Today I am ... eating my way through the double-dip recession

Is it just me or does a ‘double-dip' recession sound a bit like a slightly disappointing 1990s sweet? I remember having similar sentiments when the term ‘credit crunch’ started being bandied about, as though someone was trying to make us feel better about everything by pretending the recession was a cereal bar. Perhaps giving the economic downturn a frivolous and fun-to-say name is supposed to take the edge off the bad news, like the ‘doodlebug’ bombs of the Blitz.

Or it's possible I’ve just got childhood snacks on the brain; by 11am this morning, I had already cracked into a Drumstick lolly and a packet of Fizzers, left over from a comms networking day yesterday. What else is there to do but eat on a grey Wednesday morning in the wake of the news that we’re facing yet more years of austerity?

We continued to offset the general sense of doom in the office by structuring the rest of the day completely around mealtimes and treats, interspersed with work and endless cups of tea. After the initial sugar rush, the rest of the Day of Eating went something like this…

12pm: We receive an email alert to confirm there are remains of a home-made chocolate and raspberry torte left over in the staff kitchen from someone’s birthday. With no time to waste, one after another we quickly march up the stairs like a queue of orphans in Oliver and take whatever scrapings of the torte we can salvage. The taste of sharp, juicy raspberries cuts through the rich, smooth chocolate goo, topped off with a dusting of cocoa. I haven’t yet identified the mystery baker, but when I do, I will ask them for the recipe or simply demand they make more.

1.30pm: It’s burrit-o’clock! After debating whether or not to order Firezza pizza to the office (always my preference), we decide to brave the relentless rain and head en masse to the cheery Burrito Café on Caledonian Road. The staff are like magicians, somehow transforming a mountainous pile of pulled pork, guacamole, sour cream, peppers, rice, black beans, salsa and cheese into a tidy, compact, foil-wrapped cylinder. Of course, it all unravels when it’s time to eat it and the hidden contents of my burrito make a bid for freedom, bursting out of each end of the tortilla. After our gargantuan Mexican lunch, I somehow leave feeling only comfortably full (but as though I need a good shower).

Above: The menu at Burrito Cafe, Caledonian Road, Kings Cross

3.15pm: We’re crashing. Help is at hand when our lovely fundraising events team announce they’ve bought ‘thank you’ treats for everyone who volunteered at this year’s London Marathon. And guess what? Yet more Drumstick lollies! (I have no Drumstick lollies for at least fifteen years, and then two in a day. What can this mean?) There is also an impressive spread of salt and vinegar chipsticks, bacon frazzles, dolly mixture and some token grapes and strawberries (whatever).

6.45pm: I head home, looking forward to a duvet and TV night with my housemate, but lo, the cupboards are bare! Or so they seem. I have Marmite, and where there is Marmite, there is a way. I cook up some pasta and sweet petit pois, and once they're cooked, stir through plenty of extra virgin olive oil, a large teaspoon of Marmite, a good handful of freshly grated parmesan, and some rocket leaves.

Fittingly, in the wake of today's economic news, this is cheap, storecupboard, student food which many may scoff at (or worse, if they're Marmite haters), but trust me, for the better half of the population, it's a perfectly good dish for a cosy night catching up with Gossip Girl and The Voice.

9.10pm: I eat some cheese.

So to conclude, my message to David Cameron is this. Please sort it out, or I will be adding to your obesity bill and making matters even worse. That is all.

Today I am ... window shopping

Lucy in Disguise, 48 Lexington Street, Soho. Image: my own

Two long days before payday, a friend and I found ourselves walking aimlessly around Soho on a drizzly midweek evening to kill time before a gig at the London Palladium. Although the streets were quiet and the shops closed, the gloomy pavements were illuminated by alluring, colourful peep shows in each deserted shop front - shrines to cakes, dresses, jewellery, art and fantasies. Before we knew it, we were full-on window shopping.

One window in particular stopped us in our tracks, and in fact made us late for the gig trying to take a photo on our phones that did justice to the girly, blingtastic exterior.

The shop in question was Lucy in Disguise on Lexington Street, better known as Lily Allen's vintage boutique. Brilliantly, the entire shop front is completely covered in gold sequins, so even in the slightest breeze, the whole shop glimmers and twinkles invitingly.

Behind the golden curtain are racks of candy-coloured vintage prom dresses, silk slips and beaded gowns which I can't wait to rummage through after payday and when the shop is open. The glamour doesn't stop on the ground floor; apparently there's also a hidden vintage hair and make-up salon beneath the boutique where you can complete the retro look.

By day: Lucy in Disguise. Image from graziadaily.co.uk

Making our way slowly to the Palladium, we passed the Choccywoccydoodah store on Fouberts Street, a camp, kitsch and dramatic spectacle that looks like the brainchild of Willy Wonka on viagra. A 1950s pin up winks cheekily from the window to tempt you inside the store (as if the presence of the marshmallow pyramid cake wasn't enough), and once inside, I hear there's a bar and even a private boudoir upstairs where you can indulge in pure Belgian hot chocolate and taste some of their signature designer cakes.

Choccywoccydoodah, 30-32 Fouberts Street, Soho. Image: my own

Inside Choccywoccydoodah in Soho. Image: from culinarygetaways.com

We then passed Liberty. The colossal department store on Great Marlborough Street is not exactly a hidden gem but Liberty's iconic Tudor facade can't fail to take your breath away, and their iconic displays are like art installations, combining design, fashion, marketing and art, going way beyond simply showcasing products.

Liberty, Great Marlborough Street, London, Image: my own

Finally we reached Argyll Street and passed my old high street favourite, Oasis. I constantly fall back on Oasis's feminine designs and flattering shapes. This season I love the romantic 'Print-cess and the Pea' window display, complete with floral mattresses, mannequin princess, a frog prince and a larger-than-average pea.

Oasis, Argyll Street, London. Image: my own

However, sadly I can never enter the Argyll Street store again after my recent clanger with a shop assistant... I was purchasing shoes from a Scottish girl at the till and was confused when she said, "Say sex". It seemed strange but when I asked her what she'd said she repeated, "Say sex!" so I dutifully said, "Sex"... Then she said, "No these shoes are a size six!" Ah...

Perhaps this was for the best anyway, at least it gives me a reason to avoid temptation: window shopping is only as free as your willpower will allow. It's a risky but indulgent form of escapism, and for those weaker-willed folk (myself included), I fear in the long-term it will only give you ideas of new places to part with your cash.

Today I am ... singing in the rain

Singin' in the Rain. Image from lightmasterstudios.co.uk

You know it’s bad when you stop avoiding puddles altogether, resigning yourself to the fact that you’ll be wearing soggy ballet pumps for the rest of the day. This is the position I have found myself in all week, and I’m afraid we’re in for a damp squib of a weekend.

At the risk of sounding like a bit of a loser, I did used to quite like ‘wet break’ at school. There was a sense of lawlessness as 30 excitable children all crammed into a classroom for the lunch break, while the windows steamed up and the teachers optimistically tried to make everyone play board-games.

Even today, there's a certain novelty about a rainy ‘day of fun’ with friends. I had the adult equivalent of a ‘wet break’ on Good Friday a couple of years ago. Our original plan had been to go to one of London’s city farms such as Mudchute Farm, but torrential rain intervened so instead we co-invented the pastime of ‘Drinking Monolopy’. Seven hours later, I believe we fell out of a taxi and into the Clapham Grand.

If you can’t face leaving the house this weekend, I’d suggest ordering takeaway, setting up a tent in your front room and indulging in some indoor camping. Or why not gather everyone in your bed and sing about your favourite things? It worked for the Von Trapps.

However for people who are intent on heading out, there's also a wealth of appealing places where you can escape the rain in London.

And no, I’m not going to tell you about warming pubs (you don't need me to tell you where your cosiest local is!) or London's array of indoor markets, museums, galleries and shopping centres. Instead, here are some slightly more off the radar suggestions. I can’t guarantee you won't get wet getting there though...

London’s oldest umbrella shop: James Smith & Sons, New Oxford Street



James Smith & Sons. Image from telegraph.co.uk


The first port of call for rain-dodgers in central London should be the curious James Smith & Sons, London’s oldest umbrella shop which remains nearly unchanged since it opened in 1850. It’s like a quintessentially English version of an Aladdin’s Cave. Only with less jewels, and rather more umbrellas.

These fine, handmade constructions are unlikely to turn inside out in the slightest gust of wind, having been made in the same way for more than 150 years. I particularly love the pomp of the elaborate duck-head handles and paisley patterned covers.

Rihanna may not have allowed you to stand under one of these beauties…

Muriel's Kitchen, South Kensington

Muriel's Kitchen, South Kensington

As you emerge from South Kensington tube station, you could be forgiven for thinking Muriel’s Kitchen is a beautiful mirage. It is as comforting as stumbling across your granny’s kitchen after a rainy commute. From outside, the lavender plant pots in the windows and spread of home-made pies and cakes in the open-plan bakery look impossibly inviting.

The homely theme is honoured to the last detail, with kitchen utensils hanging on the walls and lampshades made from colanders. Best of all, this is a café which understands that the best cup of tea comes in a proper mug.

It is always bustling and loud at Muriel’s, so be warned, you might have to elbow someone out of the way to get the last slice of Victoria sponge – again, just like home.

DIY wine tasting at Vagabond Wines, Vanston Place, Fulham

Vagabond Wines, Fulham Road. Image from squaremeal.co.uk

Where better to shelter from the showers than a ‘do-it-yourself wine bar’? With more than 100 wines on tap, and sample measures from 50p per taster measure, things could get messy very quickly at Vagabond Wines. Happily, there are cheeseboards and charcuterie to nibble on while you work your way through the samples. And when you finally decide on a bottle, you’ll be amazed by the amazing quality and practically supermarket-cheap prices, including a bottle of crisp, dry prosecco for just £9.95.

Tooting Lido, Tooting Bec (open from 19th May)

Tooting Bec Lido. Image from timeout.com/london

No I haven’t gone mental. You’re already wet, why not embrace it?

Tooting Bec Lido is Europe’s second biggest outdoor pool, at 91.5 metres. It’s faded Art Deco changing huts are surrounded by trees and parkland, and there’s an unintentionally retro café which is straight out of a 1990s leisure centre, serving chips, jacket potatoes and ice cream.

Like Andie McDowell in Four Weddings, you won’t even notice it’s still raining (probably) once you take a dip in the cool, clear fresh water. In fact, outdoor pools are said to feel warmer in the rain. Let’s hope so – I came here on one of the hottest days of last summer and it was a bracing experience, to say the least.

(Tooting Lido is closed until 19th May, however there are other freshwater lidos in London open this month including Brockwell Lido, Parliament Hill and London Fields. Read Time Out’s review of London lidos for more information.)

Electric cinema and brasserie, Portobello Road, Notting Hill

Electric Cinema, Portobello Road. Image from mydaily.co.uk

The Electric arts cinema and adjoining brasserie on Portobello Road is something of an institution, and a perfectly lovely way to spend a wet Sunday afternoon. The old school interior lends itself well to arty or romantic films, with luxurious leather seating, armchairs and footstools. Comfort food is available to buy at the bar, including home-made sausage rolls and potato skins.

Taking back-seat snogging to a new level, there are also two huge sofas at the rear where you can recline with your companion, however probably best not to book these seats for a first date - he or she may wonder what your intentions are.

After the film, you won’t even have time to put your umbrella up as you walk next door to the Electric Brasserie, famed for its brunches and popular with celebs and Notting Hill locals alike.

Today I am ... my fancy dress alter-ego

Image: Gossip Girl, cwtv.com

Fancy dress is no longer just a pastime for seven year-olds; as times get tougher, more and more people feel the temptation to withdraw from humdrum reality and become someone else for the night.

I always think the best nights are when you feel as though anything could happen; from Freshers Week ice-breakers to debauched masquerades, outlandish costumes have the power to make you feel uninhibited and anonymous, transforming a great party into an unforgettable one.

Here are my top five fancy dress alter-egos from the last few years...

1. Victorian courtesan: Belle Epoque Party, London, Halloween 2011

 

Image: Victorian courtesan Carolina La Belle Otero, from halloftheblackdragon.com

I wore a steel-boned corset for the first time at London's hedonistic Belle Epoque party, and it was a revelation. As soon as I was laced into the borrowed 'Cadbury purple' corset, I felt like Dita Von Teese on a night out in bohemian Montmartre. It was my waist, but not as I knew it. (Breathing schmeathing...)

Add to this a bustling, black lace skirt from Burleska Boutique in Stables Market, Camden, a beaded choker, fingerless lace gloves and a fascinator, and I was ready to dance with the green fairy all evening. The final accessory? A glass of absinthe, served in the traditional Moulin Rouge fashion with a sugar cube and spoon.

2. German beermaid: Bavarian Beerhouse Old Street / Winter Wonderland / a London Tube Station Party, 2010-12

Image: Bavarian Beerhouse, Old Street, from bavarian-beerhouse.co.uk

Prost! Choosing a Germain beermaid costume for a birthday party at the Bavarian Beerhouse in Old Street may have been misjudged given that the bar was full of lairy frat boys, and waitresses in identical outfits. Cue an onslaught of sausage inneundoes, revellers stopping me and asking for rounds of Jaegermeisters, and an impromptu table-top dance off with a rugby team.

Nevertheless, my bavarian alter-ego has served me well, with appearances at Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park and a Tube Station themed house party in Clapham (as 'Maida Vale').

3. The Virgin Mary: Suffolk, Christmas Eve 2011

 

Those familiar with high school movies of the early noughties will recall the Mean Girls 'Slut Rule' of fancy dress ("Halloween is the one night of the year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything. The hardcore girls just wear underwear and some form of animal ears").

However that rule is now liberally applied to Christmas as well (how long until Easter?), and 'Sexy Santa' has become the ubiquitous Christmas fancy dress costume of choice in recent years.

Last Christmas Eve however, I had something rather more virginal in mind. After years of losing out on the role to other girls in our primary school Nativity plays, I was finally going to be Mary.

To create the baby Jesus, I purchased a plastic baby doll and an 'it's my birthday' badge, and fashioned some swaddling from a pillow case. I wore a blue Grecian style dress and long blue scarf over my head, and carried my baby Jesus around like a bizarre clutch bag. 

One or two bleary eyed partygoers were downright horrified, thinking I had actually brought my real life baby on a raucous night out in DeNiros, which holds the dubious honour of being 'Suffolk's biggest nightclub'. That poor baby Jesus has seen some terrible sights... 

4. Medeival king: Halloween party, Newcastle, 2007

 

In hindsight, we should have known better than to turn up at a fancy dress shop on Halloween afternoon on the day of our house party. Between my housemates and I, we scraped the fancy dress barrel and accepted whatever was left in the shop - which included an M&M, a nun and a medieval king.

I drew what was arguably the short straw (my friend the M&M may beg to differ), and donned the hooded crown and long sleeved, full-length red robe with white fur trim, complete with a regal staff/poking device.

It may not have been my first choice, but I nobly took on my kingly duties and had a royally good time. Long Live the King.

5. Geisha: 'Around the world' party, Newcastle, 2008

 

A pale face stands out like a beacon in Newcastle, where any self-respecting Geordies - male or female - are bronzed to perfection at all times (the sun always shines in Whitley Bay).

So I was greeted with confusion and concern on an 'around the world' themed university reunion, as I entered Tiger Tiger with a face as porcelain-white as a snowy morning. I may have lacked the grace and serenity of a true geisha, but I completed the illusion with jet black liquid eyeliner and bright red lips, a floral black and red dress, and a beautiful parasol that my friend had brought back from Japan. Miraculously, my 'giant cocktail umbrella' even made it home with me.

So what's next? 

 

Image: 1940s Dance, from msasuperfunweekend.com

Firmly on my to-do list are the Blitz Party in Shoreditch, for a night of 'swing bands, sand bags and glad rags', and the Gatsby-esque Prohibition Party to recapture the illicit pleasures of 1920s speakeasies...

And if there's ever an occasion to wear this rather fetching 'man-eating shark' costume from the recently resurrected fancy dress shop at Clapham Junction, I'm there.

Image: Man-eating shark, from partysuperstores.com

Today I am ... in Cambridgeshire, Holborn

Ye Olde Mitre pub, Ely Court.

Tucked away in a higgledy-piggledy alleyway in the City of London, I recently stumbled across a charming old world pub which, thanks to an ancient legal loophole, is technically in Cambridgeshire.

Ye Olde Mitre pub dates back to the 1500s, and sits on land which once fell within the grounds of the Palace of the Bishops of Ely. This means the land is still legally within Cambridgeshire and therefore the City of London Police have no jurisdiction there.

If I ever decide to embark on a life of crime in the City, I know where I'll be hiding...

Marked by a lone lamppost, Ye Olde Mitre peeps out invitingly onto Ely Court, a crooked little enclosure which looks uncannily like Diagon Alley from Harry Potter. Once we stepped into the pub and departed the Muggle realm, we entered a crowded room full of old men huddled around tables, talking under their breath (no doubt brokering dodgy deals involving illegal dragon eggs and bags of galleons...).

There is also a pretty, fairy-lit courtyard, popular with a younger clientele escaping the City for post-work drinks.

Ye Olde Mitre, Ely Court. Image: fancyapint.com

After a few glasses of wine here, we took our leave and on our way back to Farringdon station, found ourselves walking past the mythical Bleeding Heart Yard, an atmospheric cobbled courtyard with a history as gruesome as the name suggests.

According to urban legend, seventeenth century socialite Lady Elizabeth Hatton was murdered here in 1626, after being lured away from her Annual Winter Ball by a hooded figure. Her heart was found in this very yard, 'pumping blood onto the cobblestones'. Lovely.

Tavern in Bleeding Heart Yard, Farringdon

There is also a small selection of bistros, taverns and restaurants within the yard which we didn't enter however, according to the New Yorker, are 'bleeding hard to find, but worth it.'

Where else but London could after-work drinks turn into such a peculiar but fascinating historical whistlestop tour?

Ye Olde Mitre, Ely Court, Hatton Garden, Holborn, EC1N 6SJ. Nearest tube: Farringdon, Chancery Lane.

Bleeding Heart Yard, off Greville Street, EC1N 8SJ. Nearest tube: Farringdon.

Today I am ... comfort cooking (and eating)

Easy pan-fried gnocchi with ricotta, parsley and lemon zest

Ever made pasta from scratch? I've never felt the inclination myself - much as I love eating Italian food, if I'm going to spend that long in the kitchen and spend money on something as grown up as a pasta machine, I want to end up with something a bit more dazzling.

So I'm going to tell you a secret - home-made gnocchi (pasta's oft-overlooked cousin) is a walk in the park, and is totally worth the minimal effort.

The recipe I'm about to share definitely has the wow factor: pan-fried gnocchi made with ricotta, parsley and lemon zest. You just can't buy anything like this in supermarkets.

This could happily make for a comforting, filling winter supper, or an extravagant summer lunch with friends and a large glass of chilled white wine. Either way, it's pure, indulgent escapism in food form.

Sadly I can't claim it as my own; I have adapted it from a recipe by American blog Jaden's Steamy Kitchen, which describes each individual nugget as 'like a beautiful Italian's luscious lips'. Bit creepy...

But I understand the enthusiasm. I'd probably opt for 'crispy, melt in the mouth pillows of deliciousness', but then I've never kissed an Italian.

What separates this from stodgy supermarket gnocchi is the notable absence of potato, and the unusual step of pan-frying the gnocchi instead of boiling it. The result is a much lighter, creamy gnocchi with a crunchy, caramelised exterior.

What also makes this such a comforting culinary experience is the therapeutic process of cooking it. It's reassuringly messy, thanks to the kneading and rolling that's required; if you're anything like me you'll get flour in your hair, face and hands (giving you that attractive 'hard-working baker' look...), but in fact it's foolproof. I didn't even have any scales myself, so I used a wine glass, based on the fact that a large glass is about 250ml... You have to work with what you've got!

It didn't seem to have an effect on the final result though, which turned out perfectly. I did wonder if it was going to be enough for me and my sister (after all, it is often said that we both have an 'extra pizza/pasta stomach' - like cows have for grass). But rest assured this was rich, satisfying and the perfect amount for two ladies who laugh in the face of calories.

I have added garlic butter to the original recipe, and next time I shall serve it with a simple rocket salad rather than on its own. You could also play around with this, perhaps freestyling with pesto or finely chopped sunblush tomatoes to the gnocchi dough.

You are welcome!

The only gnocchi recipe you'll ever need (serves two)

Adapted from Steamy Kitchen

• 1 pot of ricotta (about 250ml)
• A good handful of parmesan cheese (plus extra reserved for garnishing)
• 1 large egg yolk
• 1 teaspoon lemon zest (plus extra reserved for garnishing)
• 100g plain flour
• 1 tablespoon chopped parsley (plus extra reserved for garnishing)
• 4 tablespoons garlic butter (I used Lurpak's ready made garlic butter)
• 1 tablespoon olive oil

1. Mix together the ricotta, parmesan, yolk, zest, parsley and salt in large bowl. Sprinkle half of the flour on the mixture, gently stir around a few times to incorporate. Dump the mixture on a lightly floured board. Sprinkle the remaining flour on top of the mixture. Gently knead with your fingertips, just bringing together the mixture until flour is incorporated through. This only should take a minute or two.

2. Divide dough into 4 parts. Take one part and roll into a long, thin sausage. Cut gnocchi into 1" pieces. Repeat with the rest of the dough.

3. Heat frying pan over medium-high heat. Add half the garlic butter and the olive oil. When butter is just lightly browned, add gnocchi in single layer. Fry on one side for 2 minutes, flip. Fry other side for 3-4 minutes. Timing totally depends on how big your gnocchi is. Do a taste test - do you taste flour? Not done yet. Keep cooking and trying it, until it tastes amazing.

4. When it's ready, remove the gnocchi with a slotted spoon and arrange on plates. Add the rest of the garlic butter to the pan until it has just melted. Then drizzle the melted garlic butter over the gnocchi. Serve with a generous sprinkling of lemon zest, parmesan and parsley.

Today I am ... ready to go back to Titanic

Titanic, 1997: Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox. Image from titanicuniverse.com

Flashback to 1997.

In a packed cinema of girls watching Titanic for the third or fourth time, we are mouthing along to the script and when the credits roll and the lights come on, everyone turns to each other demanding, 'Did you cry when Jack died? Did you? How many tissues did you use?' If you didn't cry, it was clear you were a monster.

Fifteen years on, after re-living Titanic in remastered 3D, it's a similar experience. Only I feel slightly cross-eyed. This was the closest thing to the unparalleled experience of watching Titanic for the first time, the subtle use of 3D immersing you more deeply into the drama and sheer scale of the film.

But, despite some very misjudged trailers for little boys' action movies, I don't think anyone was really there for the 3D. The latest release of Titanic is about nostalgia, not only for old world decadence and innocent romance. For my generation, it's also nostalgia for the late 1990s. Before the days of texting, reality TV and Twilight. Before we all got jobs and actual relationships that weren't with a fictional, dead character.

Titanic is the ultimate antidote to modern life. In the wise words of Liam Neeson in Love Actually: "We need Kate. We need Leo. And we need them now."

Titanic, 1997: Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox Image from namastehollywood.com

I know there are a lot of haters out there, so I'll try and explain the appeal.

For me, Titanic can be forgiven any clunky dialogue and plot holes, because it is more than a film. It is part of popular culture, our generation's only Gone With the Wind moment.

We knew the dialogue by heart (and, as I learnt this week, it turns out I still do. Is that taking up valuable brain space?!). I taught myself  the piano music from the naked drawing scene with near religious determination.

Even years later, at university, one of our regular haunts was a nightclub on a boat, originally dubbed The Boat. Every Monday, there would invariably be at least one drunken student clambering around on deck shouting 'I'm the king of the world!', shortly before throwing up into the Tyne.

Titanic, 1997: Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox. Image from famouslinersonline.com

Just what is it about Titanic? In a word - Jack.

While the boys in our class sported bowl haircuts and threw footballs at our heads, Jack Dawson was a true hero. He represented freedom, fun and romance. We wanted him to whisk us away from double maths and take us on rollercoasters and teach us how to ride horses and spit like a man.

Apparently we had a lucky escape - the studios wanted Matthew McConaughey (eek!), but thankfully James Cameron insisted on Leonardo DiCaprio to bring Jack Dawson to life.

Did he give us unrealistic expectations of love? Probably. It was always rather disappointing on school trips to France when there was no handsome artist with floppy golden hair waiting for us at the front of the ferry. Even today, Jack and Rose's epic 3-day Great Love makes modern dating seem pretty banal and brutal. By modern standards, in the time it took Jack and Rose to fall in love, break up, reunite, plan their elopement and meet their tragic fate, we would still be waiting for him to text after the first date.

Titanic proudly wears its heart on its sleeve and is loved by millions precisely because it is so simple and void of cynicism.

Titanic, 1997: Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox. Image from cambridgescholarsprogramme.com

Titanic, 1997: Paramount Pictures, 20th Century Fox. Image from namastehollywood.com

Once upon a time, Titanic was very nearly ruined for me when a former housemate and their other half decided to put it on full blast at 1am, in a failed attempt to mask some more dubious sounds... Fortunately I managed to repress the slightly disturbing memory and love it more than ever today.

Of course the criticism is understandable; it's no doubt a flawed film. I still love James Horner's haunting score, but whoever okayed Celine Dion to sing the theme has a lot to answer for. And the enormous floating door that Rose refuses to share with Jack looks even bigger in 3D.

But none of that matters. There's magic between the young Kate and Leo - in the lively dancing scene at the Irish steerage party, for example, or when Rose leaps off the lifeboat and they share an emotional reunion on the stairs ("You jump, I jump, right?"). The sinking scenes are every bit as horrifying, spectacular and chilling now as they were fifteen years ago. I asked a male friend of mine what his favourite bit is, to which he replied: "When the man hits the propeller." Nice.

We all know which bit he means though, and it's a classic example of how Titanic will stay with you long after you take off your 3D glasses.

Today I am ... rolling with eggcentrics on Primrose Hill

I have spent a very merry Easter with two lovely ladies, decorating eggs and rolling them down Primrose Hill.

We began the morning by freestyling with acrylic paint, feathers, cocktail umbrellas and glitter, using our extensive collection of shot glasses as egg stands. The results?

A chick that unwittingly resembled Boris Johnson. Two owls. A drag queen parrot. Kate Middleton. Kanye West with a white beard. The Queen. And a happy green egg in a Chinese hat.

Once we'd made our way to North London, we carried our team of little eggs to the top of Primrose Hill for the 7th Annual Lost & Found Egg Roll, where we thought we'd fallen down a rabbit hole into a surreal egg-themed Mad Hatter's Tea Party.

We were greeted by an array of whimsical characters, who included a German man in a glittery jockstrap and a fox tail who we shall call Bruno.

Armed with a loudpeaker, Bruno warmed up the crowd shouting, 'When I say egg, you say egg. Egg... EGG! Egg... EGG!'

Bruno then lined us all up to present our eggs for the best dressed competition. It was at this moment we realised our sweet little motley crew of eggs were somewhat out of their depth.

Boris Johnson the Chick and our collection of owls didn't stand a chance next to Egg Zeppelin, Egglebert Dunkabit, and The Eggs Factor (an elaborate construction, complete with judges, a stage and audience).

To judge the competition, Bruno accosted a bald passer-by.  'He looks like an egg! We shall call him Ouef!' declared Bruno.

Poor Ouef didn't know quite what he'd walked into, but he gamely walked up and down the line and eventually settled on a winner - the Damien Hirst Egg, suspended in a vat of water.

It was nearly time for the egg roll. A cider swigging park-dweller introduced himself as Dave and joined in the fun, offering himself as a human finish line for the race.

Sadly we had to leave before the official egg roll actually started, so we initiated our own unofficial 'fringe' egg roll down the other side of the hill before taking our leave (less rolling, more chucking). As we walked back down the hill into the real world, we could still hear people chanting 'EGG! EGG! EGG!' in the distance.

By the end of the lovely afternoon, it's fair to say the word egg had lost all meaning.

Today I am ... a world-travelling photojournalist

Marilyn Monroe on set of The Misfits in Nevada, 1961, by Eve Arnold. Image: Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos, via britmovie.co.uk

Art Sensus looks more like an upmarket office block from the outside, barely signed, behind extensive roadworks in Victoria.

Here, in the unlikeliest of settings, you can escape into an extraordinary world seen through the eyes of Eve Arnold, the iconic twentieth century female photographer. Eve died in January this year shortly before what would have been her 100th birthday, and the 'All About Eve' exhibition (free, running until 27 April) is a celebration of her life's work.

I'll hold my hands up and admit that until now, I had been guilty of associating Eve only with her most famous photos of Marilyn Monroe on the set of The Misfits in the Nevada desert, Marilyn's last film before she died.

Eve's stunning photos of the golden age of Hollywood capture some of the world's most famous faces in unguarded moments, as they film on location.

For me, the highlight of this series was Michael Caine and Candice Bergen jokingly breaking out into the tango in between takes on the set of The Magus in Majorca, 1967.

Michael Caine and Candice Bergen, The Magus, 1967, by Eve Arnold. Image: Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos, via artsensus.com

Incredibly, Eve also gained insight into political powerhouses, going on the road with Malcolm X during the black Muslim movement and following Margeret Thatcher on the campaign trail.

But there is a lot more to Eve than her little black book.

Eve's extensive travels also led her to document evocative landscapes of rural China, family life in Cuba, asylum patients in Haiti, children in the ghettos of Puerto Rico, Navajo women in the American southwest and veiled Afghani widows.

Horse training for the militia, Inner Mongolia, China, 1979 by Eve Arnold. Image: Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos, via guardian.co.uk

What stands out to me the most?

For some reason, the picture I remember the most is a youthful shot of our very own Queen cracking a rare smile as she gets caught in the rain, gazing up at the sky.

Queen Elizabeth II, by Eve Arnold. Image: Eve Arnold/Magnum Photos via nationalgalleries.org

Despite these electic subjects, there is a beautiful, escapist signature style to all of Eve's photographs. I'm no expert but I think it's simply her personality, coming through each picture. The world according to Eve.

It's clear to see the closeness, trust and warmth that Eve shares with her subjects, teasing out the spontaneous, unguarded side of everyone from Cuban bartenders to Andy Warhol. We can imagine she must have had charm, talent and gritty determination in abundance to gain access to people and places we'd never otherwise see.

Upon leaving, you get the sense that you have just witnessed an incredible, rollercoaster ride of a lifetime; surely a movie waiting to happen.

Today I am ... at war with winter

Back in February, snow blizzards did their best to thwart our summer-themed house party. But the big freeze didn't put a dampener on proceedings, oh no. Like true Brits, our nearest and dearest gallantly put on their shorts, sunglasses and beach wear and braved the elements for the promise of fun in the sun.

The lilting beats of Will Smith and Shaggy floated invitingly out into the frosty street, and once inside, our shivering guests were transported to a beach paradise. We covered our whole house in seaside wallpaper (two months later, we have absolutely no intentions of removing it), inflatable palm trees and flamingos, and for our piece de resistance, concocted a lethal vat of tropical rum punch.

Anyway it seems the Macarena may have had some kind of pagan sun-dance effect, as just a couple of weeks after the party, the whole of London was bathed in an early spring. Cherry blossom, daffodils and blue skies ahoy.*

By March, every patch of grass was crammed with city slickers and students catching the lunchtime rays and the tantalising smell of barbeques drifted over garden fences across London. As for me, I wiled away the sunny weekends in Kew Gardens, South Bank and St James Park, watched 6 Nations rugby matches on big screens in The Castle's beer garden and had my first Pimms of the season.

Kew Gardens, March 2012

And now, winter, my old foe, it seems we meet again. Unbelievable pictures of snow-blanketed Edinburgh, Newcastle and Sheffield are being posted threateningly by our friends in the north as the cold weather advances.  Surely it's only a matter of time before the frosty invasion reaches London.

Only this time, you will be prepared. Arm yourself and your loved ones with the below - and together, we can send the big freeze packing...

The drink: Tropical rum punch (serves a crowd!)

3 bottles of white rum (you heard me)
1 bottle of Malibu
2 cartons mango juice
4 cartons tropical juice
1 bottle of cloudy lemonade
A load of chopped fruit (we used strawberries, mangos, apples, lemons and limes)
Ice
Put the chopped fruit in the biggest saucepan or tub you have. Pour in the rum so the fruit soaks up some of the alcohol. Leave for 5-10 minutes and then add the rest!

Serve with cocktail umbrellas, naturally.

The tunes:

Now, my original playlist for the party is over 7 hours long (it's fair to say I got a bit carried away - my pop knowledge is a Pandora's box to be opened at your peril).

But if you don't have the stamina for the full party-thon, here are a few personal highlights that should keep the winter blues at bay...

 

 

 

*There's a small chance this phenomenon could also have been due to the 'seasons' - but I really think it was the Macarena.

Today I am ... totes amaze, babes

Photo credit: Channel 4

Yes! The ultimate guilty pleasure, Made in Chelsea, is back on our screens. Your one and only source into the scandalous lives of Chelsea's elite, to borrow from a famous fictional blogger.

Some initial observations... Proudlock, who bears an increasingly striking resemblance to Princess Di, appears to be sporting some sort of special church earring. Hugo's underwear model 'girlfriend' is alarmingly vacant, even next to Millie (who I am very fond of).

What I love most about Made in Chelsea is that this is accessible escapism -  living a just a 2 minute (chauffer driven) ride over the river from the motherland of The Kings Road, it's all too tempting to find myself wandering into the 'set' in between episodes to get my fix. Maybe even playing M83's Midnight City on my headphones while walking around pensively and flicking my hair, waiting for enemies and exes to 'coincidentally' walk by.

Photo credit: homesandproperty.co.uk

Seeing cast members seems to be a rite of passage for anyone living in South West London, but me being blind as a bat and having taken an aversion to my glasses, I seem to be the only one who has failed to spot any of them in person. Word on the (Sloane) street is that my personal favourites Jamie and Ollie are surprisingly small...

There is however one character in particular who, until last night's episode, I have found myself strangely drawn to and have been especially keen to spot, since he was promoted to the number 1 in my weird crush list... the one and only Francis Boulle. Since moving to London, I have on odd occasions unwittingly found myself in Public and Boujis, but somehow the bumbling, skateboarding, ginger extraordinaire has managed to elude me so far.

I don't know if it's the cutting wit ("I am edgy. I have lots of...edges") or the dashing looks and large hands, as seen in his now infamous portrait.

Image credit: CarolinedePeyrecave.co.uk

After getting through three quarters of last night's episode, and the awkwardly sexy CEO of Boulle Enterprises still nowhere to be seen, he finally materialises at Gabilicious's boob reduction party. But any momentary joy is swiftly shattered when he utters the words: "I prefer small boobs. Everyone should get a boob reduction."

Oh Francis. Disheartened and looking down at my 34E's, I realise we are not destined for one another after all. Your loss Boulle, I'm setting my sights on another posh ginger. ACTUAL Prince Harry was spotted crossing the Chelsea threshold this weekend, staggering out of a bar at the top of my road in Battersea and dancing in the street. (How long til Hazza pops up in Made in Chelsea? Make this happen!)

With the most eligible man in Britain wandering around my neighbourhood at 3am, princesshood doesn't seem quite so elusive... as long as he's not another bottom man.