'Ten Thousand Memories': The Larders That Time Forgot

The Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising may sound like a somewhat niche excursion for marketing geeks (myself included).

But this curious little museum in Notting Hill has something for everyone. With over 10,000 products from bygone eras, it is an unashamedly nostalgic, cluttered and garish celebration of British eccentricity and culture - from Victorian royalist tat and wartime humour, to the brash jingles and supermarkets of the 1950s. It even charts the controversial evolution of Opal Fruits to Starburst, and Marathon to Snickers, from which the nation is still reeling.

The museum is the brainchild and personal collection of a self-confessed hoarder, Robert Opie. I'm told that the compulsive collector was eating a packet of Munchies on a train platform, and rather than throw the packet away, he decided to keep it as a souvenir of the time. The rest is, quite literally, history.

Tucked away in the cobbled Colville Mews next to the Temperley boutique (aptly painted as a Union Jack), the collection is built around a time tunnel; a vivid kaleidoscope of toys, groceries, posters, and fashion through the twentieth century and up to present day.

Each display is a time capsule, a window into the minutiae of life in a different decade. Walking through it, in chronological order, is to witness the gradual, relentless passage of time. Don't be fooled by the day-to-day subject matter: the packaging of our household favourites tells the story of two world wars, new discoveries, the Industrial Revolution, mass consumerism and the gradual emancipation of women.

In one hour, as you peer into the larders that time forgot, you will experience the journey our grandparents went on during the course of their lives - told through the changing contents of their cupboards.

After the austerity of World War I, for example, you begin to see the frivolity and prosperity return in the products that were being consumed. Shorter skirts, jazz records, miniature bottles of spirits, cars. As everyone tried to forget the horrors that had passed and the millions of boys who never returned, England had just got back onto its feet and was enjoying life once more - only - unthinkably - to be thrown back into War again in 1939. Suddenly, the larders once more look austere and rationed. You can imagine the disbelief that it could all be happening again.

With all this unrest, it is hardly surprising that the wartime generations looked back with rose-tinted glasses on the stable, patriotic naivety of Victorian era. The same generations might also be baffled to know why on earth we, in the 21st century, delight so much in Blitz Parties and wartime-themed speakeasies.

I begin to realise that nostalgia is all relative. It's funny to think that everything here, so quaint and vintage looking under our gaze, was once modern and cutting edge. I experience the sudden bolt of recognition as I enter the 1990s room, 'my' decade, and locate my place in history - and the depressing fact that my childhood memories are now retro.

My time capsule is characterised by Space Raiders crisps, dinosaur-shaped turkey nuggets, Spice Girls Easter Eggs and Captain Planet doughnuts (childhood obesity was clearly not a concern in those days...). These *ahem* super-healthy groceries all felt completely unremarkable at the time,  and we'd have laughed at the idea they'd end up in a museum. But here they are, tugging on my heartstrings, and I'm immediately catapulted back to 1996, when I'd beg my mum to put these in the trolley and spend all my pocket money on Spice Girls singles. I can't help but wonder whether people will one day look back on our iPhones, Instagram profiles, Starbucks cups and Miley Cyrus videos and think, 'Ah, how quaint - the good old days'.

Some items in the museum take on new meaning or uncomfortable irony, with the advantage of hindsight - for example a poignant 'Mork and Mindy' book featuring a young Robin Williams, the chilling 'Jim'll Fix It' merchandise from the 1970s, and a wartime board game entitled 'Listen In'. Ah, phone-hacking fun for the whole family! How lovely.

At other times during our trip down memory lane, it feels as though history is repeating itself. The patriotic souvenirs from the London 1948 Olympics and the Royal Wedding of Princess Elizabeth are remarkably similar to what was on sale during the summer of 2012, when we reveled in the optimism of the Olympics and the Jubilee. We LOVED all the tat, precisely because it harked back to what we imagine to be a simpler, happier time.

The visit must have been a baffling experience for my Californian companion, who hadn't grown up with these brands - but what better cultural induction to Britain than through the changing faces of Dairy Milk, Corn Flakes, Oxo Cubes and even the Queen? Seeing these ubiquitous items in their former lives is like seeing photos of your grandparents as teenagers. The outside wrappers of these national treasures may have evolved along with our rapidly changing society, but the products inside span generations and are omnipresent, constant reminders of our national identity.  Kind of like the Queen herself.

The Museum of Brands, Packaging and Advertising: 2 Colville Mews, Notting Hill, www.museumofbrands.com, entry £6.50 for adults

The Prodigal Escapist Returns

OK, I dropped the ball. Apparently, I needed escapism from my blog about escapism.

I'd love to say that the absence of blog posts has, in fact, been the ultimate tribute to my subject matter... an ironic and postmodern exploration of escapism, if you will. But while that does me more justice than I deserve, it's not too far off the mark (however unintentional). Quite simply, I've been busy escaping!

January is often maligned as a dreary, long month of scrimping, saving, dieting and generally dealing with the fairly horrifying return of the full working week. But in retrospect, mine was OK. Largely thanks to friends, food, prosecco and my Christmas presents of box sets and an electric heater, I'd even go as far as to say I rather enjoyed it.

Fig and goat's cheese tart at the Imperial, King's Road

With the exception of the 5:2 diet, which only requires willpower for around a third of the week, I haven't really stuck to many of my half-hearted new year's resolutions (which included 'blog more'). And you know what? I'm not even sorry!

Here's what I've been doing instead so far this year, thus evading the January blues:

1. Blasting away the last of the food-induced lethargy with a walk on Holkham beach in Norfolk

 

2. Discovering the joys of Game of Thrones, Girls and, um, What Happens in Sunny Beach

3. Revelling after work at the new Piano Smithfield bar - then (regrettably) pestering the pianist for not taking my requests. 'Hey Mr Pianist, I've asked you three times....'

4. Playing endless rounds of Would You Rather... with my housemate (marrying the delightful 'Nips' from Sunny Beach features in rather a lot of these unthinkable dilemmas)

5. Discovering QuizUp, a highly addictive app that allows you to challenge your friends in any subject under the sun: so far I'm faring particularly well at Harry Potter, internet slang and, surprisingly, general knowledge. I am performing less well in the fields of botany and flags of the world. Challenge me if you dare!

6. Gazing awestruck at the incredible images at the Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition at the Natural History Museum.

Image: Essence of Elephants, Greg du Toit, Wildlife Photographer of the Year 2014

7. Learning a lot about how to - and how not to - casually interrupt celebrities' conversations at the National Television Awards. Bridget Jones' classic 'Do you know.... where the toilets are?' is a fail-safe.

8. Listening to my friend's rather lovely Spotify playlist, What Love Feels Like, including John Legend, The Wannadies, Audrey Hepburn and lots more.

9. Beating my terrible habit of avoiding life admin:  Proud moment #1, we finally took down the Christmas tree on 26th January, and even prouder moment #2, put up curtains in my bedroom after eight months without them (sorry, neighbours - show's over).

10. Reading Philomena for Book Club. It's the heartbreaking true story of a troubled Irish boy whose mother was forced to give him up, and the eye-opening future that awaited him in his new life in America. So, so good. And not at all like an episode of Long Lost Family.

11. Using my new Taste Card to get 50% off at all manner of random restaurants. Then thinking, screw it, and blowing the budget with fabulous (and very much full-price) dinners at Foxlow and the Modern Pantry - both in Clerkenwell and come highly recommended!

12. And while we're on food, I must mention a recent Saturday brunch of sourdough, grilled halloumi and crushed avocado, and the most refreshing orange juice ever squeezed, at the Imperial in Chelsea  followed by an epic riverside walk past the fairy lit Albert Bridge. Let's just ignore the sore feet and thunderstorm that followed.

13. Catching up on awards-season movies. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty in particular is perfect for the 'new year, new me' mentality, although beware - it may make you want to sack it all in and go on an adventure.

14. Speaking of which, much of the month has been spent planning imaginary visits to friends in New York, Africa, Dubai, New Zealand, Spain and Paris (chances of me affording to go on all of these said holidays? Zero).

15.  Wearing my friends down until they join the Anthony Nolan bone marrow register - and joining it myself of course. Genuinely, this is the most worthwhile thing I've done so far - if you're 16-30, go for it! Simple way to do your bit and, maybe one day, save a life.

16. Saying 'I feel like 2014 is going to be a good year!' A lot. And meaning it.

Image: Pinterest.com

So that's one month filled, eleven to go. Not all very inspirational or virtuous I'm afraid, but we've survived it - January is DONE.

 

But wait, what? It isn't spring yet? (Sorry, the premature blossom in Holland Park isn't fooling anyone). We've still got months of no-man's land, that void between seasons, before the daffodils, chicks and Easter Eggs arrive to make everything better again.

But on the plus side, we've got a brand new calendar to populate and endless possibilities of how to do it. And fortunately, we have the best city in the world to keep us entertained.

 

Everything is illuminated: The Light Show

Image: Rose, by Ann Veronica Janssens, from telegraph.co.uk

Have you seen the sun? Apparently it's big, hot, round, and radiates a lot of light. Last seen in the UK around the time of the Royal Wedding in 2011.

If you find it, please return it at once and I will reward you handsomely with choc ices and Soltan. In the meantime, I would suggest that everyone visits The Light Show at the Hayward Gallery.

Hot on the heels of The Rain Room, the Light Show is this season's 'it' exhibition, selling out daily and receiving rave reviews from kids to critics alike.

The ability of light to transform your whole emotional state cannot be underestimated. Perhaps this is the key to the Light Show's unprecedented popularity; it turns out a lot of people want to escape the dark, grey and INSANELY COLD streets of London for a lighter, brighter and happier world.

If our eyes are indeed the windows to our souls, imagine the mood enhancing benefits of throwing open those windows and letting light flood in. Luminescent, colourful, dazzling, psycadelic light. It's really no wonder you leave this exhibition with that dizzy, uplifted (and slightly queasy) feeling that you get when you step off a rollercoaster.

Image; Chromosaturation, by Carlos Cruz-Diez, from telegraph.co.uk

Somehow all of the hype for the Light Show had completely eluded me before my own visit, so when a friend suggested it, I thought we were heading to an obscure, cool little exhibition on the South Bank.

What awaited us was a wildly popular, other worldly experience. The lacklustre afternoon daylight seemed lightyears away once we entered this impressive display of illusion and effects. The first exhibit (Cylinder II, below) is pure, unadulterated sparkle, like a giant Christmas decoration. I was hynotised.

Image: Leo Villareal, Cylinder II, 2012

Once you get past the initial spectacle, there is a lot more to these installations than meets the eye. I was particularly struck by some of the more subtle pieces, including Exploded View by Jim Campbell, which plays on our uncertainty of shadows. A web of little lights gently shimmers in seemingly random patterns - until you catch it at a particular angle and the effect takes on the unmistakably familiar shape of passing commuters on a street.

Another highlight was the solid 'cone' of light by artist Anthony McCall. We were awestruck as we stood inside his light sculpture, 'ripping' into the beams around us with our hands and staring, fixated, into the light at the end of the tunnel. "I feel like I'm about to meet my maker!" whispered a young woman next to us.

Image; You and I, Horizontal, by Anthony McCall, from guardian.co.uk

My absolute favourite thing at the Light Show was the somewhat stressful display of fountains in a strobe lit room, by Olafur Eliasson. Under the intensely flashing lights, the water makes random, unconnected shapes. You can feel the droplets on your face and yet the water looks solid, as though frozen mid-flight. (Don't touch the water though. They don't like that.)

By this point, my poor retinas had taken an absolute beating, never quite sure whether to dilate, contract or indeed to believe what is in front of them.

In my very humble, layman's opinion, there were just a couple of duds at the Light Show. I didn't quite get the little plastic cup, spinning around on a blender, with a torch shining onto it...

But overall, the exhibition is a spectacle for the senses which simply awes and inspires. Absolutely anyone would take enormous pleasure from this very accessible exhibition, and it could just be a lifesaver for light-starved Londoners this Spring.

The Light Show runs until 6 May 2013. Tickets are £11 (concessions available). Tip: Book tickets in advance, preferably not on a weekend! 

Ridin' Solo in London

"Being solitary is being alone well: being alone luxuriously immersed in doings of your own choice, aware of the fullness of your own presence rather than of the absence of others." - Alice Koller

I'm back from the blogging wilderness. There is no real reason for the radio silence; sometimes you just need to stop, switch off, escape and reflect.

As a natural chatterbox, it has taken me years to appreciate these fleeting moments of solitude; only recently have I started to realise how much I value time spent by myself. Years of playground politics have conditioned us to feel conspicuous and paranoid without the comforting presence of others.

But you can't be lonely if you like the person you're alone with. Start enjoying your own company and you realise that a little bit of time to yourself is actually one of life's great pleasures, especially in London. There are so many amazing sights and sounds you can routinely miss, amidst daily distractions of city crowds, phone calls, emails, chatter, headphones and crying babies in the flat upstairs.

As Marilyn Monroe once said, "I restore myself when I'm alone." And let's face it, she was no loser.

"Do you want that to eat-in?"

If your automatic reaction to this question is to scuttle away with your lunch and eat it at your desk, this blog post is for you, my friend.

Lots of us are happy as Larry to eat alone when we're abroad, serenely soaking up the atmosphere in a beach bar or continental square while we watch an unfamiliar world go by - but eating or drinking by yourself in London seems more unnatural.

But you know what? Right now, I'm drinking a Frappucino in Starbucks on Kensington High Street (by myself) and no-one is staring! I don't know why that should be surprising; I certainly don't stare at people drinking coffee by themselves or shout 'Billy no mates!' at them - and if I did, quite frankly, I'd be the one freaking people out, not the poor bloke just trying to enjoy his muffin.

I'm also enjoying indulging in some top notch people-watching. So far, I've witnessed an awkward first date between a born-again Buddhist and a French guy who arrived on a skateboard and I've overheard little gems like "George, stop spitting in my hair!" (That wasn't from the dating couple, thank goodness).

London is full of wonderful lunching spots best enjoyed alone. The ritual of a solo visit to a street food market like Kerb in King's Cross, or Exmouth Market, allows you to fully appreciate the food in its own right. You can indulgently browse each stall without anyone getting impatient while you flip a coin to decide between Moroccan meatballs or a Kimchi burger, before taking your little box to the nearest al-fresco spot for an indulgent picnic for one.

Not all who wander are lost

I'm a big fan of spontaneous, aimless wandering. A recent stroll with a friend took us to Holland Park for the first time, where we spotted the first cherry blossom of the year in the Japanese Garden and witnessed an alarming stand-off between a peacock and a squirrel. I made a mental note to go there by myself with a book or a notepad next time I just need to escape.

When you're exploring London solo, there's all the time in the world to appreciate the little things, watch buskers, pop into bookshops, stop when you see something cool and take 'arty' photos as you go along.

It doesn't really matter where;  just choose an area with a name that's intriguing or fun to say (I like Chalk Farm, Little Venice, Primrose Hill, West India Quays, Pudding Mill Lane, Eel Pie Island...), jump on the tube and then pop out like a rabbit emerging from a warren, finding yourself in the middle of a brand new place. By venturing out of my usual haunts, I've started to piece together my geographical knowledge of London and discovered lots of hidden gems to subsequently share with my friends.

And don't forget to take out your headphones - it can be quite a revelation. Suddenly, you're engaged in the world around you, listening to the ducks in the park and the random snippets of strangers' conversations, and you don't jump out of your skin if someone actually talks to you.

Cinema: the final frontier

So I've mastered eating and wandering alone, but the last taboo is the humble cinema. No-one can say how or why this is any less socially acceptable than watching a film at home - but somehow it just is.

I have not actually done it myself, but I'd say I've mastered worse (albeit not through choice): the theatre. I had agreed to watch the notoriously terrifying play 'Ghost Stories' with two friends, but their train broke down and, as I stood outside the theatre at 7:27pm, I had two options; sacrifice my £30 ticket, or go through the whole horrific two-hour ordeal by myself. I chose the latter. Thankfully, the middle-aged couple to my left didn't seem to mind me screaming into their shoulders. I was never quite the same after I emerged from that theatre - but I felt brave.

Clearly I'm not completely immune to the shame of the 'Billy No Mates' label. Even as I write this post, I feel compelled to assure you that I am a socially functioning person with plenty of friends (really!), and I love nothing more than to spend time in their company.

But having been busy and sociable all week, I woke up to a gloriously springlike Sunday afternoon and I have filled it doing exactly what I feel like doing. Writing, wandering, window shopping and drinking coffee. London is my very own oyster and just for today, I'm not sharing it.

The Faulty Towers Dining Experience

There are many dining experiences in London that seem to take gleeful pleasure in providing bad service, but The 'Faulty' Towers Dining Experience (the clue is in the name) is surely the most fun.

I took my friend on a surprise mate date here for her birthday last Sunday. I think she may have been expecting a girly afternoon tea or cocktails, so it's fair to say she was rather taken aback on entering the bar at the Charing Cross Hotel only to be accosted by a flustered, exasperated Basil Fawlty, suspiciously asking us if we were "together".

In this manic, loosely scripted tribute to the TV series, we - the diners - became characters in an episode of the chaotic 1970s sitcom Fawlty Towers.

Our waiters for the evening were none other than the lovably grumpy Basil Fawlty, his nagging wife Sybil and the feckless but endearing Spaniard, Manuel. I think Polly must have had the night off.

The actors stayed in character all evening, and only a small proportion of the night was scripted so there was a brilliant element of reckless spontaneity to the proceedings as the Fawlty Towers staff mingled (and argued) with nearly everyone in the room. In between courses, the staff seamlessly incorporated new and classic scenes from the show, including the fire drill, the escaped rat and of course, the immortal lines "Don't mention the War!" and "I know nothing!"

Just like the sitcom, this is slapstick, physical comedy. The tall and gangling Basil clambered around under my seat looking for Manuel's 'pet rat', shortly after Manuel helpfully tucked my napkin into my top - leading my friend to observe I'd been sort of groped by both Basil and Manuel in the course of the evening (score!).

You'll need a very British sense of self-deprecating irony to appreciate that, at the Faulty Towers Dining Experience, you're willingly paying for deliberately awful service and bland retro food (when they ran out of soup, Sybil kindly informed us that she would "ask Chef to open another tin").

You should, for example, prepare to be treated with exasperated disdain before you've even sat down at your table. Thankfully, no-one seemed to be genuinely insulted when publicly asked, "Did you forget your medication, dear?" and told to "Tuck your shirt in!", before being applauded by the entire room.

This could quite easily have been a total cringe-fest, as of course its success entirely depends on the ability of the cast to involve - but never humiliate - their guests, and to loyally impersonate the much-loved original characters.

However you'll be pleased to know that Basil, Manuel and Sybil completely nailed their uncannily accurate performances, and clearly share a fondness for the show; nearly three hours later, their masks still hadn't slipped. It was only once we were leaving the hotel and encountered 'Basil' on his way home, we realised he was in fact a friendly, chilled-out Australian in his late 20s (who had lost his voice from all the shouting).

Just like a cosy Sunday night watching old repeats of the sitcom, our evening at the Faulty Towers Dining Experience was nostalgic, comforting, raucously funny and quintessentially English. Next time, I'm bringing my mum.

The Faulty Towers Dining Experience now has an open-ended residency at the Charing Cross Hotel. Tickets range from £43.50 to £49.50.

Tim Walker: Fairytales never looked so fashionable

Image: Tim Walker, Storyteller 

"Every girl or boy I photograph is Alice" - Tim Walker

The faded grandeur of Somerset House makes the perfect backdrop for fashion photographer Tim Walker's fantastical new exhibition, 'Storyteller'. Fittingly, it was Halloween weekend when we tumbled into Tim Walker's wonderland and found ourselves in his topsy turvy world, which is both terrific and terrifying.

Image: Tim Walker, Storyteller

Tim Walker's mission is to turn daydreams into photographs, paying tribute to childhood fairy tales and English eccentricity on a dazzling and cinematic scale. Abandoned mansions provide the blank canvas for Tim's houses of fun, where pink clouds explode among the rhododendrons, World War II aeroplanes crash into the drawing room, and, brilliantly, a flying saucer interrupts a fox hunt.

Image: Tim Walker, Storyteller

These elaborate, imaginative sets evoke the macabre beauty of Tim Burton and the trippy theatricality of Baz Lurhman, but it's not a case of style over substance; Tim's work also displays an ethereal, wistful innocence that for some reason strikes a surprisingly emotional chord. At times I felt a tinge of sadness and nostalgia looking at some of his pictures, as you might feel when you play with your childhood doll's house again as an adult, and only then realise how wonderfully innocent and fragile it had been.

Image: Tim Walker, Storyteller

But it's not all Disney and 'happily ever afters'; there are monsters in the wardrobe, and you get the sense that at any moment, the house of cards could come tumbling down. Everyone who has ever read the original version of The Little Mermaid will know that in the classic creepy fairy tales, darkness lurks unsettlingly alongside the whimsical and beautiful. So it is in Tim's world.

In one photograph, a giant cello-playing bumblebee sits on a child's bed, who hides beneath it, unsure if the visitor is friendly or frightening. There is also something both joyful and sinister about Walker's portraits of the Monty Python old boys, clouded in a ghostly smoke as they inhale their exploding pipes.

Image: Tim Walker, Vanity Fair

The musical bumblebee is one of many props that are actually on display in the exhibition space, real and tangible. Also present are the WWII aeroplane, a giant snail, a skeleton, several grinning mechanical puppets and a romantic swan boat, all of which were used in his photo shoots.

Inside the exhibition. Image: from telegraph.co.uk

By including these genuine artefacts from his fantasy land, Tim blurs the boundaries between the safe, real world and the surreal landscape of his photographs.

It's a bit like when you wake up from a vivid dream, both relieved and disappointed to realise you are in your own bed, only to find some little memento under your pillow that proves it was all real after all...

Tim Walker: Storyteller, supported by Mulberry, runs until 27 January at Somerset House, free entry.

Travel Photographer of the Year Exhibition

Image: Poras Choudhary, Travel Photographer of the Year, from telegraph.co.uk

Yesterday I travelled the world - without leaving London. I saw an orangutan emerging from the early morning mists in a Borneo rainforest. Mysterious masked figures stalking the streets of a Mexican town celebrating the Day of the Dead. A group of wrinkled husbands basking outside their houses in the Tuscan afternoon sun, as they have done since they were boys. A tent in Canada aglow underneath the Northern Lights. And a lone adventurer making a jaw-dropping descent as he abseiled a thundering 225m high waterfall.

Image: Thomas Kokta, Travel Photographer of the Year, from telegraph.co.uk

In one of those moments that reminds me why I love London, a friend and I had stumbled across the Travel Photographer of the Year exhibition on our way home from a sunny afternoon watching the big Olympic screens in Hyde Park. With no urgent plans, we wandered in.

Just hours earlier, sitting in the crowds watching the games, we had commented that it seemed like all the world was in London right now. And that could never be more true than at the perfectly timed Travel Photographer of the Year exhibition.

Based at the Royal Geographical Society and nestled against a backdrop of the Albert Hall, all corners of the world are brought together for this exhibition, through the eyes of photographers ranging from children to professionals. The displays are spread across the indoor space, the terrace and the lawn - and helpfully there are umbrellas on hand should these be required.

Image: Louis Montrose (overall winner), Travel Photographer of the Year, from metro.co.uk

Unlike the better known and doubtlessly amazing Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition, this free exhibition was surprisingly quiet and felt more undiscovered - adding to that intrepid traveller feeling.

From the moment we were welcomed by friendly Kiwis on the door, offering us fairy cakes and tea for a suggested donation, we knew we had walked into a simple and unpretentious exhibition which requires no technical or artistic expertise to appreciate its beauty. Like any great travelling experience, it simply reminds you of the joy of the incredible world around us.

Image: Jonathan Munshi, from misscittykitty.co.uk

We were then taken on a panoramic, all-encompassing journey through epic landscapes, intimate moments and unnoticed details from across the globe.

Each photo is a window into a parallel life. I was struck by how different our lives and landscapes are - and yet there are common themes that bond people wherever they live: daydreaming at work, the exhuberance of childhood, fleeting moments of loneliness in the busiest of places. In fact I think that's what has struck me most about the Olympics - all of humanity united in one place, and the tears, pride and emotions that are felt by all, regardless of where they are from.

Image: GMB Akash, from guardian.co.uk

It is impossible to choose a highlight from the Travel Photographer of the Year collection. After a lengthy short-listing process, I managed to whittle my postcard selection down to a lean seven images, so that should give you an indication of quite how many times you will say 'Wow!' during this exhibition.

But probably the most surprising was the Polish winner of the Exotic category, whose portfolio of images was taken in none other than our own night-time Soho; a faceless woman with an umbrella against a stark wall. A silhouetted man against the red glow of a sex shop.

Image: Malgorzato Piolo, Travel Photographer of the Year, from education.ezinemark.com

It's a reminder that 'exotic' is in the eye of the beholder. We too live in a city that, for millions (particularly over the last two weeks), is a fascinating, crazy, other-worldly experience. So next time I'm mocked for looking like a tourist as I take a picture on my phone of some pretty little street or window display, I won't mind at all. Anyone and everyone can be a travel photographer, even me.

(Travel Photographer of the Year is currently showing at the Royal Geographical Society on Kensington Gore. Free entry. The exhibition has now been extended until 2 September due to popular demand.)

Fifty Shades of Escapism: this year's holiday reads

Escapism, for me, could just as easily be listening to a bit of Schubert at my desk as watching back-to-back episodes of The Bachelor on Sky Plus. High culture and trash culture take me to very different places but both have a special place in my heart, and this is why I have long objected to the idea of a hierarchy of tastes.

So with that in mind, I gave myself a well-rounded reading list of novels for my holiday which consisted of the beautiful, the silly, the classic and the downright filthy - starting, of course, with Fifty Shades of Grey.

My only criteria for a holiday read, as opposed to something to read on the Tube, is that it should, above all else, be a page-turner.

Risks should be avoided. Your much-needed two week break is no time to be forcing yourself to read something that doesn't make you want to whip it out at every pause in the conversation. A holiday read should, like everything else you do on the trip, feel like pure indulgence. (This does not necessarily always correlate to a well-written book, as I discovered...).

With the right book on holiday, you can have a truly multi-sensory reading experience, with your enjoyment of the book being enhanced by the feeling of the sun on your skin, the breeze in the palm trees and the perfume of exotic flowers in the air. With the wrong book, you’ll end up reading your friend’s dog-eared magazine for the seventh time while listening to the loud Aussies on the adjacent sunloungers discussing where they’re going to have dinner.

1. Fifty Shades of Grey, EL James

Michael Fassbender: my perfect Christian Grey (albeit slightly older than Christian's 27 years)

When I left for Indonesia, Fifty Shades of Grey was a very popular book that most girls I know had either read or planned on reading. I'm not quite sure what happened in the interim, but on my return, it seemed it had actually taken over the world. (My favourite headline so far is a toss-up between ‘Peter Andre to pen male version of Fifty Shades of Grey’ and 'Boyfriend squirted partner with brown sauce after she refuses to stop reading Fifty Shades of Grey').

The culprit of the brown sauce incident needn't have worried. This is hardly sexually liberating erotica that will lead a generation of women into a kinky underworld;  sorry boys, but this is pure romance. With props.

You probably all know the story. Beautiful, tortured billionaire Christian Grey whisks idiotic unworldly student Anastasia Steele off her feet and showers her with lavish gifts. However there are obstacles; he has a Red Room of Pain and stalkerish tendencies (but that’s OK, because he’s attractive) and likes to hit women with things. After a lot of soul-searching, eye-rolling, lip-biting, earth-shattering and palm-twitching, Ana decides that, yes, he can hit her with things.

Of course, the writing is appalling. Sometimes, perhaps at the 64th mention of Ana’s 'inner goddess' (no exaggeration) or her observations such as, 'his sweatpants hang… in that way', you wonder if the whole thing is a big joke. Annoyingly, I even caught myself mirroring her inane internal monologues, exclaiming ‘Holy cow!’ and ‘Double crap!’ to myself at various points during the holiday.

But, beyond rime or reason, Fifty Shades is bizarrely addictive and I defy you not to get caught up in it. It provided us hours of fun on the beach as we read aloud some of the more ridiculous lines and debated who will play the immortal Christian Grey in the film. (I’d be keen to see Alexander Skasgard, Ryan Philippe, or ideally a young Michael Fassbender, but I appreciate the latter may be unrealistic…). Like it or loathe it, my brand new copy was literally falling apart and missing several pages after my two friends and I had each raced through the novel, and now looks embarrassingly well-thumbed.

The appeal here is the potent combination of classic Cindarella romance, a relentless stream of constant sex scenes and a ridiculous amount of hype. Who isn’t powerless to resist? If you haven’t already, stop fighting your curiosity and come join the club; read it, have fun and then bitch about it afterwards. As Ana herself says, "this is wrong... but holy hell is it erotic."

Actual rating: 2/10
Holiday read rating: 8.5/10

2. The Making of Us, Lisa Jewell

The Making of Us is a good old ‘Richard and Judy Book Club’ style novel, bought in haste from Waterstones thanks to the cover, which is plastered with praise from fairly reliable sources.

This is the uplifting tale of three lost souls who discover they all share the same sperm-donor father, who is now terminally ill. It was a relief to find real, three-dimensional characters and to discover that I could still feel real emotion, after my brain got such a spanking during Fifty Shades of Grey. I even shed real tears during this book, which I sailed through in a couple of days.

It’s an undemanding yet satisfying read, which I certainly enjoyed at the time and found myself caring about the complex characters, but now looking back I feel kind of ‘meh’ about it. It was lovely but forgettable; not the kind of book that leaves you feeling bereft when you finish, like the classic beach reads so often do (I'm really talking about One Day - I still miss Em and Dex).

Actual rating: 7/10
Holiday rating: 7/10

3. Hollywood Divorces, Jackie Collins

Hurrah, we're back to the filth!

Although a less experienced reader of trashy novels may assume they are all on a similarly low par, I can say wholeheartedly that as with any genre, there is good trash, and there is bad trash.

And with Jackie Collins - the undisputed Queen of the Bonkbuster - you are in excellent hands. She has been writing her inimitable stories of sex, scandal, fame and revenge for five decades and counting.

Ever since I picked up Hollywood Wives in a second hand book shop in India four years ago, no holiday has been complete without a Jackie Collins novel.

I’m not sure I should admit how many of her books I’ve now read, but each of them has been ridiculously entertaining and expertly paced. Invariably, there’s a superstar with a seedy past and/or a bitter vendetta against another Hollywood A-lister, plus at least three subplots that all collide in a dramatic showdown at a premiere.

Her finest work is definitely the old-school 1970s and '80s novels such as Hollywood Wives and The World is Full of Married Men, where lines such as ‘she’s a tough old broad...’ don’t seem quite so out of place.

This year’s choice, Hollywood Divorces, seems to be set around in the early noughties if the cultural references to Britney and Justin are anything to go by. The main character 'Lola Sanchez' – a ruthless Latina diva with a penchant for bad boys – is unashamedly based on Jennifer Lopez, and it’s fun to spot other thinly veiled portrayals of famous names.

Saying that, Hollywood Divorces probably wasn’t quite up to the usual gold standard of vintage Jackie Collins (usually there's at least one vaguely likeable character), but it was still my most enjoyable read of the holiday. With at least 20 more of her books still to get through, I think I’m sorted for the next few trips.

Actual rating: 4/10
Holiday read rating: 9/10 (The winner!)

4. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

As our holiday drew to a close, I thought I would finish with something noble, epic and firmly on my list of 'must reads'. I found this weather-beaten copy of Love in the Time of Cholera in a book lender's shop on Gili Trawangan in Indonesia and put down the deposit of 100,000 rupiah (about £7).

Three weeks later, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon on the Piccadilly Line, I finally finished it. This is a stunning piece of literature that completely immerses you in the sights, smells and sounds of turn of the century Columbia, and is quite unlike anything I've read before. But it's not one that hooks you from the first page or that can be raced through in between snorkelling and cocktails. Having not even reached the halfway point during our time on the Gilis, I sacrificed my deposit so I could find out whether hopeless romantic Florentino Ariza finally got his girl, Fermina Daza, after sixty years of unrequited love.

With its dense, lush, lyrical prose and very little dialogue, I realised that Love in the Time of Cholera had been somewhat missold as 'one of the greatest love stories of all time'. If that is what you are expecting, you may be disappointed; this is the slow, gradual unfolding of a lifetime of obsessive love, and as the novel approaches its climax, our romantic hero has become elderly, bald, toothless, sickly and has slept with more than 600 women.

But if you take your time and appreciate it in the way you would study a painting, for example, the language and insights on life and love can take your breath away. On several occasions, I came across a sentence so beautifully observed that I had to fold the corner down of the page so I could read it again and again: 

"Tell him yes. Even if you are dying of fear, even if you are sorry later, because whatever you do, you will be sorry all the rest of your life if you say no."

Or how about: 

"It is incredible how you can be happy for so many years, in the midst of so many squabbles, so many problems, damn it, and not really know if it was love or not." 

How this can even be judged against the book that brought us the immortal words "He's my very own Christian Grey flavoured Popsicle" is of course an outrage, but those are the rules. If we are comparing these two books based on their beach read factor and page-turnability, I'm afraid there's a clear winner...

Actual rating: 9/10
Holiday read rating: 4/10

Today I am ... at the Udderbelly

Everyone's favourite giant, upside-down purple cow has returned to Southbank for the E4 Udderbelly Festival 2012. In fact, it (or is 'it' a 'she'?) has been here for several weeks now but somehow I've only just clocked on.

The voluptuous Udderbelly is at her finest at twilight, when the venue is aglow with lanterns, fairy lights and the ethereal blue glare of the London Eye. 

Even if you're just catching a quick show post-work, after a couple of visits to the Pimms Bar and a ride on the swing seat you can almost convince yourself you're at the Edinburgh Festival and the days ahead are nothing but blank canvases to be filled with endless comedy, theatre, cabaret, alcohol and gourmet takeaway food.

Somehow I have found myself all set to visit the Southbank Festival three times over this bank holiday weekend, with plans to see The Vocal Orchestra, the Comedy Club 4 Kids and Cantina at the Wonderground (and anything else that might take our fancy).

The E4 Udderbelly festival runs until July so no need for FOMO (fear of missing out), there's a great summer ahead. Check out what's on and watch this space for the downlow on three very different acts.

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.