Oh I do like to be beside the seaside…

On Saturday, my lovely friend Madam A and I went on a daytrip to the seaside for some fresh air and adolescent fun.

You may not know this, but Southend-On-Sea is home to the world’s longest leisure pier. Now, as I’m sure you have gathered, novelties like this very much amuse me, so I insisted that we walk to the end and back.

Now I don’t mind paying £3.10 to walk along a pier, but what I do object to is calling  it a ‘leisure’ pier, when there is not much leisure to be had. Just a lone cafe, chock-a-block full of the elderly enjoying a cup of tea, and a small gift shop, that did not have any postcards (what sort of gift shop is that??).

Apparently, the majority of amusements burnt down in 2005, 1994 and 1950something – but still in the height of the season, surely it wouldn’t be too hard to whack an ice-cream van at the end? Or even a sign that says “You have reached the end of the world’s longest leisure pier”.

Despite my 2.66 mile walk out to sea and back in blustery conditions, I very much enjoyed the tourist cheese of Southend, from the Electric Avenue amusement parlour, to the novelty hot dogs at Adventure Island – despite the chavs and lack of sunshine. 

It All Ended… Disappointingly

I promised to post this review last weekend, but I found myself not only too busy and sore, but slightly too frustrated to write.
I read Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone when I was 18, jumping on the band wagon a little later than most but quickly becoming hooked. Ten years later, I lined up outside the Odeon in Leicester Square awaiting the start of Deathly Hallows Part 2 with child-like anticipation.

Luckily, I was expecting to be disappointed. And this expectation was fulfilled – don’t get me wrong, the acting was good (especially when compared to the trio’s efforts in 2001), the effects were outstanding, but once again severe plot deviations left me, and i suspect many other Potter fans, slightly fuming.

Warning: Spoiler alert

Character deaths, such as George Weasley, left me emotionally drained whilst reading, but here they were rushed and almost glanced over.

Harry’s solo walk to the Forbidden Forest to meet his fate, was one of the most moving scenes in all 7 books, but yet they had to throw in a hug and long winded speech from Hermione, whilst Ron (once again) is sidelined and silent. Not only that, there was no confessions to Neville to kill the snake – so how did he know how to destroy it?

And don’t even get me started on the whole Harry & Voldemort zooming through the grounds of Hogwarts. No mention that love could redeem you, just unnecessary CGI.

Gaping plot holes left open through emissions from the last 7 books became clearly evident and to be honest, if you hadn’t read the book I don’t think you’d understand what was going on.
Some things though, they nailed. The Prince’s Tale had me weeping unashamedly (Alan Rickman you are a legend), Professor McGonagall had me, and the full house, cheering just as she did in the books while Ron & Hermione’s much anticipate snog, whilst not canon, was fantastic.

And now, as the plethora of outdoor advertising across London tells me – It all ends. But I beg to differ, it’s a saga that will undoubtedly be passed on down the generations encouraging children to read and inspiring adults to use their imaginations again.

For me, re-reading Harry Potter is like visiting  an old friend, one you know will always make you smile, comforting like an old pair of slippers. This may make my nearly 28-year old self particularly geeky, but sod it all – long live Potter.
Mischief Managed.

Clumsy on the Underground

Many cities have rites of passage that makes you a local. Whether it’s having your bag snatched, being mugged, falling asleep on a night bus or swearing when you hear ‘delays due to a body under the train’.

On the wet and dreary Saturday morning just passed, as I made my way from Clapham to Kings Cross, I had an accident which I think officially puts me one step closer to being a local Londoner.

Walking down the escalator at Vauxhall, I thought to myself how slippery it was in my trainers. The next thing I know, my feet had flown out from under me, my tailbone land on the edge of the escalator and I proceed to slide my way to the bottom of the moving staircase in a rather unladylike way.

Yes – I have officially experienced my first London Underground fall. Worldwide, there are around 10,000 escalator accidents a year – some resulting in death, and I am now officially a statistic. Fortunately though, I received nothing more than a rather sore bottom, a chunk out of my right hand (that did bleed quite profusely) and a rather bruised ego.

Not only that, my fall earned me some extra sympathy and strategically placed kisses-better from the man. Although only after a huge chuckle at my recurring clumsiness.

My Latest Obsession

Since arriving in London I have a new obsession. Cupcakes.
Not the cupcakes that The Ex used to give me (that sort of cupcake involves farting into your hand and then holding it up to your unsuspecting girl’s face), but delicious gourmet, overpriced cupcakes.
My quest for the perfect cupcake has so far seen me venture to The Hummingbird Bakery, Northcote Road and Selfridges Food Hall. But a perfect cupcake isn’t just about the icing, decoration or the moistness of the cake,  it’s all about the packaging. 
The Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello Road was full to bursting with Japanese tourists on a Saturday morning, however my vanilla cupcake (yellow icing this time) came perfectly wrapped in a chinese-food style box, and sealed with a sticker, just so I wouldn’t forget where it was from.
The markets on Northcote Road, Clapham Junction are full of tasty treats for yummy mummys and their brats, and my vanilla cupcake with purple icing was delicious, however by the time I got it home in its brown paper bag the icing had stuck to the paper and my cake was squashed. Fail. 
But what takes the cake (no pun intended) was Lola’s Designer Cupcakes in Selfridges Food Hall. They delicately placed my two cupcakes (one vanilla with pink icing, one lemon for the man) in a tray, and then folded tem into a delightful carry box. To be fair – at £2.50 each they were by far the most expensive cupcake on my quest so far, but by far the best.
So this Saturday I shall once again venture on my quest to find London’s best cupcake. If anyone has any suggestions, this girl would be delighted to hear them.

Fine Dining

My dining experiences have mainly been limited to chains, or cheapish restaurants. But in this day-and-age, with bargain basement deals flying into my inbox quicker than I know what to do with, and being in one of the best cities for eating out in the world, fine-dining is at last an option.
So last Saturday, the man and I headed to the Kings Road for a bit of meaty goodness at Marco Pierre White’s Steakhouse. Clutching our voucher we joined the cue of diners waiting to be seated (who were also clutching their vouchers) and proceeded to spend a very pleasant hour and a half eating yummy food and being waited on by smart looking European men dressed in black.
The steak was delicious, as was the sides. I enjoyed my water being poured in a wine glass. I also enjoyed the said men in black magically appearing to refill my wine  (which was also very good). All this was rubbish in comparison to the exquisite crème brule that I devoured before I had to share too much with my other half.
There was cloth napkins, crisp white tablecloths and the toilets were, of course, lovely,  but I have to say, I would not go there again unless it was with another deal. The fact is, the food was just not worth the full price it commands. Am I cheap? Maybe, but in the Kings Road Steakhouse you’re not paying for the food, you’re paying for the brand.

An Uncomfortable Scare.

My Father raised me to be paranoid. And so when I noticed some irregularities in my lady parts I decided to go get it checked out. After all, with all the vigorous sex I’ve been having since I arrived in England, I figured that it could have been a cause and effect thing. So off I went to the free clinic, only to get a bit of a fright.

Going over my symptoms with Doctor Jones was fine, and it was no surprise when she suggested a full examination. So on the table I lay, legs suspended mid-air, while my hoo-ha is spread wide open for the world to see. Now, it’s a part of every woman’s life to get in the stirrups and whenever I have had examinations before it’s always been, “all a-ok, nothing to worry about”.

It’s only when the doctor in questions frowns and states that she wants a second opinion that I started to really worry. 

Enter the second opinion, another doctor whose name escapes me. They look up me with their torch and magnifying lens and talk of polyps, damaged tissue and the like. Upon hearing the word “polyps” my overactive imagination starts envisages cervical cancer, and the tears started to form in my eyes (we all know that I’m a big fat sook!).

I was surprisingly upset by the whole encounter. Usually, I can deal with things like that surprisingly well, but exposure combined with known scary health words genuinely made me a bit upset (my lovely boyfriend came up trumps with a cup of tea and a cuddle, which did make the whole thing a bit better!).

Turns out though it’s NOT cervical cancer, praise the lord, but a fairly common condition (hurrah!) that looks rather like the beginnings of cervical cancer. But despite it’s commonality, today I received my referral to see the lady-parts specialist.

So in two weeks I have to go through the whole uncomfortable, nerve-racking procedure again. And this time they are throwing a biopsy in – just for good measure. 

Awesome.

Visiting? Here’s some advice..

When you move to London, and get back into the swing of living, commuting, shopping and eating here, an amazing tansformation occurs.

All of a sudden, the gloss and novelty wears off and tourists start to annoy the shit out of you. Don’t get me wrong, this sights of the city still excite me but tourists in their thousands are so fricking annoying. Particularly on public transport. So please, if you’re coming to London, heed this advice:

1. You seem to be ignoring all common sense, but why not use the FULL LENGTH OF THE PLATFORM instead of blocking the entranceways with your wheelie suitcases and Harrods bags?
2. Likewise, the entrance or exit to a tube station is not the best place to stop and look at your map. Once again, have some common sense and just move 3 steps to your left, freeing the exit for those of us who aren’t lost.
3. Tube stations are equipped with wide gates for those with luggage. You will not fit your suitcase through the narrow gate – why do you even try?
4. Just because something is branded “London” does not make it an authentic British souvenir. Yet hundreds of you pour out of M&M world with London branded M&M merchandise.
5. For the love of all that is good and holy, STAND ON THE RIGHT.

Thank you.

New Girl

This week, I started my new job.

Day 4 and my brain is overloaded and I’m feeling like I’m slightly out of my depth. They expect good things from me and I want to impress them. But it’s going to be hard work.

You also have the hard job of trying to figure out your place in the office, where the printer is (still not sure!), where the stationery cupboard is, what’s the lunchtime protocol, which mug belongs to which person – it’s an endless minefield!

But so far, work is good. The people are friendly, I’m slowly getting my head around things and with offices on South Bank, I feel blessed to walk by the Houses of Parliament every day, reminding me that I now call this amazing city home.

And thankfully (yet slightly strangely as well), nobody has their own mug. One less thing to worry about!