City Image of the Day - Layers

Spotted off Brick Lane

Okay at first glance it just looks like a pretty stern face, a large and quite talented rendering but so what... Well this has been made completely from peeling away layers of posters that were once on this wall to create a picture. I know?! The artist has added nothing, but purely by peeling away has managed to create this image... Awesome!

Girls Who Read

I am not very good at finishing things, so apologies that I have not yet completed my Asia postings...they are written by hand, they are waiting, but I just need to type them out. Sorry.

Coming back to London I launched into my new job. It's insanely busy, and most days I run around like a headless chicken, with no real life/work balance what so ever. So this is just a plagerised post from someone else, something sent to me by my sweet friend Riz, that was so brilliant I wanted to repost it. I will return soon, dear readers, with more posts from my own mind I promise, but until then, enjoy...

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl

"...because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgartory is better than a life in hell. Do it because a girl who reads can describe the amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled - a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accesible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows. and rightly demands, that they ebb comes along with the flow of dissapointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses - the hesitation of breath - endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a perios and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn't read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don't date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the cafe, you in the window of your room...The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colourful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed properly, of someone who is better than I am... You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take you Hemingway with you..."

Thai Time

The bus conductor is sweet and dweeby looking. He diligently hands all new passengers a damp towellete, sealed cup of waterand a ration pack of chocolate biscuits. After each stop he pours dainty cups of pepsi watered down with ice and served on a tray with a straw. During one of these pepsi breaks I ask him what time we will arrive in Chantaburi and he says six o'clock. Upon looking at his watch and seeing that mickey's hands point to ten minutes past six he smiles and says seven. I once asked Evie if Thai time was like African time. It seems I have my answer.


But it's okay, it's dusk outside, my favourite time of the day and I'm travelling by myself and not stressed, so I turn to look out the window at the country side sliding by. At that moment we pass a fleet of spirit houses sparkling in the dying sun.


I arrive at the River Guest House in Chanthaburi at about 8. I am pretty sure I have been ripped of by the cab driver and the quaint sounding guest house is a shithole. I feel like Leonardo Di Caprio in The Beach, and keep wondering if someone is going to slip me a map to the promised land and then end it all. But where else am I going to go? So I pay my money, catch up with some people online and then head upstairs to my room which is a blessing purely for the aircon and hot water (which I paid extra for). I take a shower, not sure if I am getting cleaner or dirtier, and afterwards sit down on my bed and look out the window at the view of the bridge, festively lit up, cars crossing back and forth. The bridge and their lights however have lost their charm at 3am when I still can't sleep due to the intermitently loud traffic flying over it. Oh well. Cambodia tomorrow.

But alas, no! The minibus drivers who usually ferry to and from the boarder have decided that the four of us who want to cross are not a good enough reason to go, and so we will have to wait and come back tomorrow - sorry what? Another day and night in Chanthaburi, and this overweight white girl with giant red curly hair is now target number one for all tourist scams. Suddenly all my romantic notions of the intrepid traveller are in tattters and all I want is my own bed. I head back to the River Guest House, pop down my backpack and regroup. Comisserations are offered to me by two Swiss men, the one of whom has several long hairs sprouting out of his nose and curling into his mouth which makes it difficult for me to concentrate when he explains alternative border crossing options, however they all require a half days travel and I decide to stay put until tomorrow.

And so I go for a walk in Chanthaburi - it seems the city is a centre for gem trading and every shop twinkles at me with beautifully cut jewels. Ah if only I could go home with a pocketful of rubies, but I am just looking for something that vaguely resembles western food as my tummy is not too happy with me. On my mission I stumble upon a little Thai massage parlour. Foot massage 150 baht. I look down at my poor feet - burnt in a reverse sock tan from my time on the kayak, swollen from all the hours of bussing, one still showing signs of the London cankle - not happy! They deserve this. And so I enter and the experience is much as Evie said it would be - my masseuse chats to her friends, and for the first half of my 90 minute massage watches and sings along with the strange combination of hindi music videos on tv with Thai subtitles. They are all shot in London, all in the 80s - there it it, my home, as seen through the eyes of two different cultures. Someone changes the channel and it's King Kong and it't not been dubbed! English! Not only that but now my masseuse and I share word - King Kong. And so every now and again she looks at me, smiles and says King Kong, and I say King Kong, and we smile and she continues, and my feet are glad for the massage, and I am glad for Adrian Broody and Jack Black and Naomi Watts.

Later I am back in my room and listening to my music and for the first time in years I am just listening, and doing nothing else. As I press the head phones into my skull I really hear the music, and I search for things in the audio I have never heard before and I find them, and I am glad I am stuck in Chantaburi, glad for this strange day in limbo.

When was the last time you said 'I was there'?

Evie and I advertising for buckets :)

Koh Phangan obliterated all of my Koh Samui rejuvination and most of my holiday budget in 3 days of what can only be described as 'end of the world' party madness.

We had secured accommodation in Chaloklum, a sleepy part of the island on the opposite side to Haad Rin. This, in fact, was a blessing because if I hadn't escaped the debauchery for a few hours every day I may well have died. It's a pity that we didnt get to spend more time exploring and soaking in the pristine beaches, and everything else the island had to offer, but it was not to be.

To explain, while it was not full moon, every New Year Koh Phangan hosts a 'full moon' party anyway - this is Haad Rin at its most crazy! 30 000 people gather on the beach to see the clock hit 00:00. Shit seems to start up on the 30th (well that's when we started) and carry on right the way through to the 2nd.

There are a few vital bits of information you need to understand what goes down here:

Uniform: LUMO
It's pretty much your average 80s aerobics class. Lumo is lekker, flourescent is fly, just imagine you made sexy time with highlighters. There is loads on sale, along with UV beads, glow sticks and war paint. The more lumo the better - helps you find your tribe.
Weapon of Mass Destruction: Buckets
Remember those bucket and spade sets from when you were little? Remember the sandcastles, and collecting shells, and filling the moat with water? Well forget all that because these little buckets will fuck you up! On average a bucket contains a half bottle of vodka/whiskey/rum, one can of sprite/coke/fanta, and one potent little bottle of Red Bull (apparently laced with amphetamines and illegal just about everywhere else in the world). Add a scoop of ice and voila, who needs drugs?
Mission: Survival
Yip, pretty much making it til sun up, and if you still have all members of your tribe accounted for when stumbling onto the Song Tao (read bakkie with open canopy) then bonus points.

Round 1
And so we set off on the thirtieth fresh as daisies, and just on a mission to get the lay, and then get an early night ahead of the celebrations - PAH!

At this stage i should tell you that our crew had doubled - Evie and I had been joined by Phia and Chantal, hardened veterans of the Thai party circuit but still Full Moon virgins. Chantal's island cred was doubled by her ownership of a 'koh phangan tattoo' - a large roastie/scab garnered from a motorbike accident. And Phia lumo-ed up from the get go in a fabulous orange dress. And se we were off, sharing a taxi with four more Chaloklum residents - 3 mad Canadians (ey) and a Croatian.

Arriving at the beach things were already falling apart - we defintely had that feeling of arriving late to the party. Shroom shake victims couldn't feel their faces, drunk boys had lost their shoes, and everywhere inebriated people were (literally) playing with fire. And so we bucketed up and entered the fray. The evening flew by in a blur of lumo tattoos, foam, Italians, Aussies, and inappropriate behaviour...It was seven in the morning, the sun was rising and we were climbing into a songthaew with three other South Africans (seven of us in total) and a semi stalker who looked a helluva lot like John Lennon. And there we were, hands clasped against our hearts, singing the national anthem into the phangan wind as we wound our way home.

Round 2
No one felt very smart the next morning, and this was not aided by mine and Evie's choice of breakfast, Macaroni Cheese like you have never witnessed before - 30cm long noodles in a watery tomato sauce with a sprinkling of cheese and an unidentifiable meat - Never Again!

But we had sucked it up by 7 and were headed back for more. We met up with our beloved Aussies, Meddie and Louise, at Mellow Mountain where they had certainly taken a turn for the mellow (and paranoid) but were soon cheered by our vivid presence. We were lumo to the max! And Chantal and Phia were like seeing double in a pink/orange vest and tutu combo. They were soon dubbed the Kardashians, despite the fact that the could not keep up, and we kept losing them.

The Kardashians with Meddie

A blur of buckets and beats led us up to the anticipation of the count down, and as we ended 2010 and entered 2011, our sacred sixsome was so in love with each other, we swore to be back together a year later. The beach then unleashed upon us their fire power and Evie was heard exclaiming "I'm in a dome of fire". We danced and jumped and jammed, and made new 'friends' and lost them again, and ended up bumping and grinding with our Canadian/Croatian crew until morning again. Meddie and Louise left us with tears and promises to reunite, and we lost a Kardashian to the night, so Phia, Evie and I made our way back home. Chantal returned home at lunch time with tales of drowning (she says in the sea, I maintain in a bucket) and we all vowed to never drink again.

Round 3

But come 9pm on the first and we were all ready for one last hurrah. we hooked up with the Canadian/Croatian connection and went to dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant in Haad Rin, where if it is possible the staff were more addled than we were. The post mortem of the previous evening unveiled suprises and gales of laughter, and before you knew it we were drinking again. We headed down to the beach, which looked like a refugee camp for some sort of natural disaster - so many lost souls, a lot of whom were newly tattooed (yikes). A little more dancing, and watching all the party victims and it was four in the morning on the second and time to put us poor kids to bed.

And so was the tale of Koh Phangan. It has taken me 9 days to get that much straight, but I am sure there will always be parts missing - probably washing up on the beach in Haad Rin with hundreds of unclaimed flip flops...

Again, more pics to be added when I can upload them

Aussies in Ang Thong

Picture of the sea taken by Meddie on our way back to Koh Samui, will add more pictures to this post when I can download them off my camera

Our Secret Garden was so beautiful, our beach so restful and secluded, that it was hard to work up the energy to leave it, but we (and by we I mean Lei our wonderful travel agent) booked a day trip to the Angthon National Marine Park. This cluster of 42 islands is about 90 minutes and a world away from Koh Samui, and just about one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.

We took an early boat with our tour operator, which was staffed by a host of real characters who handed out breakfast and sea sickness tablets. Evie did not take this as a good sign and so she took her pill and we headed for the upper deck. Thanks to my Dad I was brought up on boats and so am pretty much immune to sea sickness and have me some good, strong sea legs, and so while others lurched and groaned, I dangled my feet over the side and smiled into the sea breeze.

On the upper deck we found ourselves sharing a sun mattress with a pair of Aussies. Now we had already been made aware that the world was ridiculously small - the night before we had met some Northern English lads and discovered one lived around the corner from me in Earlsfield, and the other had recently visited SA to see family in Amanzimtoti (Evie's home town) - but nothing had prepared us for this. Our mattress mates were good naturedly mocking our accents while telling us typical things said by their token SA work mate, Bryce. They were recounting some ridiculous Bryce-isms when I said 'Hang on, Bryce McNamara?' and the said 'YES!' Ah! I know about one person in the whole of Oz and the know him too! And so it is that the universe ordained tht we should meet these insane Aussie beetches and so it was. So I introduce to Maddie and Louise, our island sistas sent to make everything doubly as funny, ridiculous and inappropriate. Maddie (or Meddie) can only be described as the love child of Madonna (Medonna) and DeeDee from Dexter's lab. The godesses blessed her with the most brilliant sense of humour, but to pay for this she was not granted a social filter, and therefore 3 hours with Meddie can be a little like reading a rather intimate medical history or love letter. She had us sharing horror stories in no time. Louise is a land lover. As soon as we were off the boat her green hue receded to reveal Greecian skin and black curls (damn her). Little did we know then, but this glamazon is a man eater of epic proportions. Phangan partiers didnt stand a chance (but this shall be revealed in good time). She also has the most contagious laugh in the world that rippled right across the water, reaching Evie and I in our kayaks.

That's right - kayaks! I haven't been in a kayak since a Spirit of Adventure camp in matric, but here we were maneouvering a giant green beastie about the water. But just in case you thought kayaking was a spot of fun - you are mistaken! Not with Herr Evie at the helm. Urged on by our German guide ('Do not use paddles as veapons') the usually placid Evie took on fuhrer proportions as she barked 'LEFT! RIGHT! LEFT! RIGHT! RIGHT!' and insisted we 'win' - no medals, no trophies, no one noticing, but we won anyway.

It was exhilirating though, and when I fell out of the boat, legs and arms like jelly, I was glad to have done it. After collapsing on the beach for a while we made the trek up a set of treacherous MacGuiver type stairs for ten minutes to reach an amazing view point over looking the island and a gorgeous lagoon. I am a city dweller, and living surrounded by my towers of concrete and wondering at man's Art and Architecture, its so easy to forget that nature had that ability first - the ability to take our breath away. And so we contemplated and marvelled and then headed back to the boat for a simple Thai lunch and a little cruise to our final beach.

The four of us collapsed on the beach for the afternoon, three of us lost in the swaying palm trees, Meddie just fearful of death by coconut. It was an afternoon of laughter and plotting for the reunion and madness that would happen on Koh Phangan...

Kicking back in Koh Samui

To attempt to formulate some sort of narrative out of our time in Koh Samui would be madness. It was too varied and full, and attempting to impose a story structure on it would make it into the blog equivalent of showing someone your holiday snaps - boring! (I will be doing this to some of you when I get home though)

Koh Samui was my first real taste of Thailand, and what a way to start. Evie says it is by far the friendliest island she has been on, and really everyone we met was lovely and helpful. The Secret Garden was on the quietest stretch of beach, fringed by coconut palms leading onto white sandy beaches and blue waters. Our room was simple with a balcony where we could sit and enjoy the sea breeze, and chat away the hours. Our first full day there we swam and sunbathed all morning - the first time I had done that in years. My poor pasty skin got a bit of a shock at the sight of the sun and all my little, long forgotten freckles appeared one by one, like stars in the sky.

We found the most wonderful travel agent lady called Lei, who booked our passage to Koh Phangan and our accommodation there as well (we procrastinators left it to the least minute and thought we might be speed boating to and from the NYE Full Moon Party) which meant we could relax about where to next. SHe also organised us a trip to Angthong National Marine Park - more about that later...

One of the highlights of my time on Koh Samui was our visit to an incredible spa (I will remember the name of it later, but right now the brain is fried). Having heard of the wonders of Thai massage (no happy endings thanks) I was keen to get one, but Evie refused to let me first experience of this wonderful art be from some woman who sat on her stoep screaming 'mahsaaaaase' and who would then continue watching TV and chatting to her friends while you attempted to reach your zen state. So, we choose a fancy shmancy spa, which sent an air conditioned taxi to fetch us, and from the moment we set foot in there we were queens. After choosing our oils (a forest blend) we were led upstairs where our feet were washed in beautiful scented water and we changed into wraps. Our massages took place under a wooden gazabo draped with mosquito netting a few feet from the sea. The massage was a combination of swedish aromatherapy and traditional Thai massage and after the week's travelling toils was precisely what I needed. The setting was so restful and the sound of the waves so calming that I felt everything slip away. It lasted 2 hours and cost 2300B (approximately 50 quid) - well worth it.

And so while the main point of our Samui stay was relaxation and rejuventation, we did have one night of total, debaucherous indulgence. We ventured out from our sheltered beach paradise into the fray of the Samui night life. Chaweng is the hedonistic heart beat of Samui. Picturesque white beaches are lined with tourist filled bars. Music beats and blasts out of each one, blending to create a cacophany added to by the shouts of stall holders and lady boys. The lady boys strut their wears up and down crowded streets, hollering at tourists. The young ones are dresses ala Pretty WOman in tight mini skirts and thigh high boots, but as they age they add head dresses, sequins and sparkles. The older the face the bigger the head dress. The calls melt into the haggling and bartering sounds of the market. We follow a strand of good music, through the thumping base into an Aussie bar called Bondi, where an all Thai band were playing incredible rock covers. Island Rock played everything from Led Zeplin to ACDC, and they played it well. We bopped along for a few hours drinking ice cold Singhas and meeting a rather strange selection of people, until the bar shut ans we were turfed out into the night once more, so sad to leave our new favourite band.

Now if we had been smart at this point we would have headed home with a good night out behind us, but oh no! We poured out of Bondi and into the Chaweng night, keen to keep the party going. This led us to follow the crowd of drunken sheep to the entrance of Sound Club. The beats and lounge furniture outside did nothing to prepare us for what we would find inside - a heaving, sweating beast of a trance party. I was totally floored by the mix of crazy dancing, bumping and grinding, and the hook ups taking place everywhere. There was a host of pretty Thai girls, and an equal number of horny tourists. By this point we were off our faces and trying to aclimatise to the electro thumping out of everywhere, but I am still pretty sure I could figure out what was going on here.

But we closed our eyes and let the beats take us somewhere primal. Perhaps all in preparation for the carnal carnage of Koh Phangan...

One way ticket to Hell and back

Scenery rushing past our train window

I lie awake thinking of Christmas nights passed. In SOuth Africa they are spent floating in a cool swimming pool, drinking with family and friends.In London spent in the warm indoors playing charades and cards, laughing over mulled wine. This Thai one was spent in a 1930s train with the noises of 40 other poor, unfortunate passengers in various states of sleep.

This was not what we had envisaged - we were promised a first class sleeper cabin, know we knew to take this with a pinch of salt but no one had mentioned industrial air con and flourescent lighting, the uncanny resemblance of our bunks to prison cells or the long drop toilet that probably had its last clean when Thailand was still Siam. We were not lulled to sleep by the gentle rocking of the locomotive, but prevented from it in a cruel form of torture which included screeching, grinding and frequent sudden stops. And so it came to pass that we spent Christmas night eating nachos and haribos, anti bacterialing everything and laughing hysterically at our own misfortune.

In my prison bunk

After finally nodding off in the early hours we were unceremoniously pulled from slumber with shouts of wake up wake upand made aware that we were running 2 hours late... And so we had more time with the cackling staff who were having a party in the seats next to ours.

By the time we got off we were eagerly anticipating our Samui hideaway, the ocean and some clean sheets. But our limbo was to continue for a further 3 hours: Bus, Ferry, Minibus. And so ended the intermeniable journey, with a happy ending like all good fairy tales. Secret Garden is a paradise - palm trees, white sand, a gently rolling ocean. The gardens are humming with butterflies and secret buddahs sit around cool ponds choked with water lilies. We ordered our first real meal since Christmas, a couple of cocktails and everything else dissapeared. Sometimes life is about the destination and you have to do your damndest to forget the journey.

And so later, as we wallowed in the wonderful sea water, our hair spread out about us like mermaids, we saw a plane landing in the distance... Why the fuck didn't we fly?!

All I want for Christmas is this...

Thanks to Mr Gareth Bright for this beautiful photo...Best present!

I arrived in Bangkok on Christmas eve. Days of delays at Heathrow (read third worl ghetto) and dealings with the incompetence of Air India staff had made for frayed nerves and an occasional and slightly off putting twitching in my left eye. Twenty four hours of travel however ended in the most joyous reunion between me and my dearest friend Evie (Aka Tangerine Tree). As she navigated our way home through Bangkok's bustling stations, across its rammed roads, I felt the tolls of the trip leacing me, as I anticipated cracking open a bottle of duty free Baileys and a few bottles of Chilean merlot. After a quick (much needed shower) and change it was off to a Christmas Eve party at Eden's house. Eden lives in the same building as my Tangerine and had decked her house it in much festive spirit. THe evening was a wonderful blend of old and new friends - reconnecting with some people I hadn't seen in years (Gareth and Jamie) and meeting others for the first time (Eden and Chantal). What started off so civilised - we were even served some soup - soon turned into the kind of gathering where every conceivable drink was poured, every drop drunk. We reminisced, fought about music and introduced each other to new stuff (Gareth and Evie thanks for Lissie, Jamie don't forget about Darwin Deez) shouted over each other and went on a midnight booze run and had an argument with a dildo wielding neighbour (rather don't ask). Needless to say none of us were feeling very clever in the morning. But it Christmas! And so we soldiered through our brutal hangovers, put on some Christmas rokkies and headed off to a beautiful buffet style lunch at The World restuarant.

Silly season could not be a more apt description. The four of us - Yvie, Gareth, Eden and myself, were at that point of hangover where it was only possible for us to make sense to each other. The plethora of dishes and delicacies had us stupified, the view of Bangkok held us spellbound. As we fed the legacy of the night before we took advantage of our lack of adult supervision and added totally inappropriate behaviour and toilet humour into the festive mix.

Despite the nausea and inconceivable thirst, Gareth and I were in adventurous spirits and so decided we would try oysters for the first time, Aphrodisiac?! I think not! Nothing turns you OFF faster than a boger that tastes like the ocean's ass! This is one taste I will never acquire. Later we all had a little egg nog for the first time and here was a gamble that paid off. The potent alcohol/egg mix made me a fire breathing dragon and certainly took the edge off. We munched our way through prawns and cheeses, salads and soups, roasts and desserts (including a magical ginger bread house). Spoonerisms were the entertainment of the day, with our muddled brains producing such fine examples as eye braai (a South African eye brow?) and plitter (the love child of poppy seeds and glitter). We left our gastronomical adventure several kgs heavier and full of festive spirits with the need to put our food babies to bed. This was the most unusual and yet merry Christmas, but the traditions were over and Evie and I were about to haul our backpacks across Bangkok and take what from here on shall be known as the Hell Train..,

To be continued...

It's Cool to Compliment

Self deprecation is in. Hell, self deprecation is the new black. And I am not talking about modesty here people, I am talking about downright dissing ourselves. It's got to a point where I cannot remember the last time I was sitting down with a group of my friends and I heard one of them say something positive about themself. No one likes an egotist, or a fat head, but to be honest I am sick of hearing people list their failings: every last dimple of cellulite, every last pimple and blackhead, every fear and phobia, every faux pas and foible. Hey! You are better than that! You are the sum of your parts and all those hang ups and neuroses fold together with all the great stuff into the most delightful package. The reason people love, or admire, or indeed are just amused by you.

This is not to say I am not a dreadful, whiny bore about all my short comings. I mean lets face it, we have been living with most of these things, in varying degrees (both physical and emotional/mental) since our teens, when we suddenly opened our eyes critically for the first time and fell into a state of hate with our own selves. We battled up hill for the best part of 10 years, trying to get to grips with all these new found reasons to dislike ourselves, trying to come to terms with curly hair and gangly legs and pangs of jealousy and ugly toes and a host of other imperfections, and just when we seem to have grown into all these attributes, it seems the mid twenties plonk a whole lot more insecurity on our plates.

So firstly, to my friends who read these restless rambles of mine, please remember that I see something (or many things) beautiful in every one of you. And sometimes those things are in fact the ones you so bitterly complain over. Your insecurities make you human, your funny toes make me laugh, I don't see cellulite I see a great ass. At this time of the year I am seeing everyone at parties all dressed up, happy from mulled wine and presents, and I can't believe how lovely everyone is, and its so easy to mull these thoughts over in our heads, while others are obsessing over whether there hair is doing that stupid thing or whether they just upset someone with their tipsy racousness. So today your mission, should you chose to except, is to tell people every time something nice about them pops into your head. Shower people with (true) compliments. Maybe it will shut them up droning on about their flaws, and get them thinking about how cool it is to compliment! 'Cause guess what, You're Beautiful!

LoveActually

Christmas movies are as a part of the festive season as mistletoe and crackers. While I usually applaud myself for a somewhat discerning taste in film, I love to wallow in the sentimentality and predictability of the Christmas film. I love the romantic scene when it snows for the first time, and the moment when Dad realises that his kids are a lot more important than his corporate job (I know its vomit inducing but I really dont care), I love seeing the elves make all the toys, and I love it when fully grown adults start believing in Father Christmas again... I love it all! But I do have a favourite. Love Actually is not just a festive classic, to me it is one of the most perfect romantic comedies ever made. The Americans tried to do it with that abortion called Valentines Day, but they just cannot recreate that sort of magic with out descending into cliche after cliche.

All the interlinking stories are about love, but love in its different guises and with its different meanings. The beauty of poor Mark's love for Juliet is made that much better by the fact that it can never be, and the humour of his little slide show is great in that desperate, English way. How many times I have believed my wasted heart would love someone until they were mummified...ah! I can never see Emma Thompson's heart get broken, with the plaintive sounds of Joni Mitchell in the background without shedding a little tear, and why oh why can't Karl and Sarah end happily ever after? Damn that phone. And yet her love for her brother is so touching too.

And so there are sad stories where you don't expect sad stories to be, and yet there is a dash to the airport, and Colin Firth and the lovely portugeuse girl learn new languages for each other, and the Rock Star realises that the love of his life may indeed be his manager (in his own words: the ugliest man on earth), and the posh prime minister falls in love with the voluptuous tea lady from the dodgy end of Wandsworth (coincidentally this may be where I live), and Colin Frissel and his BIG KNOOOOB get to have an orgy in the states, and my absolute favourites, the body doubles (Martin Freeman - Tim from The Office, and Joanna Page would become Stacey of Gavin and Stacey) hook up in a charmingly conventional way considering the nudity, and generally I just feel all warm inside, and ready to believe in love and human happiness and all those things again.

So Merry Christmas! And if anyone is feeling a little grinchy out there I recommend you pop it in the dvd player and feel your heart grow three sizes.

PS - to avoid total syrupy Christmas overkill, should be watched in conjunction with A Nightmare Before Christmas, just for the sake of balance.

Francesca's Secret Kitchen

London has a secret. It's called underground dining. For the last two years people all over London have been holding what could be described as a mix between a dinner party and a restaurant. I have been slightly tardy at getting in on the trend but now that I have I am convinced.

Having heard rave reviews of Francesca's Secret Kitchen (one friend described it as being transported back to the era of The Great Gatsby) we decided that this was where we would start our underground dinner party adventures. Francesca's Secret Kitchen is run by two Francescas. It is hosted in one of their houses, and basically you email to reserve a booking, they serve up to 20 people an evening, and host about twice a month. You are served a four course meal and the suggested 'donation' is £30.

After an early false start, last Friday my dearest girlfriends and I braved the chill and frost and headed to Camden to Francesca's Secret Kitchen. Having never been I really wasnt sure what to expect, but as we were ushered over the threshold I saw that we were basically coming into a home, albeit a beautifully decorated one. Warm, and lit by the glow of scores of candles, our dinner tables had already been set, each one with different linens, and those who had arrived before us were mingling in the observatory. The house was cluttered (in a most pleasant way) with meaningful objects from all over the world. The design aesthetic consistes of a meaningful, rather mismatched bric-a-brac, a delightful shambles of sentimental pieces collected over a time. A huge wall in the observatory was taken up by books and knick knacks, photos and postcards. The bathroom (just a little guest loo) was wallpapered with crazy wall paper covered in leaves and monkeys (?!) with a wall dedicated to travel books and ornamental pineapples - just the right amount of whimsy for me.

After a precursory drink we headed to our tables. Some tables were mixed with more that one group, creating a really relaxed non threatening environment to meet new people. We had brought our own wine, and so as the bottles were opened everyone began unwinding from the weeks stresses as we tucked into the first course of pulses soup with mushrooms. I am not the biggest fan of soup but this was truely extraordinary. In fact at one point I thought Tiff was going to get into the bowl with the soup. The next course was roasted peppers with a tuna sauce - the low point in an evening of culinary brilliance.

Away from the buzz of a restaurant and the annoying hovering of a waiter, dinner with friends is a lot more relaxing. Conversation flowed, uninhibited by the gentle hum of the other diners, as we were served our main course. Beautiful beef stewed in red wine, served with polenta, it was the most glorious adaptation of traditional South African pap and vlies, and was the subject of much hilarity as Tiff continued to refer to it as beef and 'placenta'.

Dessert was a refreshing orange tarte served with chocolate ice cream, and followed by espresso and mint tea.

The evening was certainly a success. It was lovely to have the intimacy of a dinner party without the inevitable rushing off of the host every moment to deal with some new emergency in the kitchen. There's also something pleasantly voyeuristic (in an non seedy way) about going into the home of someone you don't know and seeing how they live - especially when they live so beautifully. My anticipation had been of more interaction with the hosts, however their absence just allowed everyone to get on with it. So, thank you to the Francesca's for opening up their home and feeding us so well. If you are interested in having dinner at Francesca's look here.

November

The city life is starting to grate on me, and I can feel this South East Asia break is more necessary than ever. However, I have had a little boost this month, as I cannot deny that London is a wonderful place to live come November.

As it get's colder, people gladly reach for new coats, boots and scarves, and for a while the cold feels like a novelty, and red noses and cheeks flushed with chill are endearing. The first morning I saw my breath I shivered with excitement and was glad for my new multi coloured mittens as I crunched purposefully over the first sprinkling of frost on the grass. The delicate dusting of frost is not the only beauty nature offers us in November. She also gives as the rusts, reds and russets of autumn, the leaves turning before they drop off the trees and cushion the pavement in a rustling carpet. The colours are a show I missed out on live in the wonderful but steady climate of Durban for most of my life. Now the foliage fills me with wonder as I whizz past it on busses and trains, and I find myself picking up fallen leaves on my way home, and finding them crushed and crumpled days letter in my pockets.

November air carries the non threatening scent of gun powder as fireworks light up the skies in flares of celebration. This year it threatened rain, as usual, but people turned out in hoardes on Clapham Common for an impressive show. My brother Rory laughed as I Oohed and Aahed at the pops and bangs. Fireworks fill me with that wonder that gets harder to hold onto the older you get. They are magical, and incomprehensible for an artistic soul like myself who has no knowledge of the endless possibilities of Chemistry.

And so, I love November - despite the corporate crappiness of early onset Christmas, with every coffee chain printing red ribbons on their cups and stores exploding in tinsel in early October, I am still somewhat entranced by the twinkly lights adorning Oxford Street and Regent Street. I look forward to the mulled wine and mince pies and mistletoe that accompanies this beginning of winter, and despite the cold I am glad I live in London.