How to Dance Like Nobody's Watching

If ever there was an event that The London Escapist was born to attend, it must be an impromptu silent disco on a sunny Monday lunch-time on Hampstead Heath.

It began with an all-staff email from a colleague in a completely different department, who, brilliantly, had taken it upon herself to arrange a half-hour headphone disco a couple of minutes from our office (I'd never met her, but on reading her email, I knew we'd get on).

It ended in reluctantly dragging myself back to my desk at 1:45pm, with my endorphins pumping and Spice Up Your Life still ringing in my ears.

How did eight sober women rock up to Hampstead Heath and switch from professional charity workers to mad dancing hippies, in a matter of seconds? All you need, it turns out, is an open mind and a pair of headphones.

After dumping our handbags in the middle of the circle (some things never change), and cranking out a few bars of Salt 'n' Pepa's Push It, I was shocked by how unselfconscious I actually felt bopping away in public, even as bemused pensioners and their dogs looked on curiously, while colleagues ate their sandwiches on the grass.

There is something wildly liberating about behaving like a madman in the middle of the working day; throwing your inhibitions to the wind and reclaiming your Monday from the constraints of routine.

And, wonderfully, our little party brought together people from all over our organisation - girls from labs, operations and comms who may never otherwise have hung out. (For some reason, the boys of the office were less keen). Once you've seen each other's moves in the cold light of day, there's really no going back to polite nods over the kettle.

I pretty much just forgot where I was. The mid-March sun was warm on our faces, a dewy breeze in the air, and if you closed your eyes and cranked your music up, you could almost imagine yourself to be at a beach party or a festival.

The spell was occasionally broken when I realised I was being filmed on someone's iPhone. I froze in the middle of my twerking, suddenly aware my moves may be less Beyonce and more akin to interpretative dance in the unforgiving glare of the video phone. And worse, it's easy to forget that those around you can hear you mumble-singing the last word of every line ('annwennanightfalls, myonelyeart CAAALLS').

But the fun factor was worth the stares, and it was far more difficult to stop dancing than to start. Our fleeting moment of free-spirited escapism ended as abruptly as it began, and soon it was time to head back to our desks.

This wasn't the first time I've spent a surreal lunchtime dancing with colleagues; some of you may remember my well-documented visit to the Lunchtime Disco at Drink Shop Do, an event which has since paved the way for the 'Morning Glory' breakfast rave (which I'm yet to try out). And of course, silent discos and flash mobs are ten-a-penny in London these days.

But unlike these examples, our own effort was no slick operation.  It was something altogether more spontaneous, grassroots and unofficial. There were only eight of us, for starters, and we each just listened to our own music from our phones, everyone dancing to their own beats (although with a bit of pre-planning, you could sync up your Spotify playlists). Literally anyone could arrange something similar, if they had the will or the inclination.

And I hope they do. Londoners, take note. The park is your dancefloor, and it's free! How about we make this the summer of the pop-up daytime disco?

(No? Just me? Ah...)

Time well wasted: My favourite things on the internet

The internet has brought us many things including the good, the bad and the ugly; from identity theft  and Twitter trolls, to new relationships and long-lost family reunions.

But, perhaps most importantly, it's brought us this.

This is not a dog politely riding the train to work (it's actually not). But this image, and many others like it, is a pointless and yet oddly brilliant antidote to the daily grind. And there's plenty more where that came from...

1. Gizoogle

Fo' all y'all biotches who wanna find shiznit! Gizoogle translates (or 'tranzizzles') your own text or a website of your choice into gangster speak. Try writing all your correspondence today this way - your boss will love it! Or, should I say, "Try freestylin' all yo' lettas dis way todizzle. It make me wanna holla playa! Yo' crazy ass boss will ludd dat shit."

2. Ryan Gosling: HeyGirl.io

Need more Ryan Gosling in your life? The genius 'Hey Girl' app replaces every image in your browser with a smouldering, sensitive, impassioned or pensive picture of the Notebook star. That's right. No more selfies, babies or cupcakes dominating your Facebook news feed. No more disillusioned politicians greeting you on BBC News this morning.

Just lots and lots of pictures of Ryan. Which is how it should be, really.

3.  28 ways to make a meeting more interesting

This article originally appeared on The Guardian in the late nineties. With my finger firmly on the pulse of popular culture, I discovered it 12 years later.

Meetings were never the same again. I've dreamed endlessly of writing the words 'He fancies you' on my notepad and showing it to the person next to me while indicating with my pen. Or producing a hamster from my pocket and suggesting we throw it to one another as a means of idea-exchange.

This just does not get old.

4. TubeCrush

It's one of London's cruellest phenomena.  The hottest person you've ever seen, and quite possibly the love of your life, chooses your carriage to board. It can't be a coincidence. But then, after five stops on the Central Line, they wander off and are gone forever.

Pervs around the city have found a solution: TubeCrush, a site dedicated to capturing those fleeting moments on the London Underground. Next time you see a little iPhone peeking out over the top of Metro, you know you've been TubeCrushed.

The site has sparked controversy with its general creepiness and blatant double standards (imagine if there was a female equivalent!). But, boys, ask yourself this; what's the one thing worse than being on TubeCrush? That's right - not being on TubeCrush.

5. London Grumblr

LondonGrumblr is essential browsing for anyone who might need a daily reminder to see the funny side of London life.

Through the medium of animated GIFs, LondonGrumblr somehow manages to sum up all that irrational anger that Londoners share towards tourists, out-of-towners, commutes, Monday mornings, hangovers, £10 cocktails and cramped flats - and makes it something to be perversely proud of.

My all-time favourite Grumbles include:

• When I check my bank balance the morning after a 'few quiet drinks'
• When I fall asleep on the bus and miss my stop
• When my out of town friend wants to go to Oxford Street on a Saturday

Very, very funny, and very, very true.

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! 

The parties I wish I'd gatecrashed

The Great Gatsby, Warner Bros (Picture: metro.co.uk)

The festive party season is officially in full swing. The concept of throwing a party is as old as time itself, bringing together potent combinations of friends, acquaintances, rivals and strangers for the sole purpose of pleasure and amusement, often with explosive results. 

That's why The Party often sets the scene for pivotal moments in history, literature, movies and of course every single episode of Gossip Girl, not to mention real life. Just imagine how many friendships and relationships have begun or ended at an office Christmas party or a wedding...

What makes (or breaks) a party?

The truly legendary parties are more than a sum of their parts; the guests, music, free drinks and frisson will only get you so far. The only thing really necessary for a good party is a good mood - check your inhibitions at the door together with your coat, otherwise a party will almost certainly fall flat.

Case in point: Truman Capote's famously lavish Black and White Masked Ball of 1966 brought together all of Hollywood, royalty, fashion, politics and the art world, and is nostalgically referred to as the Party of the Century. But how much fun did the herds of A-list guests really have? Was the Majarajah of Jaipur dancing on the tables with Sammy Davis Jnr.? Did Tennessee Williams watch the sunrise with Mia Farrow and Andy Warhol?

Er, apparently not. Despite its now mythical status, the actual gossip from that night seems to be fairly thin on the ground. There were no tales of dramatic showdowns, drunken debauchery or uninvited guests. The mood is said to have been bitchy and self-conscious, and despite Capote's loud protestations, Frank Sinatra and his cronies slipped out early in favour of a nearby bar - effectively shutting down the party.

Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow at the Black and White Ball, Plaza Hotel, New York, 1966

Likewise, Gatsby's flashy New York parties of the roaring twenties may have been beautiful, but would they have been any fun? I'm not saying I'd have turned down a coveted invitation from the enigmatic Jay Gatsby, but behind his decadent garden parties, where "men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars”, there was... nothing much. Women who didn't know each other's names chattered away falsely over cocktails, husbands flirted around while their wives hissed in their ears, and all the while, Gatsby kept himself isolated from the action, barely recognised by his own guests.

But sometimes, for whatever reason, all the elements just come together to form the Perfect Storm of Parties, creating something that will be talked about for years. Here's what went down at the parties I wish I'd crashed... 

The Mad Hatters Tea Party

Alice in Wonderland (2010),Walt Disney/Tim Burton

Where else but Wonderland could you find yourself at a trippy tea party with a Mad Hatter, a March Hare and a Dormouse? Well, quite a few places dotted around London these days - including the Sanderson Hotel which runs a signature Mad Hatters Afternoon Tea, complete with 'Eat Me' labels, lollipops that turn your mouth from hot to cold, and multicoloured sandwiches. However the original literary version remains the most random and brilliant, inverting the traditional social convention of 'taking tea' into something curiously psychedelic.

The Great Cheese Party of 1837

In 1837, the President of the USA took out a newspaper advert inviting members of the public to come to the White House and share his 1,400 pound wheel of cheddar. The result was a feeding frenzy.

A year previously, a New York farmer had presented President Jackson with the giant cheese, which weighed the equivalent of 10 x Barack Obamas (probably). Jackson let the cheese age for more than a year in the White House, before holding the Great Cheese Party just before he left office. It was said you could smell cheese from half a mile in every direction from the White House; quite the legacy for his successor.

Ten thousand people swarmed to the White House for a slice of the action. Two hours later, all that remained of the cheese were the crumbs that had been ground into the carpet and smeared on the silk curtains. 

Why Cheese Day hasn't turned into an annual American holiday is beyond me. Sounds like a brie-lliant excuse for a party! (sorry).

The Hangover

The Hangover (2009), Warner Bros

When an evening begins with the ominous toast: "To a night we'll never forget," you're just asking for trouble. But luckily for Bradley Cooper et al, it turns out that pulling out your own tooth and stealing a tiger from Mike Tyson can actually have a life affirming effect on your friendships and relationships.  

Every group has it's own 'Alan'. If you think yours doesn't, it's probably you. But don't worry; the ultimate loose canon Alan was the reason that this particular Vegas stag do has come to define a generation and is now the yardstick by which we measure the epicness of all parties - despite none of us actually witnessing it. The less you remember of a party, and the more random props/animals that turn up the morning after, the more successful it surely was.

Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens

Image from vauxhallgardens.com

Its hard to believe that ugly SE11 was once home to the most famous and hedonistic pleasure gardens ever seen in this country, as described in Thackeray's Vanity Fair. 

Every weekend, 18th century socialites, peasants and celebrity courtesans alike were able to pay the small entry fee into Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, a grown-up playground of delights which hosted masquerades, circus performers, fireworks and even hot air balloon launches. 

The main promenades were lit by thousands of oil lamps, but it was most notorious for the dark and plentiful nooks and crannies in the shrubbery, where all manner of naughtiness ensued.

The gardens lost their sparkle in the mid 19th century when they became known for crime, prostitution and seediness and eventually were forced to close. These days, all that remains of the gardens is a sad and unremarkable little park in built-up Vauxhall; a hangover from its glorious heyday.

Netherfield Ball, Pride and Prejudice

Jane Austen's Regency Balls, despite the formalities, were surprisingly sexually charged; a ball would have been the only place a man and a woman could make physical contact in public, not to mention the fact that eligible men were tasked to dance with as many women as they possibly could. Romantic sparks must have been flying around the room left right and centre.

And Jane Austen doesn't disappoint at Netherfield Ball in Pride and Prejudice. The highlight of the evening came after Elizabeth had been cornered by the repellent Mr Collins for the first two dances, only to be dumbfounded when sulky Mr Darcy, who had rejected her at the Meryton Ball, asks her for the next dance. 

The visible spark between the pair gave fellow guests plenty to 'OMG' about the next day and has done wonders for men everywhere who, like Darcy, aren't quite the life and soul of the party. Instead of being written off as party poopers, they have been rebranded as the mysterious heroes, quietly smouldering in the corner and rescuing you from dancing with creepy men.

'Parents are out of town' teen parties

10 Things I Hate About You (1999), Touchstone Pictures

Finally, how could I write about parties without mentioning the keg-fuelled teen blow-outs that define all American coming-of-age movies? 

In my school, these orgies of destruction were practically forced upon all those foolish enough to let slip that their parents were out of town; it was your time, nay, your duty to step up to the mark and take one for the team. 

In my eyes, the archtype of a teen house party is Bogey Lowenstein's party in 10 Things I Hate About You, where the entire school crashes a geek's cheese and wine evening and turns it into the crazy party of the year - but in hindsight our Sixth Form equivalent was probably something closer to an episode of the Inbetweeners. The Last of our House Parties resulted in a cake sale in the common room to fund the damage to the house - Mum stopped going away so much after that, and the party, it seemed, was officially over.

Merry Christmas!

Thanks for reading and good luck surviving the party season! After all, there aint no party like a Christmas party. If I've missed one of your favourite all-time fictional or historical parties, please add your comments below.

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.

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 ... 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.