The East Hill

Lazy Sunday afternoons are the best. Add to the mix a chic (and cosy) pub with large windows letting in gorgeous rays of sunshine, a delicatessen-savvy gastro menu, a group of friends and a scrabble board and you have my idea of a wonderful weekend lunch.

Taking the opportunity to scope out one of the recently refurbished pubs in the Geronimo Inns collection (see www.geronimo-inns.co.uk) I made a reservation for eight of my nearest and dearest for Sunday at 2pm. Come Saturday that number had dwindled to six and after a change in the clocks and a few nasty hangovers my party was down to three. Boyfriend, best friend and me.

The staff were incredibly friendly, although absent at times, and the décor truly charming. Imagine country comfort, with mixes of floral and worn leather reclining chairs, couches and bare-wooden tables. It’s French-provincial without trying too hard and the menu is similarly paid back.

The highlight would have been sharing their signature banoffee pie (that we’d being jealously eyeing at other diner’s tables); however, our order was placed too late so we went with a white chocolate and dark cherry bread and butter pudding – three spoons!

As we devoured our dessert a riveting three-letter-average game of scrabble ensued… Hold back judgments please.

Venue: The East Hill
Where: 21 Alma Rd, Wandsworth SW18 1AA

All or nothing

Sometimes the fitness gods smile. This morning they chose to flash their pearly whites down at me with a private session of Beautcamp Pilates; the morning rain clouds keeping the rest of the class warm in their beds.

With my regular instructor back from his month-long holiday in South Africa, I was already geared up for a serious workout – he tends to be a tougher coach – but one-on-one time was definitely more than I’d bargained for. Already prone to Teacher’s Pet-itis I crunched crunches and squeezed my gluteus maximus like the revolution of the world depended on it.

Beads of sweat and an hour’s huffing and puffing later (or technically, in through the nose and a deep, abdominal breath out through pursed lips) my legs were shaking and my abs convulsing. When it came time to do our last stretch my elation was somewhat stifled by shear exhaustion. I was totally ecstatic, as you might well imagine.

Having signed up to a weekend membership at Fitness First starting this evening (available at home-clubs from 4pm Fridays to 9pm Sundays) I think any doubt that I’m an all-or-nothing girl has been dispelled… Bring on the elliptical trainer!

NB: We got the flat! Now we have to scrounge together a little over £2220 for the deposit and agency fees. Why do blessings always come in disguise?

Luck be my lady

Another one of my so-geeky-it's-sad favourite pastimes - just so you know, they include my addiction to Scrabulous and a tea pot collection being kept safe at my grandma's - is my Sunday afternoon television lineup.

Two-and-a-half hours of Come Dine With Me (that sees five strangers take it in turns to host a dinner party and mark each other's meals out of 10 in a bid to win £1,000), followed by three back-to-back episodes of Location, Location, Location (with realtors Phil Spencer and Kirstie Allsop and an assortment of prospective home buyers scoping out the property market). Yep... it seems a little sad.

However, as far as my TV choices go, I argue I like to live vicariously: I can't cook to save myself and given my current financial situation the prospect of purchasing my own home is somewhat laughable. Those that can't do, watch.

But over the past month I've been able to play out a little of my realty-fantasies (admittedly it hasn't always been pleasant) and this afternoon I stood with bated breath as boyfriend took the call from the agent of our must-have property. Kirstie and Phil would have been slightly disappointed that we weren't bolder with our offer, only cutting them down by £5 a month, but in my mind it was too good a property to gamble on.

The result? We have to wait.

Unlike my fave show where with time on its side and the help of clever editing the viewer isn't kept in suspense too long, we have to bide our time while the agent takes our offer to the owner. Apparently we should hear back tomorrow. Tonight I'll say a little prayer to Saint Joseph, the patron saint of house hunters*...

* found that out online!

Friends in far places

I’m not usually one for impromptu social gatherings. Sounds terribly tragic, I know, but I’m the kinda gal who likes to put appointments in her diary (lots of appointments) and then gets excited when an evening is free.

But yesterday my girlfriend emailed me a same-day-dinner invitation I just couldn’t refuse. Not simply because she’s an amazing cook – she prepared steamed trout with fresh ginger and shallots served with a sweet chilli and soy bok choy and broccoli medley – but more importantly because the two of us haven’t had good one-on-one time in more than a month. Crazy, given that we work in the same office; crazier because we are each other’s biggest fans and play dates tend to involve us telling each other how fab we both are… which we both thoroughly enjoy.

The main reason for our delayed catch-ups: Geography. With her in north-east London and me in the south-west the travel time is a pain. While the Victoria line is one of the most direct tube lines, it’s also undergoing engineering works and shuts at 10pm most weeknights. So dinner was slightly rushed – which wasn’t too much of a problem as both she and I talk at a million miles an hour when we’re together – but entirely delightful. I even indulged in a few glasses of Oyster Bay sauvignon blanc… reminiscent of summer days back in Oz.

Call me sentimental but I think it’s important to have a few good friends from your country of origin when you’re on the other side of the world, be they old or new. I’m not downplaying the need to befriend the locals but when times are tough it’s nice to share a nice ol’ moan with someone who’s in the same position. In the past six months I’ve done my best to create my London Family… so I’d like to take this moment to thank them all (they know who they are) and tell them how much they rock.

Cheers, fellas!

Frosty Treats

Long weekends are lovely. Waking up each day to snowflakes falling at your window ledge, well that’s just gorgeous! Such was my Easter.

Far from ‘home’ this long weekend, a girlfriend (and fellow expat) invited me round for a sleepover – complete with a library of chick-flick DVDs and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Strawberry Cheesecake frozen yogurt.

Meeting at the Saturday markets in the early afternoon, our plan to browse and graze among the stalls was quickly dropped in favour of the warmth of her living room. Once there I was overtaken with what can only be described as house-envy. Ever on the hunt for the perfect abode, seeing my girlfriend’s quaint Victorian conversion flat in Tooting Bec – with all the girly-trimmings of fresh flowers, pink cushions and throws and antique tea sets – made me squeal with delight. And then turn an ever-so-pale shade of spearmint!

I’m happy for her, of course, but my subsequent Gumtree and Prime Location (primelocation.co.uk) searches come Sunday afternoon for a similar flat all came up duds. With little over a month to go before boyfriend and I take the leap into joint-realty the Virgo in me is desperate for some closure. I want to put moving dates in the diary, start sorting my bookshelf and plan a trip to Primark (poverty-stricken lass that I am) for funky bathroom and kitchen accessories!

With more viewings scheduled for the latter half of this week I am hopeful. And maybe, just maybe I’ll wake up on Easter morning next year to snowflakes at my window, once again.

Colour me Cuckoo

It's always nice when a PR asks you to dinner. It's even better when once the two of you meet you get along like a house on fire - and then it's super fab when the restaurant of choice is one of London's hottest dining and clubbing locales. Last night: The Cuckoo Club.

Since opening in 2005 Cuckoo has set itself apart from other high-end clubs through its first class restaurant. Spread over two floors the upstairs 70-cover restaurant, undergoes a Cinderella-like transformation come midnight (or around half-eleven) when it joins with the bottom level turning into one of London's most exclusive nightclubs. Getting in without connections is harder than squeezing your tootsie into a glass slipper!

With its members including the likes of supermodels Elle Macpherson and Jemma Kidd, music legends Roger Taylor (Queen) and Jools Holland, designer Alice Temperley and a host of royal favourites, this is a club that knows how to party. Purple lighting, high ceilings and a music 'policy' of rock-chic, highly fashionable young things party-up on the dance floor sipping champagne and Grey Goose vodka.

Newly appointed Head Chef, Fernando Stovell (previously of the Michelin-starred The Capital and former Head European Pastry Chef for the Sultan of Oman) is fantastic and incredibly down-to-earth. Having spent years working in hospitality I am always impressed with chefs who are so obviously in love with their food.

Getting the very, very VIP treatment last night, Stovell designed a special version of his recently launched tasting menu. A white truffle-infused amuse bouche was followed by the largest freshly shucked Rossmore Native Oyster I've ever seen (accompanied by a cucumber moose, "to enhance its natural flavours," says Stovell, who personally served us a a number of the evening's dishes), pan-seared scallop with roast pumpkin and chorizo proceeded a tasty morsel of grilled halibut, then roasted Canon of Elwy Valley lamb and rosemary fondant potato with salsa verde and finally a Valhrona Hot Chocolate pudding with yogurt ice cream.

After dinner we were joined by some friends-in-high-places to dance the night (and morning) away... It's times like these I LOVE my job!

Oh Winona!

She's at it again. According to marieclaire.co.uk Winona Ryder is up to her old pilfering tricks, this time at a CVC Pharmacy in Hollywood.

For those not familiar with US chemists, rest assured CVC is hardly Harvey Nicks! And yet, Ms Ryder saw the need to stash a pile of make-up into her bag, only presenting a few items for payment at the register. Alarms sounded as she went to leave the store, however, this time the unpaid goods were simply taken off the (failing) actress and put safely back on the shelves. Luckily for Ryder her three-year probation period - handed down after her 2002 heist of £3,000 worth of designer wears at Saks Fifth Avenue in Beverly Hills - is well and truly over... The Intern is yet unclear as to whether any further legal action will be taken.

You have to wonder why a Hollywood starlet would feel the need to steal cosmetics. Surely she still gets royalties for her string of successful films in the early nineties? I have to say, I took issue with the online article describing Ryder at the time of her first 'incident' as "at the height of her career" - her major film of that year was Mr. Deeds with Adam Sandler, hardly a blockbuster, and prior to that her film of note was Girl Interrupted with Angelina Jolie in 1999, and forgive me if I'm wrong, but didn't Jolie win the Oscar for that one?

Seriously, while I -like many girls in Generation Y (born 1980 - 1996) - dutifully bought Big Gulps and dissed EVIAN mineral water (isn't that naive spelt backwards?) in an effort to be like Ryder in the film classic Reality Bites, I struggle to see how anyone could envy the poster girl now. She's not even a cool, young jail bird like Paris or Lindsay... and now she's even without her make-up! Poor Winona, woe is she.

Trigger Fingers

It very rarely happens that I hit the 'send' button prematurely - OCD sufferer that I am - but it happened today... And it's a big oops!

Ever on the prowl for 'gainful employment' I've been eagerly sending off my CV and clips in response to entry-level editorial vacancies as well as to the HRs of publishing houses here in London. Handling work experience forms in my current role I'm all too aware of the dos and don'ts of applying for positions: DO spell your addressee's name correctly, DON'T send generic cover letters etc - so it's with a heavy heart that I admit today I sent on an email to the HR of one company containing all the reasons why I'd be 'perfect' for a role at an entirely unrelated magazine! Crap.

When you're up for your writing and editing skills such a boo-boo is a total deal breaker. So what to do? Is it better to hope that the lady in question ignores the second line in my email and holds my info on file anyway, or should I bite the bullet, phone her up and with my vibrant-charm help her see the lighter side of my illustrious f**k-up? At this stage I'm taking the former option and going to ride this wave with my tail between my legs.

So it's back to the drawing board. Back to Gorkana.com (the daily online bulletin for PR and media in the UK) and scrolling the recruitment pages, both online and print... And hoping that a position somewhere opens up. Fingers and toes tightly crossed.

Poetic Licence

I'm seriously losing patience with realtors. Flat hunting in London is not a pleasant experience at the best of times – rent prices are extortionate and ads placed online state “available immediately”, who I ask is able to move out at the drop of a hat? Then there’s traipsing around the city, changing tube lines and racing to make appointments with estate agents. And then… they go and outright lie.

Not wanting to waste all my free time at the weekends I’ve made a few viewing appointments in my lunch hours. Last week – when it was pouring outside and I was still feeling the effects of bronchitis – I missioned into the depths of Clapham South; the alleged ten minute walk from the tube station was more like twenty-five (and I’m hardly a stroller!) and once at the flat it became clear that the agent’s idea of “recently refurbished” was actually code for: current tenants have taken to tearing apart furniture.

Today I again ventured south, this time to Brixton. The ad on Gumtree.com showed a chic one-bedroom apartment, complete with photos of the modern kitchen (chrome fridge and dishwasher) and a living room and bedroom decorated right out of the Habitat catalogue. I emailed to confirm that the apartment came furnished (assuming this would be interpreted as ‘the apartment looks like its photos’), and an affirmative reply encouraged me to jump once again on the Victoria line.

After waiting almost fifteen minutes for my agent to arrive at the property, the two of us were greeted at the apartment door by one of the three current tenants (who are being evicted for breaking their lease agreement) and a whole lot of mess. The kitchen was filthy, the lounge room had been turned into a makeshift second bedroom and dirty laundry littered the “newly laid carpet”. I stifled my anger at having wasted yet another lunch hour and instead commented that I still had a few more places to see and that I must be off back to work.

Disillusioned a rode the train back to Oxford Circus. With little over a month to go before boyfriend and I move out I’m starting to think it would be easier for us to simple pitch a tent on the Common. If only it weren’t still so icy outside.

The ad

The reality

Dim Sum Delights

Those looking for a cheaper, eat-your-heart-out meal in London should feast their eyes upon dim sum (or yum cha for my Aussie counterparts) at their local Chinese restaurant.

On Saturday a friend and I indulged at Royal China, just a few doors down from Queensway tube station. For just £25 the two of us tucked into six dishes, including steamed beef dumplings, bok choy in oyster sauce and prawn cheung fun.

Complimentary green tea is served throughout the meal and daily specials are brought around on trays to tempt your taste bud-resolve.

Unfortunately, dim sum in the UK (as in the States) hasn’t cottoned on to trolley service like yum cha in Australia. Bitterly disappointing for the glutinous among us, however, the dishes remain the same – fresh, tasty morsels served in bamboo baskets – and you’re less likely to feel the need to roll out of the restaurant!

While a number of Chinese restaurants in London offer dim sum daily, traditionally it is a weekend family treat, so be sure to arrive early in order to reserve a place – lines will often queue out of the building, especially on Sundays.

Royal China

13 QueenswayW2 4QJ Bayswater

tel: 020 7221 2535

www.royalchinagroup.co.uk

A spoonful of hypnosis

Last night I went under the influence.

I dodged the rain as I ran from St Paul’s station to Fleet Street (swapping heals for flats halfway) and trudged up the five flights of stairs to the office of Keith Chopping (MNCH Acc), qualified hypnotherapist. There to be reprogrammed, I took my place in ‘the chair’.

This all began about a month ago when I saw journalist, Anna Richardson undergo hypnotherapy for weight loss on my current fave series, Supersize vs Superskinny. Using the power of the mind – with the desire already in her psyche – Richardson was able to change the way she viewed food, one carb-packed meal at a time.

Whether you have a penchant for sweets, baked goods or take-away, hypnotherapy allows you to ‘get the message’ to the deepest parts of your brain, so that good intentions can win over temporary indiscretions. So basically, if you want to make a change, you will.

With my own history of over-eating, binge eating, crash diets and calorie counting I became excited at the notion of reprogramming my brain when it came to my thinking on food in general. Not being able to go a meal without either congratulating or chastising myself I felt a desperate urge to cleanse my mind (along with my body).

Chopping first sat me down to discuss my goals and my feelings towards my body and food, as well as how I tend to visualise dreams and aspirations. He then began the process of putting me under, through breathing and listening techniques, and most importantly the sound of his voice.

After one session – Chopping proposes no more than two forty-minute meetings – I can honestly say that I feel different… Not quite sure how to explain it, but bad food just doesn’t seem to be on my radar like it was yesterday.

My first big test came just after our meeting when I had to rush to a babysitting job. While I normally relish the opportunity to raid the cupboards once the kids are in bed, last night I felt oddly content watching television and sipping on tea.

With a flick of my wrist I served my morning portion of bran and thought, “That’s enough.” It was only when I took the bowl to the table that I noticed I’d rationed myself about half what I usually dished out. Later in the morning I attended a press event – the major draw card being a champagne breakfast and a selection of cupcakes – and instead of my eyes honing in on the food, when asked I requested only a glass of water. Why? Because I only felt like a glass of water.

Who knows if this will last – I think it might – but what I do like about hypnosis is how I’m in charge of it. There are no pills and nothing that I’ve specifically told myself that I’m not allowed. I simply feel full sooner and seem to take more time to eat the food in front of me. And good food just tastes better. Happily, bon appetite!

Transcribe this

You can’t help believing when you flick through the pages of a glossy that the life of the interviewer must be a cool one. How glam to take lunch with the starlets or chat on the phone to the who’s who of the art/music world? Wouldn’t it be interesting to learn about the nitty-gritty of their lives? Well yes. And no.

It’s always fun to talk, talking’s easy. Transcribing hours of recorded conversations, not so much. Luckily most interviewers have a little lackey who can sit diligently and play-rewind-type, play-rewind-type… At BAZAAR it appears I’ve nominated myself. Not that I’m really complaining, after all, I get to hear the voices of celebs I’ve pined for and others I’ve longed to live the life of. I’m behind the scenes and in on the goss (pity I can’t tell anyone until the issue makes the newsstand)…But, oh how my little ears ache.

To passers-by I must look the picture, squinting into the computer screen and straining my ears to hear muted conversations and muffled answers. In another setting they would surely provide me with a laxative and tell me to take a load off…

Play-rewind, play-rewind, click. If only the recorder showed the time, not knowing how much longer the interview goes for is perhaps the most torturous part of the process. Once done the sense of accomplishment is wondrous. But, like so many of the little tasks I undertake as Intern, no one else seems to quite appreciate my elation at a job well done. They’re waiting for the writer to make it all pretty I suppose…

The Escapist

Last night I went to a preview screening of The Escapist the debut feature of French-born director, Rupert Wyatt.

I have to say I wasn't especially drawn by the plot summary - group of cons attempt escape - but a previous television addiction to Fox's hit show, Prison Break (read: lusted for Wentworth Miller) was enough for me to stay back after work and take a seat at the tiny Soho Screening Rooms on D'Arbley Street.

No Wentworth in this one, however, Dominic Cooper who recently took on the role of the devilish Mr Willougby in the BBC's latest adaption of Sense and Sensibility, adds a certain seductive charm to new-con-on-the-block, James Lacey. And Joseph Fiennes (Shakespeare in Love) as a muscle-head, sleeveless-hoodie wearing thief provides similar spunk. In the lead role is Brian Cox (The Ring, X2) as Frank Perry, a lifer taking on his fourteenth year. When Perry hears word that his estranged daughter has become a drug addict he joins together a band of uniquely-skilled misfits to plan an elaborate escape.

I was literally on the edge of my seat. With most scenes played out within the dingy walls of an ageing London prison, or in the abandoned tunnels of the Underground, it's a dark film, but a great one. I wouldn't agree with it's IMDb genre rating of a 'Thriller' but it's definitely not for the faint hearted. And with a nice little twist at the end, it's one to watch out for - scheduled for UK release June 20.

Spring Whinge

There are a few times in the year that people’s natural behaviour gets my goat… and now just happens to be one of those times.

When the sun is starting to grace us with its presence a little earlier, but before the clocks have been turned back to embrace Summer Time (that be Day Light Savings). When ‘those people’ who have hid under their covers during the dark and dreary winter months come out in their hundreds to bulk-up my commuting queue, steal my train seat and even attempt to take my place in the gym. The cheek!

When those of ‘us’ have diligently woken to our alarm clocks, rain, hail or clear black sky I feel personally affronted that these summer-slummers now think they’re entitled to push past me on the Tube.

Pedantically I take a minor victory when I see one of ‘them’ stand on the wrong part of the platform (when ‘us’ in the know wait instead at the exact point the doors open, each and every morning). Yes, I’m sad and neurotic and quite obviously OCD but it’s just that I like things to be even. I like balance. Equilibrium. These slummers aren’t playing fair.

Unfortunately I have no other forum for my retort than here online - I draw a line at verbal abuse in the mornings and curb my desire to shove them with my gym bag – so I write in the hope that my message will be heard and these sunshine babies might do the ‘right thing’ and stand aside for us hard-yarders… Slim chance, I know, but hey.

The Other B&B

No I haven't been on some exotic island. I haven't been sunning-it while others slave away. I've been bedridden with bronchitis. Like being hit with a tonne of bricks, right in the chest and having the remnants of my lungs rumble around like debris… And then there’s the fever.

While my absence for the first few days went largely unnoticed by friends and family back home – my sweaty, disease-fuelled slumber made international phone calls somewhat difficult – friends this side of the equator made a point of suggesting my illness was a way for my body to get me to slow down. Couldn’t it have left me a memo instead? Was confining me to my room with aching muscles and joints and a heaving chest really the best way to teach me a lesson? And why must I learn a lesson anyway?

I see people on a daily basis eating poorly, dressing inappropriately for the winter chill and drawing back on cigarettes like I down H2O – why aren’t they sick? Not that I wish my last week upon anyone.

I would never describe myself as a sickly person, but this is officially my second cold of the season. Although, technically it's now Spring. I honestly cannot remember a time when I had an entire week off work, may it never happen again.

With my hand on my heart I promise my body (mind and soul) that I’ll do my best to get my eight-hours a night and all my vitamins… But bring on a good (old-fashioned) English Summer… I’m ready for some heat!