Today I am ... a Kensingtonian

I’ve recently pimped up my living arrangements and moved to South Kensington, thanks to a remarkable stroke of luck and a timely offer from a lovely friend.

While it marks the end of a long and fruitful era living with my beloved girl housemate and honourary ‘wife’, it also means I bid farewell to our other fellow inhabitant – that’s right, no more car batteries on the kitchen counter or random piles of rubble on the sofa.

So over the last weekend, I’ve been enjoying that rare and indulgent pleasure one gets every few years or so of exploring a brand new neighbourhood - with its new streets, new local pubs, new corner shop, new Tube line – knowing that all of these things will soon become part of my familiar, everyday routine.

I was eyed suspiciously by passers-by as I arrived at my new place of residence, struggling up the stairs with all my worldly possessions stuffed into bin-liners and shoe boxes, feeling wildly out of place on the street and no doubt looking like some kind of Dick Whittington-esque squatter.

On my first Saturday in Kensington, I opened the curtains to glorious blue skies and decided it was time for a wander. I turned onto Gloucester Road towards Palace Gate, and immediately felt I’d been transported from my doorstep into the South of France, thanks to the wide, straight boulevards, late-opening shops, abundant cafes and patisseries and gleaming white embassies. (And, of course, lots of French people).

Then, as if on cue, the number 9 bus came past – one of the original London buses that still has people hanging off the pack and handing their change to the bus conductor – reminding me that I could only be in London.



Image: copyright Jon Sparkie

Even before relocating from Battersea, I’d long harboured a soft-spot for a day out in Kensington. When you need a new outfit but can’t face Oxford Street-induced rage, Kensington High Street is a remarkably civilised alternative. If you’ve got out-of-town visitors to entertain, the area provides a ‘just touristy enough’ experience that’s far more leisurely than crowd-surfing in the West End or Buckingham Palace.

The day would typically start with voyeuristically checking out our ‘lottery win’ houses for a peek at how the other half live. For cute, pastel cottages on sun-dappled cobbled streets, wander through any of the Kensington Mews. If your tastes are more ostentatious, take a walk down the high-security Kensington Palace Gardens, the UK's richest street, to play ‘spot the embassy’ – it’s always amusing to see Russia and France trying to outdo each other in a global version of ‘Keeping up with the Joneses.’


Mews in Kensington. From lurotbrand.com

Next on the list is a visit to the famous Roof Gardens, a magical 1.5 acre secret garden on top of Marks and Spencers, hidden from view from the high street. A blinging VIP club by night, it’s surprisingly quiet during the daytime (assuming its not booked out for weddings), when flamingos and ducklings frolic in the freeflowing stream and you can bask in the Moorish garden, based on the Alahambra in Spain, or the Tudor garden where the scent of lavender and wisteria perfumes the air.

Kensington Roof Gardens, from beenthere-donethat.org

When you can face returning back to ground level, you don’t need to come back down to earth. Instead, enter food heaven – aka Whole Foods Market on the high street. It’s like a theme park for foodies, with tantalising displays of chocolates, cheeses, salads and exotic ingredients. By all means try the free samples, but be in no doubt – you came here for cake. The Oktobercake, to be exact; it’s like a huge Fererro Rocher, covered in silky chocolate ganache.

Then take your bags of Whole Foods goodies down the road and sit on the steps of the Albert Memorial, watching the sun go down as buskers, tourists and rollerbladers pass you by, in front of the dramatic backdrop of the Royal Albert Hall.

No doubt I still have much to experience as my Kensington initiation continues. I’m particularly looking forward to the Ballgowns exhibition at the V&A Museum, and the 360 degree production of The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe in Kensington Gardens.

However I’m also excited about the less glamourous but equally important discoveries that any self-respecting resident should know, like the nearest patch of grass for sunbathing, the shortcut to the supermarket, and the best local deli for a blow-out Sunday brunch...

Today I am .. Queen Granny

That Queen's getting a lot of attention at the moment isn't she? Not that I resent it (two days off? Thanks very much!). But this Jubilee, let's also celebrate the real 'diamond' old ladies in our own lives, who are all too often invisible in our youth-obsessed society.

If you could peek inside the minds of our elders, their living memories would, to us, resemble a nostalgic period drama - youthful versions of themselves inhabiting a world peppered with vintage cars, 1940s tea dresses, black and white movies and dance halls. If you are looking for escapism, just ask someone over 80 years old to describe their first date or what their favourite tipple was. The answers will take you back to another era.

So while we all rightly mark the 60 year reign of Elizabeth II, I will also be raising a glass to my very own Queen and grandmother, who is still amusing, offending and delighting people at 94.

Anne Rosselli was born in 1918. (1918!!). The last year of the First World War, six years after Titanic sank. She, and her brothers and sisters, couldn't have even imagined what the century ahead would hold; the jazz age, another war, the loose morals of the swinging sixties. No-one had heard of Elvis, Marilyn and The Beatles. All of this and more was yet to come.

Granny's own childhood memories of 1920s Ireland are prime material for a romantic novel, telling the story of four young siblings living in a crumbling ancestral home during the Irish Civil War. She still talks about having to row across the lake with her sisters to the next village, and hiding the silver under her bed when the house was raided. It must have been a colourful household, with three strong-willed teenage girls and their brother running riot in the little sailing village.

On my 21st birthday, I always remember what she wrote in my card: "How wonderful to be 21 - I wish I was again."

I love the thought of Anne Waller, 20-something, my own age. By all accounts, she was far more glamourous and beautiful. She certainly seemed popular with the local men in her hometown in Tipperary, who describe her as 'prettier than Grace Kelly' and still all claim to have been her boyfriend. There are ongoing rumours that Granny ran away on a motorbike with member of the Russian aristocracy; when pressed, all she will say is, "We didn't get very far."

Nowadays, Granny seems shocked by her age, as though she doesn't recognise herself anymore; on her last birthday she exclaimed incredulously, "I'm ridiculously old!" She is almost 100% deaf and we rely on a notepad and lipreading to converse, but talking to her about her youth doesn't just immerse my mother, sister and I in another world - it also helps Granny to reaffirm her identity. In these stories she is young, feisty Anne, as she remembers and knows herself, not just an elderly woman.

And there are plenty of tales to tell. After attending Trinity University in Dublin, she became a Fanny (don't laugh) during the War, driving ambulances despite having no license. During the 1940s and '50s, she was married to a tea planter in Ceylon and Malaya, where she painted stunning watercolours of the surrounding jungle and dabbled in racing cars ("I was the fastest woman in Malaya", she claims). She tells a terrifying story about time she discovered a poisonous snake in my uncle's cot.

After that marriage ended and she returned home, she caused quite the scandal with her choice of second husband - my grandpa; a cheeky Anglo-Italian who was 11 years her junior, an incurable practical joker and eligible man about town. They moved to a farm in the Fens and made quite the pair for the remainder of the century.

These days, she's more Prince Philip than the Queen, frequently making inappropriate comments and informing people they've got terribly fat. Watching an old lady nobly hobble from one end of the silent hospital ward to another, Granny loudly declared from her bed, "I can walk better than her!"

And like the second and third generations of Rosselli ladies, my granny still has a weakness for a broad-shouldered rugby player. Last Easter, we had an exceptionally tall, well-built young American friend joining us for lunch; Granny stared wide-eyed at him over the roast lamb, leaned towards my sister and I and conspirationally asked, "Who's that?", before taking another look and announcing "VERY nice!"

She's also nothing if not generous, constantly giving away her Christmas gifts, and insisting her visitors take a shot of whisky (which she naughtily hides in her wardrobe from the staff in her care home, like Marilyn's character 'Sugar' in Some Like it Hot). Last month, she enquired as to when I was bringing my boyfriend over to visit, and I wrote on her notepad that I don't have a boyfriend - she paused for a moment and then said brightly, "Well you can have one of mine!" Now there's an offer I can't refuse.

So this Diamond Jubilee weekend, while we're all enjoying delightfully retro street parties, afternoon teas and '50s themed club nights, remember that the real vintage queens are still all around us. A conversation with the older ladies in your life might just enrich both your lives and transport you to another world entirely.

Today I am ... Katy Perry

Image from popdirt.com

Inspired by Francis Boulle's recent 'What would Jesus do?' pep talk on Made in Chelsea, I realised that a lot of problems in life could be resolved with this alternative mantra - what would Katy Perry do?

True, the American Christians might have disowned her, she's not the world's best singer and not all of her decisions have ended brilliantly (I'm still rooting for a reunion with Russell). But to me, Katy Perry is like a modern-day Spice Girl and/or real-life Wonder Woman, so I think you could certainly do a lot worse than channelling your inner K-Pez when facing life's ups and downs.

Case in point: Katy's Sesame Street appearance was sensationally pulled from the show after her cleavage was deemed too prominent by the boob police. How does Katy react? Not by hiding away, apologising or kicking off on Twitter, but to laugh it off by appearing on Saturday Night Live in a snug, boob-faced Elmo t-shirt.

Image from Glamour.com

Image from nydailynews.com

Boy or girl, old or young, I think at times we could all do with putting on an imaginary Katy Perry wig and adopting some of her trademark confidence and humour.

What would Katy Perry do...?

After a rubbish week at work

 

Last Friday Night (TGIF), from popdirt.com

If, at 5pm on a Friday, you find yourself making excuses to go straight home and lament your terrible day, think of Katy Perry's immortal words: 'TGIF.'

You're only young once, and Katy knows that what you really need is an awesome college-style 'pardy' to see the week off in style. After you've been kicked out of the bars, go streaking in the park and skinny dipping in the dark... Then do it all again.

When you're hungover

10am, the following morning. Is there a pounding in your head? A stranger in your bed? Glitter all over the room?

Well, stop complaining. Katy is hardcore. Halfway through a recent concert she became ill, having to be sick repeatedly offstage between songs and then getting back out there in front of tens of thousands of people.

This particular incident wasn't self-inflicted, but if you've ever had to pretend you're not hungover, you'll know how she felt.

But, as Katy would say, 'Shut up and put your money where your mouth is, that's what you get for waking up in Vegas'. In British, this roughly translates as heave yourself out of bed, have a shower, cup of tea and a fry-up and then get back on it.

After a career setback

Katy erupts into a Firework in the official video. From metro.co.uk

Katy had it spot on when she compared those days of self-doubt with feeling 'like a plastic bag blowing in the wind'. With metaphor-tastic Firework, she gave us the ultimate self-empowerment anthem which has the ability to extinguish any trace of insecurity.

KP was nearly dropped by her record label and dubbed a one hit wonder after her subsequent singles failed to replicate the success of I Kissed a Girl, but she bounced back to release a relentless stream of monster hit singles which saw her arguably surpass even her co-members in the holy trinity of girl pop, Lady Gaga and Rihanna.

So when the chips are down, you'd never catch Katy Perry calling herself a failure. Just belt out 'Baby you're a firework' and remember there's still a spark in you somewhere - you've just got to find and ignite it, and you too shall be the comeback queen (or king).

When you fall in love with a bad boy?

Part of Me, Katy Perry. From popdirt.com

There's no place for neuroses in the school of WWKPD. If you find yourself with a Russell Brand character, don't torture yourself thinking about their past - follow Katy's example and chill out, have fun, be yourself and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts. Realising he's met his match, he'll soon be declaring his love from the rooftops and planning a romantic Indian wedding involving elephants.

After the inevitable break up with said bad boy (sorry), look once again to Katy Perry if you want a masterclass on how to emerge with all your sparkle intact.

Instead of the reliable combo of wine, ice cream and tears, Katy's first move after her break up with Russell was to hack her hair off and join the Marines in the video for Part of Me (possibly my worst nightmare). In real life she dyed her trademark black hair into an ever-changing rainbow of pastel shades.

Either way, an empowering hair-related gesture seems to be the running theme.

And once it's off your chest, it certainly doesn't do any harm to be innocently 'spotted' in the loving arms of the Florence + the Machine guitarist.

A final point...

From beautyeditor.ca

No-one can quite decide if Katy Perry is a feminist heroine or villainess; there's no doubting that she trades in sexuality - but I'd argue that there's a big difference between a baby-oiled, surgically enhanced glamour model on a beach and Katy Perry's unique, unashamed brand of fun, camp, girl-friendly sexual confidence.

If Katy's videos were purely about titillating men, I'm not sure she'd have the global army of female fans who want to be her 'BFF'.

It's because, contrary to popular belief, most girls don't object to another girl being hot - it is the homogeneity of what's deemed to be sexy, and girls who dress to fit that mould rather than for themselves, that is annoying. Unlike many others, Katy is (gasp) pale, voluptuous, and appears to be in control of her image, using her outlandish costumes to pay tribute to whatever she fancies, be it burlesque pin-ups, hippies, cowgirls, goths, superheroes or baked goods.

Whatever she wears or does, it seems to be because she's having fun and wants to be wearing or doing it - and it shows.

Katy once said: "Honey, I am the chief of my train. If critics want to hop on board, fantastic. There's plenty of room. The KP train is fun."  I'm not entirely sure what that means, but I think I'll take a one-way ticket aboard the KP train.

Today I am ... in a continental village square

Unless it was all a dream, I'm pretty sure the relentless rain momentarily paused this weekend, just in time for Battersea Square's annual summer party.

'The Square' as it's lovingly dubbed by Batterseans is almost like a cross between a rural village square and a buzzing Mediterranean piazza, a stone's throw from the river and cunningly concealed by the surrounding council estates. 

On a summer's day, the riverside enclave represents everything I love about this little corner of Battersea; vibrant and chilled, diverse yet villagey, unassuming and special. The square's even got its own neighbourhood dog, a mind-bendingly huge Great Dane called Francis, who we used to occasionally dogsit.

In a month, I'll be moving out of the area to pastures new, but last weekend I was able to enjoy the Battersea Square community spirit in all its glory. I awoke to the lilting sound of a steel drum band from outside my bedroom window so we investigated and discovered a super-cute dog show, Pimms and mojito stalls, donkey rides, cupcakes, and even a homegrown rapper from Battersea entertaining the crowds.

 

Every Christmas, locals crowd into a fairy-lit Battersea Square for its annual carol singing festivities, when the fragrant mulled wine and mince pie stalls do a roaring trade. But it's in the summer that it really comes into its own.

I've spent many a balmy evening here sipping cocktails alfresco, the scent of apple and mint shisha in the air, watching the world go by - from couples and groups, to dogs and occasional buskers who turn up from Le Quecumbar (the Parisian gypsy jazz bar around the corner). Just grab an outdoor table, set up a tab at any of the bars and let the good times roll.

 
Over the last year and a half, my housemates and I have been regulars at Barrio (a tiny Mexican bar serving its famed mojitos to your table outside) and for food, Melanzana (a rustic Italian delicatessen and trattoria); I'm going to need to learn to perfect their signature dish aubergine parmigiana myself before I move.
 
There are plenty more tempting places to choose from in the square, including the upmarket Bennett's Oyster Bar and Brasserie, and the Lebanese restaurant on the corner, which provides the shisha pipes - however do beware of ordering any food from there, unless you particularly like your salad to taste of cigarettes. 

On a Saturday, you can also wander up the road to Battersea High Street Market, where you can try free samples from the artisans and stallholders and then buy a tasty lunch from the famous Well Kneaded Wagon, which serves sourdough firebreads cooked in a woodfire oven and topped with gourmet toppings such as buffalo mozzarella, leeks and ham.

Yes, for most Londoners, Battersea Square is a remote backwater without a tube station, but that's why it still feels special, like a well-kept secret that the locals have guarded protectively. Then again I've never been very good at keeping happy secrets, so now it is my pleasure to pass the baton.

Just jump on the 170 from Victoria which takes you straight through the square itself, otherwise the (N)19, 49, 345 and 344 will all get you very close. 

And if you do make it here one warm Friday evening, do keep an eye out for my soon-to-be-former housemate, the self-proclaimed godfather of Battersea, who seems to know absolutely everyone on the square at any given time.

If you see him, give him a wave from me.

Today I am ... the anti-Glee (Udderbelly Weekender #2)

They may look like S Club 7, but don't be fooled by the young, attractive line-up of four girls and three boys (including the doppelgänger of Spencer from Made in Chelsea), or their colourful dresses, dance routines and misleadingly traditional name; The Vocal Orchestra are basically the anti-Glee.

The troupe, which is the world's first beat-boxing choir, have been put together and directed by Shlomo, who is 'the Harry Potter of beat-boxing', in the immortal words of Tim Westwood. Their super-slick but joyously fun performance at the E4 Udderbelly Festival is a rollicking good ride, providing 60 minutes of full throttle entertainment.

With only each other's voices for accompaniment, the Vocal Orchestra create inhuman bass lines that made the ground shake, uncanny synthesizer sound effects and spine-tingling solos and harmonies, while forming themselves into human DJ decks, drum kits and time machines.

At the risk of pointing out the obvious, I still find it astonishing that the whole show is just formed of 7 human voices - despite there being no instruments whatsoever, their 60s pop, 80s electro and 90s dance medleys sounded uncannily like the original tracks. They even told us they'd only been performing in this line-up for 5 days before the show, which is pretty incredible given how seamlessly slick and in-sync they were; they made Diversity look like a gaggle of uncoordinated oafs.

I couldn't find a clip of the current line-up as they're so new, but here's a small taster of what you can expect from The Vocal Orchestra: 

Amongst their creative set pieces this year are a slow motion 'Street Fighter' style battle to the death, and a mash-up between a classical string quartet and Salt'n'Pepa's Push It.

After all that relentless energy, what really took my breath away was their goosebump-inducing cover of Massive Attack's Teardrop - starting with the gentle pattering of the rain, the beat of the drums and the deep bass, before the chimey background music gradually comes in and then, lastly, the haunting vocals by Claudia Georgette.

It's quite surprising that talent like this isn't already world-famous -  this lot could sail through The Voice, The X Factor or Britain's Got Talent and win all three if they were that way inclined - but my guess is that they aren't. We went and said hello after the show and one of the girls looked bemused when I made the Glee comparison. (Thank God I didn't mention S Club 7).

They're performing at the Udderbelly in Southbank until 27 May, and then at the Edinburgh Festival in August. Do not miss this!

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 ... at a lunchtime disco

The entrance to Drink, Shop & Dance, based in a former sex shop on Caledonian Road

A visit to London's only daytime disco was only ever going to go one of two ways; awkward sober dancing with colleagues, or a mad, surreal slice of fun to start the weekend early.

After hearing about the monthly Lunchtime Disco at Drink, Shop & Dance (what's not to love about that name) and championing it enthusiastically at work, I recruited a small gang of curious friends to join me in this 'social experiment' on payday Friday last week.

We were greeted by a neon Adult Erotica sign as we walked down the garish red staircase into Drink, Shop & Dance (the naughtier, underground alter-ego of cute and quirky café Drink, Shop & Do on Caledonian Road).  At this point I felt a little sheepish as my colleagues wondered what kind of event I had brought them to, but any dance party that operates a BYOS (bring your own sandwich) policy has got to be worth a try, so in we went.

The erotica sign is actually a genuine memento from the club's former life as a sex shop, which is also hinted at by the peep holes in the walls, through which you can admire vintage pin ups. It was a stroke of genius to leave these up as ghosts of the club's chequered past, adding to the speakeasy-esque sense of taboo and intrigue.

Once inside, the atmosphere was in fact rather innocent and welcoming; the disproportionately female clientele were predominantly fun, friendly girls in pretty dresses who fancied a lunchtime micro-boogie (good news for any single men in the Kings Cross area), and most of the action centred around a disco ball and a giant foam sandwich. Jess Indeedy, the founding DJ of the Lunchtime Disco, explained to us that she designed the sandwich especially so it would be super-light enough for revellers to inevitably pick it up and dance with it - and who were we to deny the sandwich of its sole purpose in life?

Dancing with a giant foam sandwich

The club itself is fun and dramatic, with sumptuous candlesticks and sweeping curtains alongside mismatched second hand furniture and 1980s boomboxes stuck to the wall, and the cocktail list is a thing of wonder with over 30 boutique gins and infusions.

Boutique gins at Drink, Shop & Dance. Image from squaremeal.co.uk

Pre-1pm, the vibe felt more like a chilled weeknight in a funky gin house than an all-singing, all-dancing disco. However we needn't have worried; there's only so long you can stay sat down while the amazing Jess Indeedy cracks out the kitsch 80s pop (including Shake Shake Señora and Madonna's Holiday) from her DJ booth atop a piano.

With some of our group only having ten minutes to spare, we quickly threw our inhibitions to the wind and cracked out the classic moves, including the sprinkler, the 'putting on the trousers', the shopping trolley, the 'floppy arm' move and my new favourite, the Chinook.

Half an hour later, when our group was down to just me and one friend, the whole room was suddenly buzzing and everyone was on their feet throwing shapes and taking turns posing with the sandwich. It attracted a lovely crowd who seemed to be in high spirits, feeling a little naughty, and just wanting to squeeze as much joy as they could out of their lunch break before going back for the last unproductive leg of the week.

DJ Jess Indeedy

Luckily for me, I wasn't going back to work. With a friend visiting from afar, I'd booked the afternoon off and we enjoyed that brilliantly liberating feeling of being tipsy in the daytime while everyone else is at work.

We indulged our munchies with a slightly hazy trip to Borough Market, where we had wild boar sausages and impulse purchased Gruyere and prosecco, before meeting friends at the Old Thameside Inn where we sat outside by the river as the sun went down. Now that's what I call a Friday afternoon.

Lunchtime Disco (free entry) takes place from 12pm to 3pm on the last Friday of each month at Drink, Shop & Dance, 9 Caledonian Road, King's Cross, London, N1 9DX.

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.