Lake Garda to the north and Modena to the south, where you can do things like learn about balsamic vinegar and eat at the number three restaurant in the world.

At the risk of sounding repetitive, or worse, smug, it’s been, yes, another good couple of days. 

Lunch with Leger. Or why Nice is nice.

I’m getting used to this grand tour style of travel – gallivanting from one part of the world to the next in search of enlightenment, that in our case comes dressed as more pink wine, more art, more food, more architectural and geographical appreciation and more pink wine.

Today was our last day in Nice. Already. It’s been a beautiful, relaxing, ideal couple of days, an ideal post-script to a brilliant, curious week spent exploring Provence.

Let's Go to Arles, Darls

Today was incredibly moving. Just on the outskirts of St-Remy, a 20-minute amble from the centre of town, lies the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum where, for 12 months in 1899, a deeply troubled Vincent Van Gogh was a voluntary patient. During his stay here, Van Gogh painted over 150 works, many of them now iconic and decorating the walls of the National Gallery in London, the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York and countless student flats around the world.

Vincent Van Gogh, Irises, 1899

Food porn et Paul Cezanne

Another cracking couple of days chilling in Provence with LB and Le Parents. We spent the best part of this morning having indecent thoughts about cheese and prosciutto and fresh strawberries and macaroons and more cheese and more olives and warm baguettes at St-Remy’s weekly farmers market. (I just started typing an analogy about food porn and this market taking things to the next level but it started to get a bit unseemly so I deleted it. So I’ll just say this: Oh. My. God. Best farmers market. Ever.)

Provence (and my 200th post)

The surest way to my heart is through a flea market.  So St-Remy and I are sure to become very good friends.

What a seriously beautiful town. Not a lick of lavender to be had anywhere in bloody Provence (seems the shitty spring weather wasn’t just restricted to London…) but there are poppies and wildflowers everywhere and in St-Remy, even without the constant sunshine (see previous point about shitty springs) there’s a lot to love, not least the fact that I see Van Gogh paintings in every field. But I'll get to that…

From Paris to Provence

We arrived in Provence this afternoon, in the lively, lovely town of St-Remy. Max and Lovely Boy survived their Ryanair flight to meet us in Marseilles and the collective mood, given the indecisive sunshine, is still largely positive. So bring on a week in Provence, oui?

If only we'd bought an umbrella. And not shoes...

Mum and I have had a lovely couple of days in Paris. Froze our fucking arses off completely, got rained on, got battered by the wind and ended up sacrificing a pair of sodden shoes to the Parisian rain gods but still, a lovely time.

We both had a sartorial agenda for our 48 hours in this lovely city – mine involved sorbet coloured ballet shoes, Mum’s a visit to a small boutique she’d read about on the Left Bank near the Musee d’Orsay. We'd both agreed on a visit to Printemps. The rest of our time was spent drinking wine and shivering.

Bonjour et au revoir

Off to Paris tomorrow. Bring it on.

The parents arrived safely on Saturday, overcoming an absent Piccadilly line to meet us for breakfast at the Wolseley. This posh London institution – of the “visits for a special occasion” kind – is right around the corner from where Mum and Max stay when they come to London. No, not the Ritz (sadly) but the pokey, quirky, rabbit warren that is the Royal Overseas League. Anyway, after several stays now at the Overseas League, the Wolseley has become their favourite local breakfast hangout, which, when you consider it costs 10 bucks for a punnet of strawberries in Sydney these days, is probably a doddle.

Whatever the case, I’m happy to eat anywhere that has Portuguese tarts the size of cricket balls. It will no doubt prove a prescient start to the next couple of weeks.

It feels like Christmas Eve

I’m not quite on holidays but I may as well be: the parents arrive tomorrow. Work’s been typically chaotic but with only two days left now until two weeks off I figure the stress is a small, preliminary price to pay.

I’ve been stalking them all day. It absolutely blows my mind that this blinking dot moving across my screen is in fact a Qantas A380 jet carrying 450-odd people, two of which are my Mum and step-dad, wedged up the back in rows 86 and just-call-this-hell.

They’re due to arrive at some ridiculous hour so Lovely Boy and I are going to meet them for breakfast and then tomorrow evening I’m bringing them to work, for dinner at the café and then a performance by the Irish artist Orla Barry. I’m a little worried how this will go down to be honest. Contemporary live art is one thing (LB is going to LOATHE it…) but contemporary live art after two glasses of wine and 24 hours of jetlag? Well, it’s going to be interesting.

A slice of vintage heaven

It’s so dull to exclaim “I can’t believe it’s May already!” but the fact is I can’t believe it’s May already. Mexico, the epic January snow, the epic Easter snow, Easter – the year hasn’t been dull and it’s about to get that much more exciting when the parentals arrive on Saturday.

I haven’t really allowed myself to think much about their visit, mostly because for the last month I wasn’t sure they’d even make it, thanks to a lil’ family cancer scare that wasn’t fun for anyone. But everyone now in the cancer-clear they’re t-minus 5 days until London and I cannot wait.

They are going to freeze their Australian “24 degrees and we call this autumn” arses off, mind you. But I have to confess I don’t have much sympathy because they only have to put up with it for five days before we all head to Provence for a week. And then Nice and then Mantava and then Venice for the biennale. It’s going to be tough, I know. But after their five days of London sprinter (that would be spring, dressed up as winter) and our seven eight months of this bollocks I think we’ll all have earned a little continental respite.

I cannot say it more plainly: the weather is not improving.

Playing the long game

Normally about this time of year - when you realise after four consecutive days of grey that the sun is now permanently gone until next April, I start to countdown to Christmas. And by Christmas I mean home.

Except this year, well, we're not going to home. A virgin London Christmas is upon us. If I think about what we'll be missing - bellinis by the pool, morning swims at Bilgola Beach, time with family - well I cry a little bit. So I'm playing the long game. And that means A List of Things I'm Excited About...

Christmas Carols at St Martin-in-the-Fields. 
I first did this 13 years ago with my dear friend Kirsten, a bittersweet end to our gap year in Brighton. This year it will be with my husband and Tor and Andy. And mulled wine.

A long reign and a wet weekend...

London two weeks ago...

New York feels like forever ago. We arrived back dazzled by the rare London sunshine and not even two and a half hours of re-root canal the day we landed could diminish the warm, soul polishing embrace of the sun. I don’t really want to relieve my dental disaster so I won’t, suffice to say that I feel unwittingly dragged into adulthood for having been mature and (mostly) brave throughout the whole ordeal. Jetlag and temazepan may have helped.

We had an – god, do you know, I was about to write “an unseasonably beautiful four days” but then realised that actually, it’s freaking June and four beautiful days should be seasonably, reasonably expected. But then this is London. And this, currently, is London Summer:

This afternoon, crossing Vauxhall Bridge. Normally
you would be able to see the London Eye from here

Anyway, we had a lovely four days back in London before returning to work, which we spent mostly with Lovely Boy’s brother and his kids, who were at the start of a holiday through Europe. Lucky for them. We took them for a gourmet lunch at Borough Market before spending the afternoon drinking Pimms (lemonade for those without the necessary id….) in the wildflower garden atop the Southbank Centre. It was so delightful.

Preparing for the Jubilee. Pre-appalling weather.

Fiona Banner's boat atop the
Queen Elizabeth Hall, Southbank

And then it was work for a week (busy, mental, stressful, changes ahoy) before another four days off to play in honour of the Queens Jubilee. I have to confess to be totally fascinated by the royals – not fascinated enough to brave 70,000 on Pall Mall for a fleeting glimpse of them and certainly not fascinated enough to spend seven hours on the side of the Thames, wedged in a crowd and getting totally drenched. But you know, fascinated. As I’m sure every man and his corgi already knows, in the greatest of British traditions, it rained. ALL weekend.

The neighbours getting their Jubilee on

Lovely Boy and I spent most of it on the sofa watching the pomp and pageantry on the television. Though on Saturday, when it was only mildly miserable, we went for an amble along the river towards Putney, where boats were beginning to muster for Sunday’s flotilla and snooped in a neighbourly sort of fashion on all the street parties going on around us.

Quite a bit of bedraggled bunting is still about the streets even now and all the flags throughout central London hang limply – like depressed wet washing. It’s a bit tragic really and only makes me wonder what kind of weather we can expect for the “Summer” Olympics next month. It would be churlish to say I hope it rains, yes?

A moment of forlorn homesickness when I spotted
this on a bench along the river near Putney

The long weekend wasn’t a total bust though. On Sunday Lovely Boy recreated Clinton St Bakery pancakes – DELICIOUS – and on Tuesday I moseyed down to Crystal Palace with a work colleague for a swim. I can’t remember the last time I swam laps in a 50m pool, and it was pre-Easter chest infection that I so much as gazed at my swimmers so it was quite the return but I loved it. Loved feeling totally pooped at the end, loved being able to just swim, and loved the company actually – because let’s be honest, sometimes swimming laps is fucking boring.  

A three day working week can only be sweet (and swift) and the weekend just gone was intermittently windy and wet but on Saturday Tori took me for some mani pedi pampering as an early birthday present. Shiny new nails and lunch at Hix in Selfridges to follow before some window licking on the third floor. It was the ideal girly day.

Lovely Boy's Clinton St tribute. #impressive

And today, for a wet, cold Monday, wasn’t actually bad. There’s a lot of things on the work horizon, most of them busy-making, but a constructive, exciting meeting first thing has given me a renewed sense of direction about work and my role and opportunities to really learn. There’s also a huge new professional development that I’m reluctant to talk about lest it disappear again but once I know for certain I’ll be shouting modestly from the rooftops about it. So stay tuned for that news broadcast.

Spotted on the corner of New Oxford and Museum Sts on Saturday

In the meantime, I have 32 to prepare for. I’ve stopped looking for grey hairs in case it becomes some sort of self-fulfilling prophesy and am preparing myself, Zen-like, for a philosophical sort of birthday. I don’t care much for the even numbers so this year is going to be mostly about consolidation. Dead sexy I know but this is what getting old does to you.

A love letter to Sydney. And to love.

Sunset at The Surin, Phuket

You know you’re on a honeymoon when the falling leaves and washed up bits of coral are shaped like love hearts. The point needn’t have been laboured but what kind of cynical wife would I be if I didn’t appreciate the gesture.

Reader, I married him.

Nine days ago to be precise and for the last four days we’ve been in Phuket doing not very much very, very well. Breakfast, swim, nap, lunch, nap, swim, cocktails at sunset, dinner. It’s been an abrupt full stop, or perhaps necessary ellipses, between the busy, memorable, emotional, perfect three weeks at home (replete with Christmas, Oliver’s 30^th and the wedding) and our inevitable return to London tomorrow.

Sunset, Sydney-style. On Lovely Boy's birthday no less.

I’m feeling a dazed sort of ambivalence about it – dizzied by the prospects this year holds in terms of work and learning and travel and great times with special friends, but with my heart still firmly rooted in Sydney and now joined by a quiet, gnawing impatience to get home and get on with life. By this I certainly don’t mean babies (not yet, sorry Mum) but a home that is ours for the painting, decorating, entertaining and a life that involves our families and the option of a swim and a coffee before work.

A bit of Bilgola heaven.

It was so freaking unbelievably good to be home. It did take a week to settle in, thanks to jetlag, a delightful case of gastro-enteritis that I came home with (via a pit-stop at Charing Cross Hospital A&E for necessary drugs to get me through the flight. Now that was an afternoon I could have done without three hours before we had to be at the airport….) and then, the usual readjustment to the pace of life that is Sydney summer and not London winter. You don’t realise how pent up living in London makes you until you spent a couple of days moseying around the northern beaches of Sydney. Whiplash from the brake application.

There are so many things I love about Sydney, about being home, about Summer and about family. Curious king parrots that fly in and park themselves on the pool fence; kookaburras sitting in the old gum tree (yes, really); morning swims with my Mum at Bilgola Beach, watching pods of dolphins chase fish while everyone else chased waves; robust, rude conversation amongst my brothers and sisters choked with snorts of laughter; waking up at 7am and crawling into bed with my mum for a gossip and a cup of tea; eating mangoes that send juice streaming down your arms; boxes of cherries the size of grenades; lunch at North Bondi Italian with the best posse of girlfriends (before swimming in underwear because the car is parked in Rose Bay and your swimmers are on the front seat…), ducking and diving and laughing hilariously and remembering This Was My Life Before London; pink wine and cheese at 3pm; warmth on my back and a pervading sense of peace. All this. 

And then a wedding. Our wedding. In the garden, with the parrots and the cockatoos and 87 of our most special friends and family members. I think every bride thinks her day was perfect. I KNOW mine was. 

The weather was a gift from Nan – bookended by steamy, wet, windy, temperamental days, January 7^th was warm, sunny, gently breezed and in the evening the most divine kind of balmy. Several people commented that the gentle wind that entwined us both with the long white paper garlands that hung behind us was a blessing – literally and metaphorically - from Nan. I like to think so too. We laughed – we managed not to cry – and have been overwhelmed by the number of people who told us, who keep telling us, that it was the perfect mix of romantic, personal, funny, intimate and meaningful. We like to think so too...

Lovely Boy overcame his nerves to deliver the most heartfelt of speeches and we ate and drank and laughed some more as Soph perfected the MC role, LB’s best man did what all best men are supposed to do (read: recall inappropriate anecdotes) and Tori, LB’s Dad and Oliver spoke hilariously and warmly about us both respectively and collectively. It was truly overwhelming to feel so loved and celebrated.

And then we danced. Under the lanterns I have been dreaming about for at least a decade while the garden blinked with a kilometre of fairy lights. As I said the next day – it was just enough of too much. And the music rocked. In fact, it rocked so much that at 11.30 I asked three gatecrashers from the hostel up the road to please leave and at 12.20am the police came and asked us to turn the music down after a grumpy complaint from miserable 94 year old Claude across the street. A rockstar kind of wedding if ever there was….

And for all my anxiety and doubt about The Dress – in the end we wore each other. I felt confident, beautiful, special and yet, still very much me. But the very best version of me. People have to tell the bride she looks beautiful and that they love the dress but even I could tell that people meant it – basically because they all looked kind of stunned. I took that as a compliment too. I felt sad to take it off at the end of the night and sadder still leaving it behind when we left on Thursday.   

We left the house for the hotel at 1.30am – exhausted, elated, dazed and overwhelmed, struggling to make concrete all the memories, sensations and moments of the day – and marvelling at the perfection of it all. And the still-then amazing weather. Several hangers-on remained behind, blithely unaware of the etiquette to leave when the bride does, but getting back to the hotel and crashing into bed, all I wanted was to be back at the house – not in any sort of bridal capacity, but just with my mum and my sister, having a cup of tea and the world’s biggest debrief. Not the most romantic of desires to fall asleep to but make of it what you will.

I still feel a bit stunned when I think about the day – the love, the colour, the flowers – god the flowers! – the marquee full of everyone we love. And then I feel flat and a bit sad that I didn’t grasp harder still to take it all in.  

It’s not a blur but trying to remember the day in its completeness is like hearding butterflies – scattershot, delicate, beautiful, impossible. I remember crying in the shower in the morning feeling totally overwhelmed, I remember walking up the drive with Oliver, Sophie and Edward listening for the music we’d chosen 12 months earlier, I remember Loris mouthing “breathe” to me during the ceremony, my dad’s impassive face, my mum’s happy tears, the clench of Lovely Boy’s hand on my waist, the slight sense of the ridiculous as we posed for photos, the swaying lanterns, the exquisite flowers, the impossible lightness of fabric against my skin, taking my shoes off so my knees wouldn’t knock when I gave my speech, the garden like a fairy wonderland, Jill careening across the lawn looking for Rob when “Dancing Queen” came on – the song she gave us when we asked for favourite dancing numbers, I remember Tor feeding me mango sorbet while the grass caught my toes, I remember feeling honoured and delighted that so many of my friends were all in the one room, for me no less, and feeling so very loved – and so very in love – with my freshly minted husband.

In many respects this post feels like a love letter – to Sydney, to my Mum, to my Lovely Boy, to the most perfect of married moments. A letter that doesn’t, for now, need a post-script about London.

We’ll get to that – indeed, tomorrow. 

A few of my favourite things

It's been a difficult couple of days but having resolved that narcissism is only tolerable when it's cheerful I'm going to blithely and merrily reflect instead on some of the lovely, shiny, sunny, happy events of the last few weeks and write myself a list of Things I Like In No Particular Order.

1. Sunshine
The last week of September was unseasonally beautiful here in grubby, grey old London. And by unseasonally beautiful I mean seven solid uninterrupted days of 28 degrees and blue skies and skirts and sandals and sunscreen. It was a gift from the God I don't believe in. Though I have to confess that there was something slightly disconcerting about leaving the house in a t-shirt in early October when it should be covered by another layer or two. I just couldn't shake that strange sensation that something about my ensemble wasn't right - you know, that foolish feeling you get AFTER someone tells you that you've spent the last four hours with your skirt tucked into your decidedly sensible underpants. That feeling.

The inner courtyard at the V&A

2. Art
I am Very Excited about a number of exhibitions here in London - opened, opening and still to come - and have a list (yes, another one) of all the shows I'm going to see in the next six months. Grayson Perry at the British Museum, Pipilotti Rist at the Hayward, Yayoi Kasuma at Tate Modern in February, Gillian Wearing at Whitechapel in March. Excited, inspired, ready to get arty. Recent exhibition loves include Taryn Simon's masterpiece, also at Tate Modern and Ron Arad's Curtain Call at the Roundhouse.

Inside Yayoi Kasuma's The Gleaming Lights of the Souls, 2008
Liverpool Biennial.

3. Art and cocktails
I love great art, I love it even more when it comes with alcohol. The last Friday of every month usually means late night openings at most of the big institutions in London and last month I met my lovely ex-flatmate Katie at the V&A for some sitting and drinking in the balmy weather before a stroll through their new show 'Postmodernism: Style and Subversion 1970 - 1990'. The exhibition was ok. I loved the coathanger gorilla in the 'Power Of Making' show more.

David Mach RA, King Silver, 2011

4. Theatre dates. 
I love a good theatre date and the next day in fact I took in a matinee (and some well-earned air conditioning) at the Trafalgar Studios with the lovely Nina. The play, Top Girls, was a recommendation from my mother-in-law-to-be and it was a brilliant production but I did find it disconcerting that a fucked economy, a post-feminist society and a world class education that has set me up to think I can have it all left me confused about which character I empathised most with. I blame a particularly sympathetic portrayal of the Thatcher-esque anti-hero. I love a complex play. I also love dissecting said complexities at Gordon's wine bar with a cheeky half bottle of pink wine in the warmth. Heaven.

5. Pedicures 
I love pedicures, I love shiny painted toes, I love decadence. I also love, love, love visits from home. Mum and Max had a week in London at the end of a two-week Spanish adventure, and I took the time off work to spend it with them and Just Because I Could, I booked us a day at the ridiculously fabulous spa at Brown's Hotel on Albemarle St. This place manages to be both super posh and super fabulous. Mark Hix has opened a branch of his restaurant here and the hotel is famous not only as the place from where Alexander Graham Bell made his first UK phone call, but also because Rudyard Kipling wrote The Jungle Book while staying here.

But it was the 'seasonal pedicure' that really sold it for me. Changing throughout the year (as is generally inferred by the use of the word 'seasonal'), this magical experience sees in-season and other organic ingredients (ginger, rose petals, sea salt etc. etc.) incorporated into each step of the pampering process - the hot milk soak, the leg scrub, the moisturising mask. All this before what can only be described as the best paint job of my life.

6. Pedicures and cocktails
Did I mention it came with a matching complimentary cocktail? Peach bellini to match your polish, anyone?

7. Paris
We had two days in London (which included a traumatic fitting for The Dress that is another post for another time) before heading to Paris. J'adore Paris. Maman et moi adore Paris. Two years ago we had a decidedly girly trip to the city of love. This time we had Max's company and while not as girly it was just as delightful and thanks to Max's graciousness it also involved no less 'window-licking' than last time.

I love travelling with parentals - it means champagne at lunch and creme brulee for brunch. This time around it has also meant lots of cuddles and talk of Nan and home and a summer I am counting down the weeks for (nine as of tomorrow). We wandered about, we ate good food, we took in the Musee D'Orsay before taking shelter from the rain at the delicious Le Cinq Mars. Even though my laptop got left in the taxi from Gard du Nord and there were four hours where my only consoling thought was one of thanks to my brother and fiancee for teaching me about the importance of backing up before it was returned with a 26 Euro fee, it was STILL a lovely three days.

Notre Dame - five minutes walk from our hotel.

The bridge of locks. 

8. Pintxos
I love the kind of travel where you wake up in say, Paris, only to rest your head that night in say, San Sebastian. Lovely Boy joined us for the second leg of Parent Week and we had a flying 36 hours in this totally charming seaside city in Spanish Basque territory where we again ate and wandered and ate some more. We promenaded, we took in the breathtaking view post-furnicular ride and in the evening we partook of a pintxos tasting tour. Two guides, five bars, six Americans, the four of us and some of the most fantastic food and wine I've had in a while. The gin and tonics that came in balloon glasses the size of my head at the end of the night probably were unnecessary but the whole experience was fantastic and just such a great way to get a sense of a city.

San Sebastian old town

Looking down over San Sebastian.

9. Puppies
Ok. I should clarify. I like puppies made of flowers. I like puppies made of flowers made by Jeff Koons. I especially like said puppies when they're tethered to the forecourt of the spectacular Gehry-designed Guggenheim Bilbao. It was like being back amongst friends - Kutlug Ataman's Kuba, Mona Hatoum's Current Disturbance, Louise Bourgeois' big spider and a room full of Richard Serra steel sculptures. This was a favourite. Undulating, perception-altering corten steel structures that swallowed you as you wound your way through and into them but not in an aggressive or threatening way, as you might imagine with such a masculine, heavy material. It felt disconcerting but at the same time familiar and maternal. They were really quite extraordinary - both for their size and the sheer volume of them. It was a puppy perfect ending to a great weekend.

Jeff Koons, Puppy, 1992

Richard Serra

10. Lunch with my ladies
Monday just gone and my last day of holidays before Mum and Max left for Sydney. What better excuse than that for lunch with my dear friend and my dear Maman. Another stellar recommendation from Tor, the three of us went to the Ridinghouse Cafe on Great Titchfield Street and talked relationships, eyelashes, weddings and denim. The company, like the sorbet, was exquisite.

11. Weekends
Tomorrow is Friday and I am counting down the hours until the weekend. I have a hair appointment on Saturday, a date to collect The Dress, dinner plans at Gordon Ramsey's new restaurant and a Sunday work trip to Frieze Art Fair. I've always avoided the fair like the plague, there being something unappetising to me about paying 30 pounds to be trampled by crowds looking at art no-one normal can afford to buy. But curiosity - and free tickets - have got the better of me. And I'm quite looking forward to it. And if the need so arises, I may yet write another list.