Feel Good London (or things that make you say 'Aaw')

Image from streetpianos.com

Don't believe the naysayers; we're not all rude, overworked, passive aggressive cynics, tutting and elbowing each other on public transport. The spectacular opening ceremony for London 2012 has ushered in a new mood of friendly optimism in the capital. 

London is full to the brim of feel-good, cute, heart-warming and magical moments, if you look hard enough. Here are just a few of my highlights...

1. Play the piano  

Street Pianos, Leicester Square. (Image from madsilence.wordpress.com)

Chances are you might have already spotted one of these friendly looking pianos somewhere in London this summer, each one handpainted with the instructions, 'Play me, I'm yours'.

From Holland Park and Marble Arch, to Liverpool Street Station and the Gherkin, wherever you are in London, you are never far away from your very own 'street piano'.

Pensioners, kids, city workers, night time revellers, wannabe buskers and high street shoppers have all been spotted taking some time out to tinkle the ivories, much to the surprise and delight of passers by.

According to the artist Luke Jerram, the Street Pianos project brings together invisible communities in London. People who might pass each other every day without a word now might just have a reason to stop for five minutes, smile, listen and sing with strangers. 

Still dubious? Check out the group performance of Hey Jude in Soho...

2. Dog watching in Battersea Park

People-watching is overrated, bird-watching even more so. But dog watching? That's a thing.

As locals take their mutts on their Sunday morning walks in parks across the city, you can enjoy a cross-section of doggy London. Noble old labradors, pampered pugs, scruffy terriers and clumsy spaniels come out in full force for their daily scamper. It's impossible not to smile as they joyfully run, leap and frolic around as though they're in Disneyland.

Dogs are the ultimate ice-breakers. I am like a moth to a flame when I see a cute dog, try as I might, I can't stop myself from going and saying hello in a ridiculous voice. And it's another of those rare but marvellous situations when Londoners really don't think it's weird to be spoken to by a stranger.

3. Tributes to selflessness at Postman's Park

Tucked away in an unremarkable little park near St Paul's Cathedral, the lives of extra-ordinary people are immortalised in a beautiful way. Under an easily overlooked canopy in the corner of Postman's Park, surrounded by office blocks, are fifty Art Nouveau tiles embossed with the stories of people who have tragically died while saving the life of another.

These are not the tales of generals or officers - just ordinary Victorian civilians who gave the ultimate sacrifice. Reading their stories doesn't feel morbid or macabre. Instead, a quiet hour browsing the tributes - each with fascinating insights and flashes of detail like paraffin lamps and runaway horses - takes you back in time to Victorian London and introduces you to the Herberts, Marys and Godfreys whose heroism time might otherwise have forgotten.

4. Support the old family-run places in your area

Marine Ices, Chalk Farm (Image from ninaicecream.co.uk)

In a city full of self-consciously rustic and quirky establishments with distinctly modern price tags, it's rare and wonderful when you discover the real thing. Every neighbourhood has them, Fawlty Towers style operations where the decor hasn't changed for at least 20 years and retro classic dishes are served without a trace of irony. 

Marine Ices in Chalk Farm, the oldest ice-cream parlour in London, is a family-run Italian, which couldn't look more dated if it tried - but the great thing is it's not trying, at all. Where else in London can you still get a proper Knickerbocker Glory? Plus, your granddad would approve of the generous ratio of prices to portions. 

London is still just a collection of villages, really, and despite their dwindling numbers, there is a total feel-good factor to finding and supporting your local independent greasy spoons, dusty bookshops, barber shops and butchers. You know you're winning when the start asking if you want your 'usual'.

5. Read the Metro Good Deed Feed 

Let it never be said that chivalry is dead. As long as accident-prone women keep leaving things on public transport, there will always be good deeds in London.

I have a dark green cashmere scarf from Zara that has been on adventures and misadventures across the world, and continues to find it's way back to me, like a trusty homing pigeon. My faithful scarf has been left at the Royal Festival Hall, on the pavement, at a lunchtime disco, even in Germany - but I've always managed to retrieve it thanks to kind people handing it in to lost property.

Now, we finally have a way of thanking these honest folk. If a fellow Londoner has ever paid your bus fare, lent you a tissue, ran after you when you've left cash at an ATM, or given you their cab, simply text into Metro's Good Deed Feed and let them know they made  your day.

If however your hero is a hottie, you may however prefer to text into Rush Hour Crush, another of Metro's new feel-good reader columns. (It's like a less pervy version of Tube Crush).

6. Receiving a free meal in Pret

Image from photographersdirect.com

I got let off paying for my Monday morning Pret a Manger breakfast a few weeks ago, in a confusing encounter. The till assistant just mumbled, 'Don't worry about it', and then served the person behind me. I must have looked hungry. 

I did feel a bit like a thief... but not enough to insist on paying (a free ham, mozzarella and tomato croissant and mocha tastes even better than usual). But apparently I’m not special – the same thing recently happened to my friend at work in a completely different part of London, and upon further discussion, we uncovered an urban legend that every London branch gives a free meal out every single day!

Whether this is a) true, or b) heartwarming is debatable. It could of course be a myth or a cynical marketing ploy circulated by the company to encourage loyal custom. But who cares? Free food simply brightens up my day.

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 ... dreaming of Indonesia

Forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been nearly four weeks since my last blog post. Tut tut. But it was all in the name of research. Your author has been on the ultimate escapist's adventure to the other side of the globe; the tropical paradise of Bali, Lombok and the Gili Islands.

And - although even the most remote of island beach cafes now carry hand-painted signs boasting of their WiFi access (my, how times have changed since my travelling days) - had I blogged from there, I would be inclined to say I hadn't quite grasped the true meaning of escapism.

I love London but I think sometimes we're all guilty of forgetting what a comparatively small, grey dot the city actually is in relation this huge, colourful, beautiful outside world. And on this trip, I remembered how simple it is to escape.

For my friends and I, it was simply a case of booking a flight on a whim as we passed STA Travel one Sunday afternoon a few months ago.  Three months and 17 hours later, I had completely switched off. It was that easy. It's amazing how quickly you adjust to a world where your most stressful decision is whether to order nasi goreng (fried rice) or mie goreng (fried noodles).

During our three weeks away, we saw three totally different ways of life, each of which is a world away from my life in London; here's how we embraced the Luxurious, the Backpacker, and the Cultural Indonesia...

Cultural

Bali may be the most commercialised of the three islands we visited, but venture inland to Ubud and the surrounding areas and you'll still find a culture rich with tradition and heritage. Within the artists' town of Ubud you'll be spoiled for choice with stunning temples, Indonesian cookery classes, local galleries, yoga classes and forest treks aplenty. But the real treats are buried deep in the countryside. Arrange to stay with a local family in one of the island's many friendly, cheap homestays. Most just offer bed and breakfast, but in the village where we stayed (Wayan's Bali Homestay), we must have been the only Westerners for miles, and we were whole-heartedly embraced into the community, where Wayan's grandmother, father and grown-up children all still live in neighbouring houses.

This is the real deal; the village is buzzing by 7am but by then, the cockerels and dogs outside your window will, like you, have already been up for hours. Wayan and his wonderful family gave us Balinese makeovers, home-cooked local specialities, took us on a walk to see daily life in the rice paddies and invited us to the cremation of an elderly relative, a colourful and communal affair attended by the whole village. On an island which in parts is fast becoming Australia's answer to the Costa del Sol, it was inspiring to see such a simple, old-fashioned way of life where home, family and community still come first.

Luxurious

Saying that, there's only so long three girls on holiday can share a cold shower with an entire extended family. Craving an authentic and sociable holiday experience, I had some initial reservations (no pun intended) about staying in luxurious, honeymooner-friendly hotels. However as I reclined on our futon in a silky hotel dressing gown and poured myself a free vodka from the complimentary decanter in our room, I realised I could probably make my peace with fresh, clean towels, open-air baths under the stars and complementary sunset massages...

The trick was to alternate the hotel stays in between the more basic accommodation, so we preserved that childlike excitement when we arrived at our villa and dived into the oversized beds like Macauley Culkin in Home Alone 2 (great film).

We felt like celebrities when we rocked up at eco-friendly Uma Ubud in the lush, green highlands of Ubud, Bali, a boutique collection of tranquil villas. Our backpacks and girly screams ('Oh my god, the shower!') quickly blew our cover of being seasoned five star globe-trotters.

Quinci Villas in Lombok was rather less subtle, looking straight out of the Elle travel pages with a blinging infinity pool overlooking the private beach - the perfect place to catch up on missed tanning hours from our time in the Bali homestay.

And finally, 24 hours at the Chedi Club in Bali have now ruined me for life. Our night in heaven was an early birthday gift for my friend, courtesy of her mum (thanks Mrs Cooper!). This is the kind of place I could have only dreamt of staying; an intimate, secluded retreat hidden in the middle of the rice paddies, with its own lotus pond and family of black swans.

Again, we may have disturbed the serenity of the environment with our enthusiasm. This was the last night of the holiday before our flight back to reality. Not knowing when, if ever, I would return to a hotel like this in my lifetime, we were on a mission to make the most of it. We dutifully slathered our weather-beaten skin and hair with the hotel's indulgent products, filled our bags with snacks and cans from the free mini-bar, got our laundry done and enjoyed the free afternoon tea in the aviary. They practically had to drag us from there to the airport kicking and screaming.

Backpacker 

And then there was Gili Trawangan - party island paradise. There are no cars, just horse and carts, but best of all - it was here that we found the one, elusive thing that had evaded us for much of the trip: People! Who weren't all couples!

Not that I didn't love our 'romantic' candle-lit dinners for three, but we were so ready for the Gilis by the time we arrived. The main beach on Gili Trawangan is picture perfect, and full of decent beach huts which you don't need to book in advance (watch out for the cockroaches though). The turquoise sea is full of turtles, clownfish and lots more, just waiting to be discovered.

Attracting Aussie surfers, Indonesian reggae enthusiasts, Singaporean girls-on-tour and a LOT of divers, Gili T is rather like I imagine Koh Tao in Thailand might have been a decade ago; rustic and ramshackle, but lively and exciting.

The famous party nights (Monday, Wednesday and Friday) took me back to my University days, where you knew exactly which bar to head to on each night of the week. And rather like Freshers Week, the people you meet on the first night will continue to haunt you for the rest of your trip, popping up in restaurants, the sea, maybe even your flight home.

This is a tiny island, which you can easily walk or cycle around (we opted for renting bicycles, the first time I've been on one since I was about 12. It's not true what they say about never forgetting how to ride one). And after six nights on Gili T - the longest we spent anywhere during our trip - it is also the place I found hardest to say goodbye to.

Back to reality

It was quite a culture shock emerging from the tube station at rush hour like a confused time-traveller, after our epic flight home. In my maxi-dress and backpack, I walked back to my flat against a tide of commuters and drizzle. The next day, it was back to business as usual. 

I wouldn't say I've had post-holiday blues; it's more of a post-holiday daze which I still haven't quite snapped out of. Did it really all happen? Was it just a dream? Then I notice the sand still in my wallet and smile. My battle wounds of straplines, bites and bruises may be fading, but as long as we've got the memories, we'll always have Indonesia.

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.