Publishing Progress

In the publishing world there are many rules and varying games of play. Every company likes to think their way is the right way and every company competes against the other - for space on the newsstand, for 'talent' and for their place up the circulation ladder.

For the journalists and creatives working within the publications the pressure is definitely felt to make their magazine/newspaper or supplement 'The Best'. Better sales mean higher circulation numbers and the higher the numbers the better the pay.

For those minions fighting to make it within the walls of the likes of Conde Nast, Hearst (Natmags) and Hachette Filipacchi it's hard to know the road best to travel. First you need experience - which will be unpaid and at times soul destroying - and then you need a gap to form. Because with a finite number of titles and within them only one or two entry-level positions, some other minion before you has to either get promoted or be kicked to the curb and then you get an 'in' for an interview. If you're lucky.

Once in you have to stay there. You have to impress and deliver, time and time again, generally on very little pay. So why is it that in the industry that presents glitz and glamour to the world the pay is so very low? Just how are the ladies who judge the who's who of fashion meant to afford their own Prada and Pucci?

Freebies? They don't get as many as you think. Besides you can't pay your rent or buy groceries with a Fendi handbag and palming it off on eBay wouldn't exactly make you popular with their PRs.

People say magazine sales are dropping because of the Internet. I argue that a woman would always prefer to caress the glossy pages of her fave mag than click through a website. However, with brands being able to advertise far more cheaply on the Net the draw of a pricey, glossy advert is starting to dim... And newsstand mag sales are falling. I just hope that they don't fall too low. It would be horrible to think that my current stint in the slave trade will come to nothing in the end. That, I just couldn't bear.

Taking the mickey

Some days you're down. Of late - if I'm brutally honest - my usual upbeat, I can take on the world-attitude has been waning. But I like to think that my nearest-and-dearest have done their best to keep me chipper. And then one of them decides to take Mickey out to play...

About two weeks ago I received an email from the sister of a friend of mine saying that she and another friend (both in their early thirties) were going to be passing through town and asking could they stay? I had mentioned when we'd caught up over Christmas that if ever she were travelling in London that I had a sofa she was more than welcome to crash upon, but how she had extended this invite to her friend I'm not so sure. Not one well-versed in saying, "No", I emailed back instructions on how to get to my place and offered her and her friend my bed, while I'd take the couch.

Nice? I thought so.

And things were nice enough for Night-1 (of two). They arrived knackered from their mission from Oz, I'd managed to locate two spare towels for their much desired showers and we all sat around in the living room chatting with my flatties. However, Night-2 was a different story.

With only one day in London and having spent the sunlight hours roaming the High Streets they decided to meet up with friends for evening drinks. I'd had a not so fabulous day in the office so declined their invitation to join. They had my keys so all was fine for them to enjoy a night out and for me to embrace the chance to take to my couch early.

And then the clock struck 1am. I heard their not so quiet entrance into my humble abode and then the sounds of three separate toilet flushes - a third guest? Surely not.

Oh yes! It seemed they had picked up a straggler by the name of Tony. He kindly introduced himself as I lay bundled on the lounge and then proceeded into my bedroom. Shocked - and almost speechless - I followed him into my 2 foot-by 2 foot boudoir to ask the girls who in fact this male specimen was. The reply, a 'friend' who was to be sharing the bed with them that night. Ahh, "No." I had found the word and it seemed my mouth had become quite anxious to repeat it. "No... No... No." Thinking I'd made my point quite clear I took myself back to the couch only to have Tony take his place on the one-seater next to me, huffing and puffing that he had to squish on such a small chair.

Ahh, "No."

I went back into my room to inform my 'guests' that Tony would in fact NOT be staying. It was at this point that the friend of my friend (who'd quite taken to Tony) went to break the bad news - not without first eyeing me out like I was her mother not letting her stay out late after a party. Our nighttime Casanova then proceeded to thank me for my in-hospitality, calling me a Bitch and making as much noise as humanly possible at 1.15am as he put back on his socks and shoes.

The next hour was spent with friend-of-friend pleading with Tony over the phone, apologising for 'my' rudeness and for 'her' making him venture out Clapham-way for nothing. Poor Tony.

It would have been nice come morning time for her to have apologised to me, but no. And while my friend did eat a small portion of humble-pie when she met me in the kitchen over breakfast, her excuse for lacking the guts to say no to her friend the night before made me realise that for such a small word 'No' is an often neglected negative in the English language...

I for one am going to make a point of saying it much more frequently from now on.

Oh to be a stoic purchaser...

So this is my rationale: I earn a pittance wage and work my butt off on a daily basis so when I do find myself with some money in my purse once bills and rent and food has been accounted for I think, “I deserve a new pair of shoes/a shirt/a jacket.”

I rationalise that since there’s very little in my life that is easy or a treat that the occasional retail purchase is more than therapeutic, it’s downright imperative; for my survival and salvation, as a woman and as a human being.

Sounds too much? Maybe. But I argue that without the little things I’m likely to one day crack. And it’s not like I’m going out splurging on a luxury item, I’m thinking shoes (because the ones I wear day-in day-out are literally falling apart) or a jacket (because it’s still winter in London and I’m cold) or a shirt because, well a girl needs new tops every once in a while.

The worst thing is that after banning myself from the likes of H&M, Topshop, Kurt Geiger and the like when I find myself trolling through their aisles I seem unable to warrant even the most necessary purchase. It took me a good month to buy a replacement pair of flats because I couldn’t justify the average price of thirty-quid. This left me walking around London in a pair of shoes so scuffed and worn that I resembled the girl selling The Big Issue down at Victoria Station… And the jacket I have coveted for two weeks after seeing it advertised on WhoWhatWearDaily.com is now out of stock at Topshop, just when I’ve saved up the forty-five pound price tag (with all my pennies).

It’s sad and I’m miserable. Although, I hold on the hope – as I chomp down on my carrot stick lunch – that one day I’ll be in a well-paying job and my memoirs will be worth a mint. On that day, I’ll charge with confidence into Christian Louboutin’s store on Motcomb Street in London’s Knightsbridge and I’ll buy a pair of shoes not because they’re sensible, but because they’re fabulous. And I’ll feel fabulous!

At a RAZR's pace

Ever have that dream where you’re running up a hill (wearing stilettos), juggling a tennis ball, a water bottle and a monkey and you’re late, late for a very important date?

No?

It must be just me then. It might have something to do with the fact that my diary is marked up with appointments between now and 2010 and that I still try to squeeze in time (and favours) for every Tom, Dick and Sherry who bats their puppy dog eyes at me. The calendar in my trusty Motorola RAZR is pushed to its capacity with daily reminders: call X, email Y, see Z and at 11.15pm, ‘wash hair’.

My flatmates find the latter hilarious. One night they were watching telly – I having just returned home from yet another babysitting gig and already in the shower – and they called out that my phone was buzzing. Eager for me not to miss an important call B picked up my phone to find my personal-hygiene reminder flashing on its screen. G found it pretty funny too. Now without fail whenever my phone chimes the two of them scream out shampoo advice and directions on how to rinse.

Okay, so it seems pretty sad to have to remind oneself to wash their hair but with the speed that my life is going right now I might soon have to remind myself to eat and breathe. Working 9 to 5 is one thing but filling in jobs and friends either side, Pilates and freelancing there’s too much going on in my poor little head; too many thoughts, too many duties, too many people relying on me not to forget them.

And yet I wonder if I’m doing myself a disservice? Am I increasing my likelihood of developing early Alzheimer’s? After all I don’t trust myself to remember anything these days… What will happen the day I forget my phone at home? I shudder (to a halt) at the thought.

Fashionable Friday

Could not resist this advertising this little bitty:

The Chanel bike

Yuh huh, that's right. Complete with Chanel's signature quilted leather and double-C logo this is the bike for girls who defy those who think exercise-equals-dowdy. This ergonomically designed, eight-speed bicycle for Chanel's spring/summer 2008 range was inspired by Ms. Coco's love of sport. She claimed to have created clothing for women to free their forms and establish a new silhouette so that exercise was an option... and a fashionable one too.

At around £6,200 per bike, it's a luxury item I know I will only ever dream about...

Unplugged

I have long proclaimed that my laptop is an extension of me being, rather like a fifth limb. Thus it would transpire that the Internet is my lifeline, my umbilical cord to the World Wide Web… without it, I am nothing.

I type, therefore I am.

At midday today the plug was pulled and the cord cut on our office access to my beloved Net. Like any self-respecting (hardworking) employee I called IT. Apparently I wasn’t the first. They told me that they were on the case and asked if I could kindly spread the word i.e. get the rest of my crew to stop jamming the phone lines with their calls of complaint. I complied. My co-workers’ glances ranged from aggravation to smug elation (the latter I’m assuming relishing the forced down-time).

But I felt lost. In the middle of sending out an issue to a media rep I couldn’t even log-in to their webpage to confirm the delivery address; with LexisNexis down my background search on the celeb-subject of our May feature was abruptly stopped and even taking the time to send out a few personal emails was out of the question. What to do?

Offer to make people in the office a cup of tea? I’d already sorted the mail… So, I twiddled my thumbs, took a few deep breaths and decided to embrace the land in which I live, MAGland. I flicked through the array of glossies on offer…

Thank God for Grazia in a workaholic’s time of need!

The Skinny on Supersize

Okay, I know, I'm incorrigible but I really, really love Channel 4’s new series, Supersize vs Superskinny. Presented by Dr Christian Jesson the show couples a super-sized person with a super-skinny and gets them to swap diets for a week, all in the (safe) confines of the ‘Feeding House’, in a bid to show the other how dysfunctional their relationship with food is.

The hour-long show also includes a segment with journalist Anna Richardson, who at healthy size-14 takes on a new fad diet or extreme weight loss gimmick in an effort to either prove or disprove its worth; while nutritionist Gillian McKeith (from You Are What You Eat fame) crusades throughout the UK seeking out Britain’s bulgiest bums in her Ban Big Bums-campaign.

And I just love it.

The drama, the lessons learned and the reassurance of how ‘normal’ I am in comparison to the contributors in the show, all combines to make it the show to watch each Tuesday evening. I’ll be sad when the eight-week long season ends. Although I gather I won’t have to wait too long for the next television health supplement given Channel 4’s schedule history – remember my queer-affair with How to Look Good Naked’s Gok Wan? I’m still waiting for the return call from his press agent…

Supersize vs Superskinny airs Tuesdays on Channel 4 at 8pm

Free from Durex

It’s always fun to bag a freebie. One of the perks about working in the National Magazine Company building is the regular press parties held in the presentation rooms of Good Housekeeping. At least three days out of the working week PRs will set up shop to ‘inform’ us lucky journos about the launch (or re-launch) of anything from broccoli – last week the folks for Tenderstem Broccoli treated us to yummy salads and soups inspired by their delightful bunches of green veg – to Scholl foot products.

Each time we get goodie bags full of products and of course a press release, which to be honest we may or may not read. Although in a weird twist on buyer’s remorse I always endeavour to write a follow-up thank you email and try not to take advantage of their offers of extra products – even the basic Scholl press bag will see my feet given the VIP treatment for a good six months!

Today we got a visit from the girls from Durex. Yep, they be the condom people. But as I learned today they are sooo much more than that. They were advertising the new Durex Play range – complete with vibrators, stimulation rings for both lads and ladies, cherry-flavoured lubricants and massage gels and oils (that even contain skin-friendly Vitamin E) – and just to shake things up a bit more they had bartenders on hand to make us chocolate martinis as well as serving fresh strawberries and chocolate fondue. At 11.30am such treats were truly wicked.

If only every launch was as pleasurable.

For those of you interested in seeing the new Durex range (Oh come on, you know you are!) check them out online at www.durex.com

Saturday Night Electric

Saturday nights at the cinema used to be the lazy-date option. In recent years, however, such outings are made with less frequency. While this is largely because the price of tickets and popcorn now require the purchaser taking out a bank loan, cinema-viewing’s decline is also the result of better pirating options available online.

Regardless of the above, myself and five friends decided to venture out to Notting Hill’s Electric Cinema at the weekend to indulge in some Pick’n’Mix and a bit of Daniel Day-Lewis (in his Oscar-nominated flick, There Will Be Blood). Organised earlier in the week one member of our party was supposed to order the tickets as well as make a pre-movie dinner reservation at the complex’s adjoining restaurant. While we weren’t to go hungry, said-friend forgot about film.

Never fear, technology will always prevail: The boys in our party pulled out their Blackberries to search for other options in the West London area… and then the South-West Boroughs… But it appeared that the Electric had dibs on Danny.

To add insult to injury – although we girls were now happily munching down on our gourmet roast pork sandwiches with a side of rocket and parmesan salad in lieu of fries – the boys discovered that London cinemas haven’t quite caught-up with the 9.30pm-session trend celebrated in both the States and Australia (all-Aussies amongst us, with four out of the six having spent time in NYC). Instead after the 8.50pm main feature they offer the un-Godly options of 11pm and midnight. I’m not Cinderella by any stretch of the imagination, but surely moviegoers suffer the pumpkin of tiredness?

The rest of the meal – a little pricey but worth it for the funky décor, open-kitchen and fresh spin on old English classics – was spent with our party deliberating on the movie-going experience, and reassuring each other that we weren’t in fact old fuddy-duddies. Instead, we delighted in the prospect of watching some new releases that our friends had recently downloaded (read: pirated); kudos to the techno-savvy once again! What could be a better alternative to the comfy lounges of the Electric, than the plush lounges in their Notting Hill pad, complete with Hagendaas ice cream and a selection of chocolate treats from Tesco? And no bank loan required.

THE ELECTRIC CINEMA

191 PORTOBELLO RD LONDON W11 2ED

BOX OFFICE: 020 7908 9696

Crowding Pain

I am generally a calm and easygoing person. I like to think that crowds don’t bother me and that if I’m waiting in a line then it’s the Gods giving me a moment to reflect – a time for forced meditation.

But last night I was pushed to my limits. It was the second evening in a week that the tube station at Oxford Circus was closed for business. Yep, when peak-hour gets too much, the gates (at all 7-plus exits) are bolted and Londoners and tourists alike are brought to a standstill. I’m talking fire hazard, mosh pit-mayhem. And once you’ve turned that corner onto Oxford Street there’s slim chance you’ll make your way to the other side in less than 20 minutes – and that’s after you’ve resigned yourself to opting for the hour-long bus ride instead.

Ahhh, London buses; those delightful red, double-decker people movers that take corners far too quickly and are driven by people seemingly unable to keep count of their maximum passenger capacity. To be fair, small riots would break out if they were to stick to the 20 persons standing rule, but being crammed into corners next to wheelchairs and children’s prams isn’t the best of fun. Those passengers who take to the stairs do so at their own peril – the number of my friends who have confessed to a fall when an accelerator-happy driver takes on the Alfa Romeo next to him at the lights is now in double-digits.

Yes, it’s all good to be Ghandi on my way to work from Pilates, but Heaven help the man who impedes my journey home.

Holiday hang-ups

V-Day: A day for chocolate and candy and cuddles; for lovers and daters alike. It’s also a day for singles to moan about the monopoly held by corporations like Hallmark and Cadburys. And while I agree that retail execs go wild about these ‘holidays’ for their financial benefits alone, I like to think that if you’re in a happy and healthy relationship anyway then today is simply an extra day to take special care to spend quality time with each other. Maybe say a few more, "I love yous".

But OH how some people are moaning…

It’s likely the energy they expel over how not into Valentine’s Day they are would burn off the calories in the colourfully-wrapped chocolate heart that they’re bickering about. I say, “Just eat the chocolate.”

Admittedly I won’t be reserving a table at any of London’s top-notch restaurants anyway. Mostly to avoid the crowds that tend to swarm on days like these but more truthfully because I like to split the bill and even half the cheque at The Wolseley would leave me void of cash for the next two weeks.

Instead I will partake in a bottle of champagne (a gift from a press lunch a while back), steal a kiss from my beau and eat chocolate, lots of dark chocolate.

Let the sun shine in!

It’s amusing in London when the sun’s out, everyone rushes outdoors. If this happened in Australia you’d be hard pressed to keep employees’ bums on seats for a good nine months out of twelve. It’s lunchtime and our office is practically empty; all I can hear is the hum of the photocopier machines.

Because… The sky is bright blue and crystal clear and the sun – albeit a little low in the sky – is shining. According to Google weather the temperature is 13°C, practically scorching.

At times like this I realise how accustomed I have become to the Northern chill. A New York winter, closely followed by a seriously undesirable rainy English summer and now I’m into my third month of temperatures averaging 10°C… But I love it.

Seriously.

When I went back home over Christmas I was one of the whinging poms complaining of heatstroke. I detest feeling sweaty and (as I’ve mentioned before) I like a good walk, so getting from A to Z when the sun is blazing means that I arrive at my destination glowing to the point of perspiration. Not especially attractive at the best of times.

So while I look out the window with a twinkle in my eye, day dreaming that a warm European summer might really be around the corner, I do so with caution. Warm enough to wear cotton-Ts and tailored shorts please Mr Weatherman, but not so warm that I have to reapply melted makeup in between appointments.

SSH.... Whispers from Horses

Today, I wore 3-inch patent leather ankle boots. Why? Because by process of elimination it would appear they are the most ergonomically sensitive shoes I own. Not a great deduction of my footwear, I know.

I’m a walker. One of those people who would rather walk tens minutes to another bus stop than sit patiently for the next one to drive along. And at five-feet-nine-inches I rarely see the point of buying heals, because I’m taller than most of my friends anyway.

So my shoe of choice has been – for the past few years at least – the trusty ballet flat. This shoe I can slip on in the morning and feel confident that I won’t hold up traffic as I attempt to balance on escalators or rush through the morning and evening crowds around Oxford Circus. I wear them at the weekend too, to the shops, to friends’ places and even on nights out. And up until last week I truly thought they were great. But then my right heel began to ache.

You see ballet flats are bad for feet. I’m not talking about pointe shoes that contort your toes into tiny stumps; I’m talking about those unassuming (relatively inexpensive) slip-ons. This is because, apparently, they offer no support to your ankles and in turn manipulate your toes to curl in a bid to keep said-shoes fixed to your feet. This daily torture results on tired, achy, swollen tootsies covered in bunions and blisters.

So… I’m here to advocate for the Sturdy Sensible Heel (or SSH). Because stilettos cause back pain and shin-cramps, joggers are ugly and in London it’s far too cold for flip flops. But just what is a SSH?

I trawled through the fashion pages of BAZAAR, nothing. While the online fashion bibles of Style.com and Net-A-Porter.com suggest heels less than six-inches high are not worth owning. Must I resign myself to wearing the dutiful court-shoe of air hostesses and secretaries of the 1950s? Say it isn’t so.

No. I’m thinking the answer – this season anyway – comes straight from the Horse's mouth: The Riding Boot. Stylish, slimming, and in black can be worn with just about anything.

Giddy up!

The Granada, £135 from DUO Boots on Saville Row, London

Nanny Notice

On my flight back from Australia I sorted through the movies on offer (gotta love those personal movie screens, thanks Qantas) and settled on The Nanny Diaries, starring Scarlett Johansson.

In the film, Johansson is a college graduate not yet ready to face the big bad world of the formal workforce, who instead accepts a nanny job with a wealth Upper-East-Side-Manhattan family. She soon realises that she has taken on more than a job and in fact has lost her identity. No longer called by her name, she is now ‘Nanny’, and responsible for the highs and woes of the family – their dysfunction, infidelities and an overly-indulged child.

On all accounts I loved the film. Not a huge fan of Johansson generally, I found myself able to empathise with her situation. Twenty-four and a law graduate I wonder why on earth I still find myself babysitting. While my families don’t at all resemble the ‘X’s’ portrayed in the film, yesterday I did find myself searching for the nanny-cam and wondering if confined spaces can really drive a person mad? After three hours, I was getting close.

You see having had a baby sit cancelled on Friday night I knew that my Saturday night 7 till 11 just wasn’t going to cut the financial mustard, so begrudgingly accepted a further three-hour shift with my Saturday night family, on Sunday afternoon. I arrived and the little moppets were still asleep, bless. I was told to wait in the playroom and within a few minutes they were awake and ready for action. It was roundabout this time that I realised that we’d be spending the afternoon not only indoors, but confined within the walls of this playroom. All 32-squared-feet of it.

Boy, three-and-a-half and girl 18 months and me, in a room with two windows. We did have access to a loo and Mummy had brought up ‘snacks’ for the children, so we had food and shelter covered, but truly, was she serious? To add further insult she sat with me for the first ten minutes and asked on more than one occasion if I had experience with children of this age. Only about twelve or so years I replied sweetly.

I played with the children pretending she had gone in a bid to get her to actually surrender the room to me – it was barely big enough for the babies and I, let alone a controlling mother. Once gone, we began our marathon session of reading, puzzles, sing-songs and games of pretend. Pretend-kitchens, pretend-farms, pretend-schools, pretend, pretend, pretend! Dancing was Master-three-and-a-half’s favourite game but we had to work on him not ordering me to attention, however, “please” did became standard within the first hour. Miss-18-months showed an early aversion to her indoor slippers only to squeal each time her brother accidentally stomped on her tootsies.

It often surprises me how many parents have a higher standard for their babysitter (who’s paid a mere £8 an hour) than they do for themselves. TV was not an option – I had been told – so the hours were spent with the focus on education and interaction. By the third hour I was counting the minutes and talking in tongues.

When the playroom door was finally unlocked at five minutes past six, in the evening, I tried my best not to leap to the door. It would have been a hard task anyway, given that Miss-18-months had latched on to me at the sound of the key turning… It seemed I had made a friend (hardly surprising given I’d given her my undivided attention for the better half of the afternoon!). And while this would have been a sweet and lovely interaction on another given Sunday, the fact that I had been enclosed in a room and that her Dad had just underpaid me for my time, the further 20 minutes I spent trying to detach her from my arms only fuelled my anger.

I am done with daytime baby sits. To any future families, consider this my notice.

Sassy chicks and Sashimi

With only a few more days to go having Malena in our office – yes, after almost 12 months of interning the time has come for her to move on to more profitable pastures – Kelly and I decided a night of sashimi and red wine was in order, for the three of us.

Every city has one. A Chinatown, that is. Londoners make their way to Soho when in search of red lanterns, smiling kittens, sweet dumplings and fried noodles. Last night the streets were particularly festive in celebration of Chinese New Year, but walking the already troublesome cobblestone pathways was made even more treacherous given the scattered vegetable-debris that seems to litter all Chinatowns, no matter the city they’re in.

Dressed to the nines, with patent-leather ankle boots and big designer bags (mine was the only fake), we bustled our way through the crowds only to find ourselves lost somewhere near The Ivy. Thankfully the doorman at this coveted establishment was only too pleased to help three wandering ladies; he politely guided us back the way we’d come, with pin-point accuracy, to our restaurant of choice, Tokyo Diner.

Hidden amongst the chaos, Tokyo Diner offers its patrons true Japanese service. They’re stern and efficient although they make no apologies for customers waiting for their sushi. With only one sushi chef on hand they assert quality over quickness; however, refreshingly they refuse all tips. In accordance with Japanese principles tipping is not accepted, any money “accidentally left on tables” is donated to the local homeless mission. For three poor interns, this was a blessing.

The best part of the evening, besides the girly chat and giggles of course, was the £6.90 bottle of Merlot – not surprisingly unlabeled – but not a bad drop indeed!

Common Goals

The time has come for me to nest. Yes, boyfriend and I are making the move into a shared abode - Londonstyle.

You see we did share a rather funky, brightly coloured East Village pad in NYC before we decided a six-month sojourn from combined living was in order. But after going our separate ways and then finding ourselves back in Clapham Common one day, hot chocolates in hand, we sung "Que sera, sera" and bit the chocolate bullet. Now we're back on gumtree.co.uk and on the click for a one-bedder in Clapham, near the Common and with a garden. For less than £200 per week.

Surprisingly this isn't such a stretch. It's just whether we'll still be starry-eyed come Saturday evening after viewing the dozen or so apartments I've lined up. It's risky.

But I can't help but think that one hideous day of flat-hunting, missioning through the streets of South West London, in-and-out of one over-advertised, upsold apartment after another, will be less traumatic than having to rush from work to viewings mid-week. And Sunday, well on Sunday I'm finding someone to fill my room (might not advertise my neighbour's dabbling in all substances illicit), so this leaves just Saturday... He'll thank me when we find our dream home. And one day, who knows, maybe we'll actually have the money to buy one!

Icky Bitty Cold

My lower back is aching, my neck is stiff and I’m freezing. Don’t even get me started on the state of my face – nose running, eyes itchy and blurry vision – I’m sick.

Now this is the time of year, especially in Britain, that the common cold runs rampant, but my being sick is not the fault of Mr. Frosty, it’s all my own doing. You see for some bizarre reason over the last fortnight I have sought to convince myself that it isn’t actually winter, and that a simple khaki jacket provides the required warmth for all temperatures above 4-degrees and below 10. It doesn’t.

It would in fact appear that everyone else in London, those donning their scarves and gloves and beanies were being clever and not overly precious, as I had smirked on more than one occasion while I hurried through the windy streets between work and home.

Now I’m suffering for my state of hubris.

Now, tail between my legs I walk to the kitchenette at work and refill my cup of peppermint tea for the hundredth time. I dissolve Echinacea in glasses of water and I munch on clementines to up my Vitamin C intake.

Now I admit defeat. I’m sick. And woe is me.

A little bit of Irish

What better way to spend a weekend than skipping across the Isle and indulging in a few pints of Guinness?

Last Friday two girlfriends and I boarded a late flight Aer Lingus-style en route to Dublin. Totally last minute and totally on the cheap (our return flights including taxes came to a grand total of £32!) we set out to party with the Irish and maybe see a castle or two.

We saw one, Dublin Castle. And walked around Trinity College – literally walked round it, snapped a few pics and then headed for the warmth of Messrrs Maguire pub (and some Guinness) overlooking O’Connell Bridge. Poor tourist effort, I know, but it was so cold! And while the cobblestone streets of Trinity are lovely, and the pubs on every corner with their coloured exteriors and array of flags are perfectly quaint, I have to say, that as far as a city goes, Dublin doesn’t do much for me.

I had been to Ireland years before with my family. For three months we hire-car’d our way through Europe – up from London, through Cheshire, Yorkshire and into Scotland and across the way to Ireland before hitting Germany, Italy and Slovenia. It was then I fell in love with England and the Isles. It was winter time and the countryside we drove through was shockingly green and lush, while the further north we went snow fell over medieval ruins. I dreamt of Robin Hood and King Arthur and pretended I was a maid in the royal house of Queen Elizabeth I (well, I was only twelve and we’d just studied the Tudor’s and Stuarts in year five history)… But this time, arriving at the airport and driving through the industrial area of south Dublin, there was less romance.

Venturing out to a club late Friday – early Saturday morning actually – I wasn’t entranced by the smell of urine and beer that coated the entranceway to The Village nightclub; and the prepubescent girls hovering outside, wearing next-to-nothing in 2-degree weather, didn’t make me reminisce old monarchs.

Instead, the best time was had come morning when our hosts (a group of four Canadian med students) prepared us a three-course hot breakfast complete with Canadian peanut butter – or as I like to call it, ‘liquid gold’. And while Saturday night was meant to be our big Irish-experience at the renowned Gogarty’s, instead we stayed in for yet more delectable-delights. There were nine of us around the dinner table and enough food for twenty. We ate and drank and laughed. Confessed our sins and acclaimed our trespasses. With one token Irish guest (complete with flaming red, curly hair, pale skin and a bright green cardigan) we enjoyed Dublin the girly way, and merry good time was had.

A little bit of Irish bling

Oliver St. John Gogarty Pub

58 / 59 Fleet Street Temple Bar Dublin 2

Some 'gingers' for good measure!

Friday Flat White

Australian's love our coffee. Generally. When travelling overseas (yes, even in Europe) we have been known to moan about the mediocre coffee on offer in cafes. In New York and London coffee houses tend to be of the Costa, Gloria Jeans and Starbucks varieties. That would be, filtered beans or barista'd coffee so bitter the flavour needs to be drowned out with sticky-sweet syrups that further dry your tastebuds and add significant calories to your waistline.

So we expats love it when Aussie baristas put up shop overseas. Ruby's on Mulberry Street in New York City does a roaring trade with expats and New Yorkers-alike: their signature brew? Why, a 'flat white' of course*.

And where to find a great flat white in London? Look no further than flat white. in Soho.

Literally around the corner from our offices at Natmags, this little gem offers their signature flatties, along with lattes, cappucinos, hot chocolates (all made the Aussie way) as well as a range of hearty snacks and yummy bickies (cookies), nougats and pastries. Their Aussie born-and-bred staff add the requisite twang to their "hellos" as well.

My skinny hot chocolate this morning was just heavenly. Served with a generous portion of mini marshmallows and dollop of chocolate sprinkles, it was definitely worth its £2.30 price tag.

flat white.

where: 17 Berwick Street, Soho, Westminster, London, W1F 0PT
phone: 020 7734 0370

Note: The great Aussie short black is a definite no-no in NYC, and not taking to kindly here in the UK either... Political correctness gone a bit mad if you ask me.