My London Summer Bucket List

Ridiculously long grass in Hyde Park (and Primark sandals)

I had an epiphany yesterday. This glorious spell of sunshine isn't some freak April heatwave, nor is it just a couple of sporadic hot days in September which everyone optimistically calls an "Indian summer" to compensate for months of relentless rain. Guys, this is not a drill. This. is. the. actual. summer.

So far, we've had nearly two whole weeks of temperatures consistently over 28 degrees. God knows how long this unbroken stint will last, or when we'll ever see the sun again once it finally takes its leave. Indeed, I can't help but feel we're being buttered up for the mother of all winters...

But it is precisely this kind of cynicism that brings out my spontaneous side;  all I know is that while London is bathed in sunshine, I am hell bent on making the most of it. I will hunt down anyone who dares complain of being too hot. Every day, I'm basking and drinking Pimms like it's the eve of the Ice Age. And I'm not the only one. Like clockwork, at 12:30 and then 5pm each day, a mass evacuation of office workers takes place in the city in favour of the nearest parks, beer gardens, rooftops and patches of grass.

Boundary rooftop in Shoreditch - worth the queue

We'll never have the cool, carefree attitudes of our Mediterranean cousins, who can happily siesta and sit in the shade, safe in the knowledge that their summer isn't going anywhere; Londoners are almost panicked with the desperation to soak up every last drop of sunshine before it inevitably disappears.

I've embraced this sense of urgency by creating a London summer bucket list. I've already ticked off around a third of the activities on my list, but that still leaves me with plenty of material to see me through whatever remains of the heatwave. Here are my suggestions for fellow sun-worshippers who might be getting a bit 'picnicked out'...

Wine and ducklings at sunset in Kensington Gardens

The Bucket List: Summer in the City 2013

1. Make a bucket list!
2. Take a dip in the Serpentine or Hampstead Ponds 
3. Party with the penguins at The Zoo Lates
4. Run through the fountains at Somerset House
5. See an outdoor production at Regents Park theatre
6. See the sensational butterflies at the Natural History Museum
7. Go up to the top of the Shard while the skies are clear
8. Watch the sun come up after a night out and get the first tube home (it's so much easier to pull an all-nighter in the summer...)
9. Spend a day in Richmond village
10. Take loads of photos at the Mayfield lavender fields in Surrey
11. Visit the Houses of Parliament during summer recess
12. Drink my weight in Costa Coffee Coolers 
13. Unwind at the Saturday morning yoga class at Battersea Power Station
14. Go a bit crazy at the Notting Hill Carnival
15. Take the 45 minute trip to Cambridge and go punting through the colleges
16. Drink Prosecco at one of London's rooftop bars - notably Boundary in Shoreditch, One New Change at St Paul's, Radio Bar on the Strand or the Queen of Hoxton
17. Instead of hitting the pub, take a bottle of wine to the park after work and watch the sunset
18. Immerse myself in the summer of 1963, at Future Cinema's 'Dirty Dancing' screening in August
19. Hop on the EuroStar for a spontaneous trip to Paris
20. Sit in the waltzers or catch a burlesque show at the London Wonderground, South Bank
21. Escape London - hire a car and drive to the beach
22. Have a back garden sleepover under the stars, teenager style
23. Float around on the pedalos in Battersea Park
24. Experience the magical world of wizardry on the Harry Potter walking tour
25. Get the Thames Clipper to Greenwich and gaze down at the city from the Observatory
26. Go strawberry picking at an out-of-town farm
27. Brave it and wear a bikini in the park
28. Get lost in a summery novel
29. See LOTS of my friend Maj before she moves back to Canada at the end of the month
30. Blog about all of the above (or at least a few!)

If you could be anywhere in the world right now...

...where would you be?

Here: tree camping in Germany - from EyeHeartTravel

This is the ultimate question that my friend and former colleague (aka 'Little Legs') is famed for, and which she always times to perfection - like after she spots you getting one of those emails that makes you bang your forehead on the desk.

On sensing a moment of total mediocrity, she'll pipe up the immortal words, "If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?"

You would think it only served to highlight the depressing fact that we were in an air-conditioned office in King's Cross and, sadly, not on a multi-million dollar yacht in Cannes being served champagne cocktails. But somehow it always cheered me up; this simple question offered us a momentary escape and limitless possiblities - and then a grim chuckle at our comparatively mundane surroundings.

The only rule of this little game is that you have to really think about it and build a vivid picture of your scenario. No vague niceties like 'lying by a pool, somewhere hot', oh no. Little Legs demanded specifics - where exactly, what time of day, what are you eating and drinking, are you alone...? It takes serious thought; some days, you just want cosy. Other times, it's all about the sunshine, or the fresh air, or the food.

And as you'll see below, today has been one of those totally unremarkable days where this game really comes into its own...

7am, Shepherds Bush vs Greek island

I ignore my shuddersome iPhone alarm and wait until the last possible minute before forcing an eyelid open and braving the shower. I am on the ubiquitous 5:2 diet and today is a 'Fast Day', which means I can look forward to a meagre breakfast of instant coffee. On days like this, you've got to cheer yourself up anyway you know how; my housemate and I have taken to listening to Rebecca Black's Friday earlier and earlier in the week - Tuesday was a new low. :(

But if I could be anywhere in the world you say? Well, it's never too early for clichés, so I think I'd be waking up in a little blue-domed villa on a remote Greek island, with the golden sun streaming in and the turquoise sea lapping outside my window. When I can bear to leave my bed of soft white linen, what do you know, but a fully laden tray of breakfast (yoghurt, honey, fruit and freshly brewed coffee) has been delivered to my terrace by some charming Greek waiter. There's probably some ambient local music in the background (why is the only thing that springs to mind 'Zorba the Greek'?!). And maybe Ryan Gosling could be there too. Yes, he's there. In fact, it's him bringing me the breakfast.

9am, the Central line vs the Open Road

As all commuters know, it's a jungle out there. My usual razor-sharp rush hour tactics have failed to get me a seat on the way to work this morning, even after the mass exodus at Tottenham Court Road.  I've been well and truly played by some chancer who did the whole 'shuffle around with his bag' thing so it looks like he's about to vacate his seat, only to stubbornly stay put - meaning I miss out on a seat on the other side of the carriage. (Not cool, man).

It's no way to travel. Given the choice, right now I'd like to jack it all in and head out onto the open road in a vintage convertible, with a tank full of gas and a buddy who's come along for the ride - kind of like Thelma and Louise, without the crime spree. I can just picture the wind in our hair and the rocky horizon stretching out ahead of us, country music blaring out into the purple Santa Fe desert; the very definition of freedom, promise and optimism.

6pm, Liverpool Street office vs Moroccan courtyard

Everything starts to go wrong at work at about 5:15pm. I need somewhere peaceful and exotic - so where better than the oasis-like courtyard of an ornate riad in Marrakech? After a leisurely afternoon of shopping in the souk, I'd sip a fresh Moroccan peppermint tea to the faraway sound of the distant call to prayer and the trickling of the mosaic fountain.

10:30pm (now), my living room vs Goan beach bar

Actual snapshot of the view from our favourite beach bar in Goa!

Maybe I'm getting old, but I'm not sure I'm quite up for a Ibiza club or muddy festival tonight - it's been a big day what with the Greek island, the American road trip and the Moroccan courtyard. My inner old lady quite fancies curling up in front of the fire in my mum's cottage in Suffolk, and re-reading Harry Potter with the dog by my feet. But hey, I can do that for real in a couple of weeks. YOLO, as the kids say!

This is fantasy so I'm going to opt instead for a chilled out beach bar in Palolem, Goa, where I'd be sinking into the oversized cushions on the sand, getting happily drunk surrounded by lots of people without a care in the world. For this is a place where you plan your day spontaneously by the tides, the sun and your appetite, not the clock.

Can you tell I'm suffering from the 'first world problem' of holiday withdrawal symptoms? Apart from a few staycations, I have barely left London since my epic Indonesia trip a year ago. There are however worse places to have spent a year than this amazing city. In fact, somewhere on the other side of the globe right now, maybe someone is asking their friend the same question, 'If you could be anywhere in the world, where would you be?'. And maybe, just maybe, their answer is London.

www.willbartonphotography.com

Boybands are for life, not just for the Big Reunion

Happily, ITV have confirmed that this year's sleeper hit The Big Reunion will be returning for a second series.

A friend of mine and unlikely fan of the Big Reunion hit the nail on the head when he explained its irresistible appeal as 'combining the classic against-the-odds story arc of a Rocky film, with a soundtrack of forgotten 90s pop'.

Like an ageing Hollywood boxer/cop/bank robber who is "getting too old for this shit", one by one we meet exiled pop stars who, after a decade in the wilderness and against their better judgement, are persuaded to come out of their comfy retirement and return to their former life for One. Last. Job.

Battling their broken egos in search of closure and vindication, can they still cut it in this youth-obsessed music business, or have their fans simply moved on? Silly question; this motley crew, including 5ive, 911, Atomic Kitten and Blue amongst others, were welcomed back by millions of nostalgic viewers with open arms, and the tour sold out before you can say 'Five bad boys with the power to rock you'.

The concept made for a surprisingly emotional rollercoaster. There were tears. There were memories (or a lack thereof, in Abs' case, who "doesn't remember anythin' man"). There was laughter. And, oh my, there were TUNES.

We also learned a lot - Rich from 5ive has adopted a charming Australian accent. Spike from 911 "wasn't called Spike for no reason" and his pint-sized bandmate Lee is still heartbroken from an ill-fated marriage to Lindsay from B*Witched (who knew?). And, as it turns out, nearly everybody was wasted on SMTV Live.

But the show can only be as poptastic as its line-up. Apparently, the obvious candidates All Saints and Eternal have just given the producers a big fat 'no' to appearing in the second series. And in what we can only assume must be the desperate act of a panicked TV exec under pressure to confirm at least one name, ITV have reportedly signed Big Brovaz of dubious 'Favourite Things' fame.

Step in The London Escapist, speculative casting consultant and Saviour of the Big Reunion. As a child of the '90s and incurable pop fanatic, I've taken the liberty of putting together this fantasy line up for series two. Have I forgotten anyone?

BUSTED

ITV need at least one of the Big Guns to join season two, and Busted would be the ultimate coup, with high drama guaranteeed after a famously bitter 'bust' up.  Charlie Simpson, or 'Judas' as he is no doubt known to many girls my age, left Busted in 2005 in search of a credible music career that didn't involve the lyrics "I messed my pants, when we flew over France". He has always said that he would never, ever, ever get back together with Busted. Like, ever. And even if he could be persuaded, could Matt and James ever forgive him for nipping their careers in the bud?  Watch this space.

ANOTHER LEVEL

Dane Bowers. Enough said.

SAVAGE GARDEN

OK, so it's debatable whether Darren Hayes and, er, the other one would provide any dramatic value to the Big Reunion. Indeed, I have literally no idea when, how or why Savage Garden split. But this one's all about the music. If you ever cried to Truly Madly Deeply or believed the lyrics to Affirmation were a mantra for life,  you'll know what I'm talking about.

O-TOWN 

Rumour has it there's at least one US group in the mix for the next season. Assuming it's not The Great N'Sync, there is a clear second choice: O-Town, whose biggest hit was a creepy but catchy song about wet dreams. Liquid Dreams was so wrong... but so right.

A1

Poor A1. After the camp extravaganza of Summertime of Our Lives and the a few unexpected number one hits, they were riding high. But all record company execs know it's the beginning of the end when  boybands decide to chop off their glossy curtains and go 'indie'. A1 experimented with guitars on their last album - and were never to be seen again. In my humble opinion, this era was responsible for some of their finer, lesser-known material ('Caught in the Middle' was emotional). But the label bigwigs clearly disagreed and A1 slipped out of the limelight quietly somewhere around the early noughties. Seems like they're ripe for a comeback...

BLAZIN' SQUAD

Oh I went there. Now surely pushing 30, the ludicrously named Kenzie, Krazy, Melo D, Reepa, Spike-E, Slutty D and poor old 'Freek' would fill the 'bad boy' gap left by 5ive in the Big Reunion. Imagine, if you will, the whole gang together again, serenading you with their heartfelt ode to a certain sexual act, Flip Reverse It. Those Big Reunion Tour tickets would sell themselves... probably.

GIRLS...?

I suppose I should pick some girlbands - particularly if we want to see any budding romances on the show. But with All Saints and Eternal out of the picture, and the Spice Girls already having reunited twice, we might be scraping the barrel. Alicia's Attic could be fun or, even better, could we just form a supergroup out of Billie Piper, Samantha Mumba and Jamelia...?

So there you have it; a veritable dream team of pop nostalgia. Of course, we're far more likely to be saddled with the likes of Northern Line, Cleopatra, One True Voice, Hear'Say and Big Brovas. But, as the wise S Club 7 once said: reach for the stars.

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! 

Animal cafés are coming to London

Image: from daveandcharlotte.com

Sometimes, an idea comes along that is so obvious, so genius, that you kick yourself for not coming up with it first. I am talking, of course, of the Sausage Dog Café. Just to clarify, this is definitely not some trendy new London eatery where the menu only consists of sausage dogs and champagne. (Bubbledogs, anyone?)

Until now I never quite knew what was missing from a typical café experience - the coffee, ambience and baked goods may all be quite excellent, but what would make it so much better? Sausage dogs, of course; dozing, playing and roaming free around the room. Have you ever walked past a sausage dog and not smiled? Exactly.

The Sausage Dog Café, planned to open in Brixton once enough funds have been raised, is set to be a haven for any stressed-out dog lovers who can't have a pet of their own, with plans to have a knitting corner, opportunities to take the dogs out for a walk and all the tasty treats you’d expect (including sausage rolls).

Image: Sex and the City, An American Girl in Paris (HBO.com)

This follows hot on the heels of the news that London's very first cat café is officially on its way to Shoreditch, inspired by Japan's plethora of cat cafés. Just last week, Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium reached its fundraising target of £109,000 and the dream is to become reality.

The popularity of the urban animal café is the latest manifestation of a universal truth that any self-respecting animal lover already knows: pets = escapism.

Pets are the ultimate antidote to our first world problems, blessed as they are with a trusting nature and an appreciation for the simple life. The best we could manage post-university was to buy two little dwarf hamsters, the late Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy; we would play with the little fellas as soon as we got in from work and enter an almost meditative state as they ran over our hands on the spot, like a mini-treadmill.

Mr Bingley was kind of a big deal

Animals can also immediately put you at ease  - in the same house, we used to watch YouTube clips of baby penguins whenever we were freaked out after watching a horror film. After 30 seconds of watching the penguins falling over and waddling around, any fears about ghosts or serial killers would be long-forgotten.

Even academic types have started to cotton on, with one Canadian university offering a 'puppy room' where students can take a few minutes between exams to de-stress with the furry friends. (Boris, please note - every London office, department store and tube carriage should have one of these as standard).

London life does not however lend itself well to pets, largely due to 9 to 5 jobs, no garden space and Cruella de Ville landlords. But when life gets stressful, Londoners need cuddle time - perhaps more than most.

Animal cafés like Lady Dinah's and the Sausage Dog Café will therefore offer the ultimate convenience for the city's 'generation rent' culture - part time pets, whose poo we do not need to deal with, but who we can be assured are being well looked after by the owners.

It's also great news for London's dating landscape. Animal-based activities, such as London Zoo and Mudchute Farm, can function as perfect quirky first date venues, so expect the new wave of animal cafés to be full of nervous couples, filling awkward silences with 'Oh look, that cat looks like Harry Styles!' or similar.

The rise and rise of the animal café began in Tokyo, where there are reportedly over 200 dog, cat, rabbit, reptile and even goat cafés. However it always seemed unlikely something like this could get off the ground here in the UK, where food standards and animal rights are quite rightly paramount.

Image: from pethealthinfo.org.uk

But thanks to successful crowd-fundraising campaigns, the pet cafés are on their way. And, reassuringly, the pioneers of both Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium and the Sausage Dog Café insist that their resident pets will be most loved on this planet, with both establishments complying by strict Animal Care Standards and Health and Safety laws.

Where will this craze end? After a day from hell, will a quick post-work puppy cuddle replace the need for a large glass of wine? It's certainly healthier. And, as long as we all remember that a dog is for life, not just a nice accompaniment to coffee, I am very much on board.

Make mine a Labrador.

Ridin' Solo in London

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you want that to eat-in?"

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

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

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

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

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

Not all who wander are lost

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

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

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

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

Cinema: the final frontier

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

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

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

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

New Year's resolutions for the girl with no willpower

‘To change one's life; Start immediately. Do it flamboyantly. No exceptions.' - William James

Our vaguely healthy Mediterranean feast, shortly after a trolley dash in Waitrose

I often regard with bewildered awe those few people who can fulfil a New Year's Resolution.

January itself is completely at odds with the goals we set ourselves - drink less, lose weight and save money. Why do we choose the gloomiest month of the year, when we're back at work and still drowning in leftover booze and party food, to punish ourselves with a virtuous nun-like regime? In fact, if ever there was a time to escape and just enjoy life, it's now.

New Year should be a positive and exciting time, an opportunity to start afresh and see the next 12 months open up in front of you like an unwritten book (sorry, getting a bit Natasha Bedingfield on you there...).

A nice young man I once dated had - and I quote - a “bar chart in his head”, which would help him visualise if he had neglected one of his personal self-improvement goals, which included foreign languages, the gym, reading, painting and nutrition. If he hadn’t spent enough time on one of these in any given week, he would make up for it in another of these areas. Impressive...

But I, on the other hand, can be relied upon to hit the snooze alarm four times per morning, to faceplant the office tub of Celebrations at 3pm and to jump in a taxi rather than trawl the streets looking for a night bus.

In some ways I am quite capable of fulfilling certain promises to myself – but only if they are in some way pleasurable and involve a split-second decision, so I can't talk myself out of it. Yeah, I’ll get a spontaneous new haircut or jump out of a plane. But drink eight glasses of water, every day, forever? Change that lightbulb and fix my door handle so that I don’t get locked in a dark room every time I close the door? Hmm… sure. Maybe next week.

The number 1 New Year's resolution in the UK is, surprise surprise, to lose weight. But like most other people, as soon as I consciously decide I’m going to go on a diet, I seem to have cursed it to the realms of my unfulfilled resolutions where it lazes around, happy as Larry, alongside other vague intentions such as ‘save money’ and ‘procrastinate less’.

In fact, the only times I have ever lost significant amounts of weight have been a by-product of another circumstance; a dog that needs walking, a helpful bout of tonsilitus or running out of money and living on soup for a couple of weeks.

I’m certainly not condoning any of the above (except dog-walking) as healthy or effective ways to keep off the pounds of course. But I’ve realised that the only way I’m going to fulfil my resolutions this year is to make them happen ‘by accident’, and by replacing bad habits with nice ones.

So instead of the generic and unoriginal task of ‘losing weight’, I've decided to go for something a bit more fun, which will hopefully have a similar end result - I will invent and experiment with salad recipes throughout January. This goal is positive, creative, achievable and realistic… rather like a SMART objective, in fact.

There’s no time like the present to get started, having now completed the obligatory 'Noodle Phase' that invariably follows Christmas (when I crave big, fresh, exotic flavours but still need to satisfy my poor stretched stomach, which is still wondering where all the potatoes went). Now, I am finally ready to move on from phad thai, and enter a brave new era: The Salad Phase.

Salads don’t have to mean rabbit food – they can be colourful, exciting, easy to throw together and surprisingly substantial. I’ve already started tricking myself that salads are treats, not chores.

Yes, it's a One Direction mug. 

Selecting a 'salad buddy' can help - the process of creating our masterpieces has become a bit of a bonding ritual between me and my friend at work. Some of our favourite lunches include:

• Feta + parma ham + roasted peppers + pomegranate seeds + herb salad (above)
• Blue cheese + walnuts + pears + watercress
• Mozzarella + leftover chicken + tomatoes + avocado + basil

All of the above would have a drizzling of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Maybe even a squeeze of fresh lemon (much to the mocking of our colleagues, who find it all a bit ridiculous. Perhaps the walnut chopping was a bit far). But even with these extravagances, it still usually works out as around £3 per person per lunch, for a massive plate of delicious food.

Yes, there’s a borderline obese elephant in the room. What is remotely healthy about a big plate of cheese and meat, drowned in an oily dressing and decorated with a few token leaves?

Well, I’m no nutritionist but if it’s colourful and fresh, it's bound to be healthier than something beige or shop-bought. And there's no point excluding everything that's filling or delicious or I'd be straight back on the Fudge bars. For me, being balanced, cutting down on carbs and eating fresh is the quickest way to start feeling good again.

And failing that, whoever liked a smug, skinny, sober calorie-counter anyway?!

My January salad recipes (so far)

Pea and pancetta winter salad

Just fry a handful of pancetta (healthy!) for a few minutes and then remove from the pan and place on kitchen roll to absorb the oil.

Then add two finely sliced shallots to the pan until transparent, and then add some defrosted peas and tip the pancetta back into the pan until everything's warm through.

Before serving, stir through some crumbled feta and mint leaves.

Balinese chicken salad

I picked this one up in Ubud, Bali, at a cookery course and have now recycled this recipe for many picnics and buffets. It might look like a long list of ingredients but it's mostly just chopping... lots of chopping. (See me in action below!).

200g chicken breasts
2 teaspoons of turmeric
1 tablespoon ground coriander
6 tablespoons light olive oil
4 shallots, peeled and finely sliced
2 cloves of garlic, peeled and finely sliced
Half a teaspoon of fish sauce (naam pla)
Juice of one lime
Inner white part of a stem of lemongrass finely chopped
Finely sliced hot red chillies to taste
Iceberg lettuce (to wrap it in)

Place the chicken between two sheets of cling film and pound flat with a rolling pin. Combine the turmeric, coriander, salt and pepper and three tablespoons of the oil and coat the chicken. Marinate for 1 hour and then grill the chicken and leave to cool.

Combine the remaining oil and ingredients to make the salad mixture/dressing. When the chicken is cool, shred it with a fork and then toss it together with the salad mixture in a big bowl. I like to serve it garnished with fresh coriander, chilli and lime wedges, alongside big iceberg lettuce leaves for DIY wrapping purposes.

Tastes even better the next day!

Random Indian salad

Warm a tablespoon of mango chutney and a generous pinch of ground cumin (or crushed toasted cumin seeds if you can be bothered) with a few glugs of light olive oil in a pan. Add some prawns until they're hot and a bit golden, and then remove from the heat.

In the meantime, chop and combine the following ingredients:

Mango
Fresh coriander and mint
Spinach leaves
Cherry tomatoes
Chilli
Carrot
Cucumber
(or whatever else you've got lying around).

Then tip the contents of the pan (including the mango-ey oil) onto the salad mixture and stir it all around. Then just crumble a poppadom on top if you fancy, to add texture.

City vs Country: Which is more Christmassy?

SantaCon 2012. Photo: Luke MacGregor, explat.wordpress.com

At the best of times, I can’t make up my mind as to whether I'm a city or a country girl at heart. But at Christmas, this is like Sophie's Choice; how could I ever choose between hot chocolate and champagne? A Boxing Day bender or a brisk seaside walk?

Minor though these dilemmas might seem, I can't help but wonder which is the definitive Christmas experience - the city or the countryside?

City Christmas

London was made for Christmas, proudly throwing on its festive lights like a dazzling party dress, as mulled wine stalls and ice skating rinks pop up in abundance next to every historical landmark.

Somerset House. Photo: Henrietta Rosselli

It’s impossible for even the most cynical of Londoners not to start feeling Christmassy a few weeks before the rest of the world. Even way back in November, a stroll down the South Bank was like being slapped in the face by Santa with a stockingful of glitter.

Having been listening to Christmas songs pretty much exclusively since the 1st December, I had thought I had reached optimum levels of Christmas spirit. But then this weekend, I took it to another level entirely...

On Saturday, we joined an army of santas (santae?) to take part in SantaCon - part flashmob, part bar crawl, part demonstration.

Is it a political statement, asked curious passers-by? Is it for charity? Is it some kind of religious gathering? Even Stephen Fry was confused on Twitter: "Never in my life seen so many people dressed as Santa. It’s currently like a Father Christmas convention in Soho. Was Santaday declared?" he asked. What on earth was it in aid of? The answer is nonsensically simple: Christmas!

For one day, in 276 cities ranging from Dubai to New York, millions of people dress as Santa and run amok - for no reason, other than it's Christmas. With just the right balance of naughtiness and niceties, we surrendered to the mob mentality to join in with gift giving, carol singing, amaretto swilling, sprout pelting, hugging strangers and general Santa banter.

SantaCon 2012. Photo: Luke MacGregor, explat.wordpress.com

SantaCon culminated in a final gathering point at Trafalgar Square, resembling a scene from Where's Wally (above). There were Mexican santas, cowboy santas, pimp santas, scantily clad santas, lost santas, several elves and the odd turkey. But for the most part it was a sea of traditional red and white bearded santas, clambering around on Nelson's Column and the monumental lions, chanting "What do we want? Christmas! When do we want it? NOW!"

The following day, one might have predicted that a brutal hangover would be inevitable. But lo, a Christmas miracle! I awoke feeling fresh as a blanket of recently fallen snow (ish).

I even felt well enough to spend Sunday evening watching The Goonies at the Enchanted Pictures in the cavernous Old Vic Tunnels – an atmospheric subterranean venue complete with fairy lights, log seats, a home-made alpine forest and volcanic lake, and a gorgeous surprise sprinkling of fake snow falling from the ceiling at the end of the film. And the greatest gift of all? We saw Matt Cardle. Yeah. You don't get that in the countryside...

Country Christmas

If you can't already tell, I really like London. And I really like Christmas... But combine these two famously expensive phenomena and there's a slight problem - my bank balance.

So, in what should be the biggest week for partying in the year, I and many others have reached a pre-payday lull - living on stale bread and water so that I can still get people presents and buy the odd glass of hot buttered rum.

The country girl’s answer is to make your own edible gifts - the smell of Mum’s vat of bubbling zesty chutney on the hob is pure Christmas. And therein this fragrant memory lies the answer to the question of where is most Christmassy. Christmas means home and family traditions. For many, that is synonymous with the city. But for me, home is a Vicar of Dibley-esque village in rural East Anglia.

Worlington, Suffolk

In our family, Christmas is picking the (real) tree from the farm shop, it’s the village carol service, it’s being demoted to the ‘kids table’ every year, it’s chilly Boxing Day dog walks, it's having to ask Mum for lifts back and forth to the pub, and braving the cold to collect as many damp logs as you can carry over from the garden shed without dropping them all over the carpet.

I got a headstart on my cosy country Christmas this year, having been on a girly weekend to the Peak District. Our quaint little rented farmhouse, Loscoe Farm, with its wood burning stove and rustic beams, also benefited from a pimping hot tub, sauna and pool table, and a paddock with a ‘bring your own pony’ policy (ah, the simple life). It was the countryside, but not quite as I knew it.

We briefly left the farm to visit Chatsworth House - aka Pemberley

This gave us the perfect setting for a big Alternative Christmas dinner. Admittedly it was a bit ‘Kerry's gone to Iceland’; to the horror of mothers everywhere, we sacked off cooking a turkey in favour of chucking some sausages and all the (frozen) trimmings into an oven - but that seemed apt, given it was a University reunion.

After a magical long weekend, we felt like the ladies of the manor and were sad to leave our winter country retreat. Surely if we all pitched in, we could just keep the farmhouse and start our own girly Christmas commune... please?

The winner

London offers a full-throttle Christmas experience to the masses. However if the city isn't your natural habitat, you may just find yourself frazzled, broke and lamenting the total lack of taxis on the last Saturday night before Christmas.

Likewise, loyal city-dwellers who think it will be novel to escape to the countryside for Christmas usually look about as comfortable on their country walks as a bedraggled cat in the bath, and are likely to return to London feeling weatherbeaten, confused and probably with a few fire-related injuries.

The 'real' Christmas - as opposed to the mythical Christmas of John Lewis adverts and Love Actually - is about everything that's cosy, warm and familiar to you - whatever and wherever that may be. So as much as I've loved squeezing every second of festive fun out of London these past few weeks, there's only one place I want to be on the Day - home sweet home.

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.