Me and Su

My glutes are pinching. Triceps pulsating. Laughing causes ripples through my obliques. I’m three weeks into my personal training Thursdays with Suru and after each session I feel just as broken as the last – in a good way!

As one who likes to be pushed to her fitness limits – except when it comes to static lunges while holding dumbbells or playground antics like sprint tests – I thrive with one-on-one trainings. And with my return to Sydney imminent I’ve been upping the ante: adding a PT session to my three Beautcamp Pilates classes each week has enabled me to drop a little of the December-bulge I managed to gain around my hips and thighs, but it’s the adrenalin that really gets me.

No matter how physically exhausted I am after a class or session, mentally I could run marathons. And suddenly that croissant or chocolate bar doesn’t hold the same allure…

Chatting to a girlfriend who had recently taken up her own Bikram Challenge we discussed how expensive keeping fit is these days, especially given the current economic climate. Ironically while credit is being crunched, more and more people are cancelling their gym memberships. Yet those same people are still patrons of the pubs on Fridays and continue to buy up big in the ongoing retail sales.

But surely if you’re going to spend money on anything, your health should be up there as a top priority? Personal training sessions might be costly, but they’re far more effective when it comes to achieving your fitness goals and losing those extra pounds.

While I’m going to miss the friends I’ve made in London, through the wonders of email and Facebook and phone lines I know we’ll all keep in touch; but I’m truly gutted about saying farewell to Beautcamp and my trainer. Suru’s classes are dynamic and his encouraging and softly spoken personal training style ensures that while I always break a sweat, huff and puff and stagger out aching, I’m able to leave with a smile on my face… Endorphins pumping!

For those in the London area who want to visit Brick Lane for something other than a curry, check out Me&Su for a free fitness assessment.

Me&Su Fitness

The Old Truman Brewery

91 Brick Lane

London E1 6QL

Eight is enough

As I struggle to get two children under nine, up and dressed and breakfasted in time for school each morning, I marvel at those mothers – my sister included – who are dealing with multiple babies and toddlers. As soon as a child learns to crawl life gets very hectic, very quickly. These women are inspiring. Selfless. Amazing.

A mother-friend of mine once joked, “You spend the first two years of your child’s life teaching them to walk and talk, and all the years after that pleading with them to sit down and shut up!”

So just how is life going to change for the Californian woman who yesterday gave birth to octuplets? Six boys, two girls: weighing between 1.8lbs and 3.4lbs each. Initially only expecting seven babies, the eighth, Baby H, surprised all concerned. Somewhat disconcertingly, Dr Harold Henry, chief of maternal and fetal medicine at the hospital, asserted: "It is quite easy to miss a baby when you’re anticipating seven babies. Ultrasound doesn’t show you everything.”

The mother, who remains unnamed, spent the last seven weeks of her thirty-week pregnancy within the confines of the Kaiser Permanente hospital in southern California. While she’ll be released in a week, her babies will spend the next two months growing under the watchful eyes of hospital staff.

It’s unclear from reports whether the couple has other children, but the theme song for the ABC’s seventies sitcom, Eight Is Enough, is certainly playing loud and clear in my head!

Click to hear what the doctors have to say...

nip/tuck nabbed

I’m devastated. I’m also acutely aware that by living this past month as a pseudo stay-at-home mum my world and what’s important has shrunk to within the three mile radius that encompasses the kid’s schools, the butcher and green grocer, and ‘our’ home. As such, this morning’s trip to the local video store to dose up on my next instalment of nip/tuck (addiction de jour: DVD boxed sets of the best television has to offer) only to find that some other mother has already nabbed disc 1 of season three, has left me utterly bereft.

To add insult to injury, today is the one day this week where both kidlets have after school activities that grant me ‘free-time’ until 4.30pm. I’ve pilate-d, the fridge is full, lunches have been pre-packed ready for tomorrow and I’m sitting idle, wondering at the fate of Dr. Christian Troy.

Season two climaxed with the ultimate adrenalin rush: Dr. Sean McNamara lies in wait for The Carver – gun loaded – while across town Christian is face-to-face with the masked serial-slasher, the swish of whose knife cuts through a compelling and emotive musical score. I need to know what happens!

Okay, so season two aired back in 2004. I understand I’m a little behind. But with good reason, season three began when Boyfriend and I moved to New York and without the FX channel I lost touch with the Sean and the gang. But now I’m back. Repentant. And ready to give them my undivided attention. With season five now available on DVD I’m in catch-up mode before I head back to Oz.

For loyal viewers, you will understand my obsession. For any of you who have yet to tune into Dylan Walsh (Dr. Sean McNamara) and Julian McMahon (Dr. Christian Troy) and their sexy and scandalous antics, then do yourself a favour and beg, borrow or steal the DVDs. Cosmetic surgery will never be the same again.

Gloss

Not having to buy my own groceries whilst live-in nannying – instead I’m account-living; fruit and veg from their local grocer and yummy free range and organic meat and poultry from Lidgates – I rationalised that I could afford a long awaited visit to my fave nail parlour, Julie Nails, in Kensington.

So yesterday, after a brutal personal training session and lunch with a girlfriend, I made my way down Kensington Church Street, ready to be pampered. This really is the life.

And the ladies at Julie Nails are the best. Super friendly, their shop is always full and while their prices are very reasonable –not only for the area, but for London in general – unlike other parlours they make an effort each time to ensure their service goes above and beyond. Tea or coffee? Yes please. Magazines? Choose from a full range of the latest glossies. They even have a wide screen plasma TV for clients whose hands are out of commission as their nails are being polished and painted.

But complimentary beverages and magazines alone do not maketh the manicure… it’s all about attention to detail. A typical Mani Pedi (priced at £36) lasts well over an hour and you’re ensured a perfect finish.

After months of neglect the soles of my feet were begging to be buffed and razored, while my painfully thin and tearaway nails were itching for cuticle-attention. My technicians set to work, determination in their eyes, as I reclined further into my vibrating massage chair absorbed in the TV-viewing tragedy that is Celebrity Big Brother.

I know it’s a total extravagance, but every once in a while it’s nice to take an hour or so for yourself and do something for purely aesthetic reasons. It’s not only the end result – although I am in love with my O.P.I. Lincoln Park After Dark varnish – but for a busy, working woman I believe that hour is the closest she’ll come to meditation. How can a glossy finish ever be denied?

Julie Nails
48 Kensington Church Street
London W8 4DG
Tel: 020 7938 4883

What credit crunch?

The global economy is the Cookie Monster’s biscuit and the world now suffers his every crunch. We’re all feeling it, aren’t we?

According to friends and family we definitely are. Purse strings have been tightened, planned holidays have been cancelled – with cancellation fees humbly accepted, as we mutter “for the greater good” – and figures show that one in three of us have, either personally or by association, been affected by redundancy. This Crunch is huge. It’s big and nasty. So how come my employers (and their Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea-friends) are still spending large?

For the month of January I’ve been live-in babysitting for my Aussie family of five. Well, just Master 9 and Miss 6 actually, while their parents take the eldest, Master 12, off to Australia to settle him into boarding school. I’ve been left as sole carer of their youngsters, with full use of their Holland Park abode, their cars (a Golf and Mercedes) and more importantly, their cleaner!

The Help, a softly spoken Spanish girl – probably no older than me – visits Monday through Saturday, to scrub the kitchen and bathrooms, dust the shelves and do the washing and ironing… she even irons our socks! So comfortable with hired-hands, my little cherubs apply the use-and-dump method to not only their toys but also their attire. Master 9 and Miss 6 happily change outfits two to three times a day and when they do de-robe, simply walk out of their clothes like they were the Emperor of some far flung land. Heads held high.

Having been raised by a no-nonsense Eastern European mother, the concept of picking up my own things is fiercely engrained. I struggle with the complacency of my charges as I earnestly try to reason with the unreasonable. The only lessons they learn are the lessons they lose from: if they don’t do X when asked they don’t get Y (something they’re looking forward to). I take Supernanny’s advice and offer up three warnings, explaining each time – at eye level and with a firm tone – what exactly it is about their behaviour I’m finding so unacceptable but nine times out of ten they lose Y.

As there is so little these kids are actually expected to do I’m making it my mission over the next three weeks that they’ll at least learn to put their dirty clothes in a laundry basket (there are, in fact, six strewn around the house). I’m hopeful; after all, it’s only taken a week to get Miss 6 to master the application of her own toothpaste to toothbrush.

However manipulative the kidlets are – and they are – blame cannot be laid squarely on their shoulders. The world they are growing up in is luxury in the extreme. The children they attend school with include the sons and daughters of lords and ladies, politicians, actors and models. They are chauffeured round London by drivers named Eddie or Ahmed and their meals are cooked by the nanny or house keeper or delivered direct from Wholefoods and Ottolenghi. They are indulged, and continue to be indulged while the rest of the world tightens their belts.

And while I benefit from their good graces and generosity, I can’t help but think that it would be good for their kids to see every now and then how the other half live… but likely they’ll inherit the good fortunes of their forefathers and never want for anything. Sadly, that’s generally how the cookie crumbles.

'Our Cheryl'... okay then, I guess I'm one of 'em!

Despite the best efforts of, amongst others, my old Clapham flatmate, throughout my two years in London I have resisted joining the UK-Soap fan-phenomenon; and proudly know by name only the likes of East Enders, Hollyoaks and Emmerdale...

But I definitely bought into their X Factor, and I think it was Girls Aloud starlit, Cheryl Cole that got me: hook, line and sinker!

Read my February UK Vogue review in GWAS, and fall in love with Mrs. Cole for yourself.

Leaving London: part two

Way back in November 2007 I posted a blog about fad diets and detoxing – I was coming out of yet another lose-weight-quick scheme in preparation for my first trip back to Oz; then in March of last year I tried hypnosis, in the hopes it would finally kick my craze of dieting and food-guilt. It’s now January 2009 (exactly two months, to the day, until I arrive back in Sydney) and lo and behold I’m once again tipping the scales and hoping for a miracle.

It’s not that I’m huge (I know that), it’s just that I feel swollen. I’m not a victim of the Heathrow-injection either, because I was about this size when I moved here from New York two years ago… I’m just a girl who likes her exercise, and her chocolates and biscuits too!

I try running, I try yoga; I mix detox with pleasure. I attempt moderation and when I don’t see results, I ultimately ‘research’ the latest (and greatest) in slimming sensations. And while I promise myself time and again that I won’t buy into another diet pill or weight loss tea, the truth is in my bank statements and another fad diet bites the dust.

My one constant – and true London love – is Beautcamp Pilates. Thrice-weekly classes put a smile on my face and pump endorphins through my veins. My instructors inspire me and the girls I sweat with encourage me; in this case, obsession loves company.

But with only three weeks left before Boyfriend and I take off for our travels I’m sad (and scared) that without drastic measures I won’t fit into the dresses I’ve already bought for our friends’ weddings when we get back. While Bride Wars is not exactly a film for the ages, Kate Hudson’s desperate voice plays over in my mind: You don’t alter a Vera Wang to fit you; you alter yourself to fit Vera! And while my dresses aren’t Vera’s, Chloé and Doo Ri deserve similar respect.

Following the mantra Eat Less, Move More, while also enlisting the services of a personal trainer to kick my butt each Thursday with an hour-long weight session from hell, I’m hoping to shift an ambitious 5 kilos (that’s 11lbs for my English and American readers). According to my new PT, weight sessions that incorporate cardio (think circuit training with weights) burn twice the calories than cardio machines alone, as your ravaged muscles continue to burn hours after you’ve thrown in the towel. If last Thursday’s session was anything to go by, I believe him. It’s Monday morning and I’m still walking down stairs like a woman who’s just given birth!

Last night as my eyelids drooped and I prepared for bed, I caught a glimpse of British hypnotist, Paul McKenna, on his TLC program, I Can Make You Thin. Among other mind over matter techniques, McKenna espouses four home-truths about how thin people stay slim – and they don’t sound that crazy:

1. When You Are Hungry, Eat
2. Eat What You Want, Not What You Think You Should
3. Eat Consciously And Enjoy Every Mouthful
4. When You Think You Are Full, Stop Eating

So we’ll see how this one goes.

Moonlighting again... Glamourizing GWAS

It's nice to be able to justify frivolous spending as 'work'... while everyone else seems to be tightening their belts, I'm buying mags - ready for review - in a bid to keep you all informed.

Selfless, I know.

For February's UK Glamour, check out GWAS!

Leaving London: part one

Only four more weeks until Boyfriend and I catch our last tube out of London, destination: Sydney (via Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Egypt and the UAE!).

I’m excited – which might have something to do with the fact I’m still nannying: slowly losing my vocabulary as I gain ever more inches round my belly. Boyfriend, on the other hand is less enthusiastic. He loves his job, likes his mates – mostly cricket buddies he’s commiserated (read: drunk) with this past rained-out season – and doubts he’ll feel the same buzz once we’re back on sun-drenched soil. In the current economic climate I can see his point. Sadly, it’s his lack of a visa or relevant passport that’s shipping us ‘home’.

As we’re travelling for a month before we land in Oz I’ve had to downsize my wardrobe significantly. Two large garbage bags of clothes and shoes went to Oxfam, along with a box of unused/unopened make-up (leftovers from my gains at Bazaar beauty sales) and a box of books. I think I ditched the same amount two years ago when we left New York… living in transit certainly promotes wardrobe-cleansing.

But thanks, in part, to my recent eBay endeavours I have a bunch of clothes with which I dare not part. All those fit into four medium boxes and a small suitcase, or 23 cubic feet (if you include the two medium boxes Boyfriend requires). And while I diligently sorted and packed my belongings early last week, Boyfriend unfortunately is doing his share as I type (grr!), so allowing for 8 – 12 weeks of shipping this means my beloved wardrobe will still be in transit when we arrive.

Since we have a wedding in Auckland the first week we’re back such a timeframe is simply unacceptable. So I bit the bullet and re-jigged my boxes, removing my most coveted items – including some Balenciaga, Chloe, Marni and my new Derek Lam Brigatta platforms (if shoes could be babies…) – and bundled them into two post-bags, ready to be sent Royal Mail. With a retail value of more than £3,000 I’m more than a little bit hesitant. But it’s a catch-22: if I’m honest and insure them for their RRP then not only will I get lumped with huge customs charges but I risk the packages being stolen enroute… and if I lie and state ‘no commercial value’ then I risk them legitimately being lost in shipping, leaving no avenue for compensation. What should a (poor) girl do?

After an encouraging, be it brief, conversation with my mother I’ve decided on the latter course of action. I’ll send them recorded delivery, marked with no value… may the designers forgive me and their fabrics absolve me, and may Etherus (the God of Excess) smile upon my little white bundles and keep them safe.

One Fat Duck

Two weeks of eating only meat and stodge in Eastern Europe, followed by a long weekend in Manchester devouring the mountains of chocolate my teacher-girlfriend had been given by her class for Christmas, and I feel (and look) like One Fat Duck.

Which reminds me that I’ve yet to post a review on Boyfriend and my excursion to Heston Blumenthal’s three Michelin star restaurant, The Fat Duck, in Bray.

Our four hour, £400 degustation lunch marked the occasion of Boyfriend’s thirtieth birthday. Notoriously hard to buy for, at least one sure way to my Boyfriend’s heart is through his stomach – via his highly discerning taste buds, of course.

I’d read much about Blumenthal and his Duck: the self-taught, culinary alchemist opened his 40-cover fine dining hideaway in 1995, gaining it’s first Michelin star in 2001 – the third in 2004 – and receiving international acclaim, being named Best Restaurant in the world, in April 2005, by the "50 Best" Academy of over 600 international food critics, journalists and chefs. When I interviewed Blumenthal for Bazaar online, a few months back, I found him in equal measures intriguing and personable. And while his recipes would scare off the average diner, the years of trial and error (yes, years: his "Sound of the Sea" course took three years from concept to consumption) cannot but be admired.

For gastro-gluttons like us, an outing to Bray was simply a must. So I made the call; and called again, and again. Reservation lines open at 10am exactly two months before the date, with places filled within five minutes, but finally I got through. And I managed to keep the whole thing a secret!

We caught the train from Paddington to Maidenhead, then a quick taxi. Its façade is unassuming, however, as soon as we were through the doors we were greeted like old (very important) friends. Our coats were checked, we were led to our table, and eighteen courses later we were ready to roll back to London.

While I admire Blumenthal and his principles of molecular gastronomy – his Pommery Grain Mustard Ice Cream with Red Cabbage Gazpacho was one of my favourites – I did sometimes wonder if I actually liked what I was eating, or was simply enjoying the madness of it all? Sifting through razor clams and baby eels atop sand made from tapioca and grape seeds, while listening to the sounds of waves and seagulls through a shell-encased iPod, is an experience, yes, but delicious, no. And yet we ate on… sharing a few giggles along with our wine.

Ultimately dining at The Duck is a once in a lifetime experience… for most of us that is. But for those lucky enough not to be tightening their belts, Blumenthal offers an equally pleasing a la carte menu, to be enjoyed time and again. Who knows, maybe we’ll return in five years for my thirtieth. Depends what Givenchy has brought out that season!

Le Tasting Menu

Nitro-poached green tea and lime mousse
Orange and beetroot jelly
Oyster with passion fruit jelly and lavender
Pommery grain mustard ice cream with red cabbage gazpacho
Jelly of quail, langoustine cream and a parfait of foie gras
Oak moss and truffle toast

Snail porridge with Jabugo ham and shaved fennel

Roast foie gras “Benzaldehyde” with almond fluid gel and cherry and chamomile

“Sound of the Sea” (as described)

Salmon poached in liquorice gel, with artichoke, vanilla mayonnaise and “Manni” olive oil

Ballotine of Anjou pigeon, black pudding “Made to Order”, pickling brine and spiced juices

Hot and Iced tea

Mrs Marshall’s Margaret Cornet

Pine sherbet fountain

Mango and Douglas fir puree with Bavarois of lychee and mango, blackcurrant sorbet

Parsnip cereal

Nitro-scrambled egg and bacon ice cream with pain perdu and tea jelly

Petit fours of carrot and orange lolly, mandarin aerated chocolate, apple pie caramel “Edible Wrapper” and violet tartlet

Budapest and beyond...

Another year gone and Living Out London welcomes 2009 curled up on my couch, bundled in winter woollies, complete with Boyfriend’s socks and (appropriated) hotel slippers. Oh so chic.

And no, I’m not recovering from a big night of partying and fireworks. It’s just that it’s only 2°C outside and our little street in Wandsworth is clouded in fog. Days like these call for couches and hot tea.

But I have been busy. A fortnight ago I said farewell to my kidlets (after swapping Christmas presents and even scoring an end-of-year bonus) and packed my bag headed for Hungary. The plan: two days in Budapest followed by two nights in Ljubljana, and then meeting up with the parentals (currently living the quiet life in Puče, near the Slovenian coastal town of Portorož) for a European Christmas with a few days in Dubrovnik to cap off the silly season.

Boyfriend had scheduled a work trip starting the week before in Hungary, with other meetings in Croatia and Austria, only to be stuck in Budapest for four days thanks to a Hungarian railway strike. He’d managed to catch a bus to Vienna on the Thursday for an early morning Friday meeting, so when I arrived – laden with over 26 kilos of luggage (most of which were books for my mother, who had run out of reading material) – he was still in Austria enjoying a Weiner schnitzel.

Although he’d given me ample instructions for catching a bus, a train and a metro to our hostel, I chose, unsurprisingly, the more direct airport shuttle – for an entirely reasonable 12 euros. Alone, and seemingly bringing London’s rain with me, I took shelter for a few hours in a smoky café (smoking in restaurants having yet to be banned throughout most of Eastern Europe) and then decided to hide away in the local cinema to enjoy some Coen brothers humour and George Clooney/Brad Pitt action in Burn After Reading.

The next day, reunited, we took on a city bus tour, yet another funicular – up to Buda Castle – enjoyed meaty goulash, plenty of pastries and sorted out our means of travel from Budpest to Ljubljana; the union workers on their eleventh day of striking. A trip to the Christmas markets and a bag of honeycomb later and it was time to call it a night.

Sunday started at 5am, stumbling down the stairway of The 11th Hour Cinema Hostel at 6am to catch the metro to the main bus station. Twelve hours, a bus and three trains later, we arrived into Slovenia’s capital, Ljubljana. Ironically I’m the proud owner of a Slovenian passport (thanks to Mumma, and brilliant for working in the EU), even though my mastering of the language is limited to a few pleasantries and the singing of an old folk song, Jaz Sem Mala Roža (I am a small Flower) which my grandmother taught me when I was six years old.

Ljubljana is a small but lovely city, with an Old Town paved with cobbled stone pathways, a traditional fresh food market, stone bridges guarded by dragons and even a castle atop a tree-covered hill. While fog drowned out the city lights it added a certain romance to our two day expedition, with mulled wine and hot chocolate as thick as yogurt keeping us warm (mulled wine for the Boy, hot chocolate for me!).

In the early afternoon on Tuesday, my two excited parents met their baby and her Boyfriend, ready to take us back to their little home in Puče, a stone cottage rented from one of mum's oldest friends. Mumma had rustled up Cyprus pine and flowering ivy to fashion a wreath with gold coloured wire and purple bows, to celebrate our arrival and even converted a single bed into a double with the aid of two chairs, a plank of wood and loads of fluffy blankets so as not to force a separation between her baby and her Boy. Cosy and warm, with a log fire and an endless supply of parma ham, cheese and local wine, we planned our Christmas day feast from the start.

Just like Jamie Oliver we stuffed a goose, braised red cabbage and roasted winter vegetables for the perfect, gluttonous feast. Topped off with a Christmas cake brought all the way from London – and a homemade custard that was more error than trial – our tummies were full to bursting. Games of Scrabble – while Boyfriend caught up on reading – ensured my family's competivive needs were met: Assistant two, Mum three, Dad nil, while a couple of morning jogs with Dad and Boyfriend along the gorgeous Tuscan-like countryside balanced out our copious eating.

On Saturday we bundled ourselves into my parent's Renault, ready for a nine hour drive through Croatia, headed for Dubrovnik. The first signs of snow flurries occured shortly after 'take off' with a full blown snow storm taking hold only an hour into the journey. Weighted by the bodies of four indulgent Christmas eaters, our suitcases and Mumma's array of sweets and nibbles (including much of the leftover goose), our poor little Renault took a beating as it powered through most of the journey at a startling 140kms per hour. Arriving in Dubrovnik just after 4.30pm, The Pearl of the Adriatic was already in darkness.

Exhausted from the drive – and needing some alone time – Boyfriend and I wandered down into the walled city. What we saw was pure magic. Shiny stone paths, worn-slippery from over a thousand years of footsteps, old buildings and churches ablaze with fairy lights, a massive Christmas tree covered in baubles the size of our heads and glistening views of the Adriatic glimpsed through archways leading off to the fishing docks.

Over the next three days we walked in and around the walls – admiring the views and marvelling at the still evident signs of bombs and gunfire from the 1991-92 Serbo-Croatian War of Independence. Dubrovnik is a stunning city. You can just imagine how amazing and busy it must get in summer when the brilliant blue water is warm enough to swim in; but travelling there in winter allows for an appreciation of every nook and cranny.

Mumma and Pappa set off early on the last day, back to Puče, while Boyfriend and I took in more of the town – it's pastries and dried figs. And while our journey home was uneventful, even landing ahead of schedule and sneaking Boyfriend in through the EU passport line with me, we arrived home knackered. At 25 and 30 years of age we are well aware we've aged before our time. And while Boyfriend prefers to spend his last days off experiementing in the kitchen, I'm pining for games of Scrabble with my Mumma and Pappa. So welcome, 2009.