I'm only as good as my hair..

I love glamour. I love walking out of the house feeling well groomed and ready to face the world. This probably explains my adoration of 1940’s fashion. And whilst for some people this air of polish comes very naturally (i.e. my immaculate client at IKEA) for me, at this time of year, the perfect hair and makeup are often a world away.

See I’ve been “blessed” with wavy hair, hair that loves to show-off how reactive it is to moisture. So whilst the summer months go by without many disasters, as the nights draw in and the air dampens my mane becomes my nemesis. Take this morning for instance; up early for a powerplate class so had a quick shower, put serum through my locks and went on my way. Fast forward 45 minutes and I’m standing waiting for the bus with hair that can only be described as Phil Spector-esque... joy

Thankfully most people are kind. The people on my team rarely point and laugh and my mum, bless her, actually prefers me with mountainous hair. Even my boyfriend thinks it looks “nice” and “natural”, but he’s a very good liar.

So I say please roll on Spring or at the least a 1940's headscarf revival!

  

http://www.johnfrieda.com/products/product_family.asp?productLine=frizz_ease

The wheels on the bus go round and round

Is stalking illegal? What about if it's unintentional?

The reason i ask is that not 2 weeks ago i found myself in a stalker situation, and i swear i did not see it coming.

Sat happily one morning on the #73 i spotted a guy who had rather good dress sense. Being a fan of people who attempt to break the fashion mold, and given that my boyfriend considers himself a bit of a trend-setter, i decided to covertly take a photo of said man in question to show chris. (Stalker behaviour #1)

Now this would have been fine as an isolated incident however we got the bus together the very next day to see the same guy sat in the same seat. We obviously stared and debated his fashion merit and then it hit us; This was not just some dapper member of the public, but was non-other than a member of danish pop band sensation "Alphabeat". Wow, i hear you cry! (and yes, technically he is a celebrity)


On getting into work that day i excitedly told my team, who rather than saying "oh that's a good "on the way to work" story" twisted my tale to question why, a normally well behaved citizen, was photographing a stranger in the first place (erm, for the love of fashion i protested!) 

I unproductively (unless you're a professional stalker) spent a big chunk of that day trawling the net to deny or confirm that it was said Dane and ascertain why they were in the N5 vicinity! (Stalker behaviour #2)


In doing so i found that a strange interest and warmth towards Alphabeat was rekindled - Fascination was the song that distracted me through many a petrifying internal flight across China, and to this day i thank them for that. Sadly i haven't seen him since however i'm on their mailing lists and following their progress in London... so with any luck i'll qualify for a restraining order soon.

http://www.thisisalphabeat.com/

Am I overly suspicious of lone men in cemetaries?

So first things first, i'm not weird. Yes this blog name refers to death, yes i think black is a great colour (very slimming and sophisticated) but no i don't spend a lot of time in cemetaries.

However there are some beautiful old cemetaries in North London that every now and again i'll take a wander through on a bright Sunday afternoon (Rule #1 - Never go into a cemetary when it's not sunny as it goes from interesting and "ooh look at the dappled light" to eerie and "i may never get out of here alive"). 

Abney Park Chapel - a little eerie in my book

In my limited experience I have however found there to be an unnatural amount of lone, middle-aged men sitting on benches in these dead centres of town. And on a particularly disturbing recent visit to Abney Park Cemetary in Stoke Newington I could swear that the same 3 men kept appearing in different parts of the grounds, despite there not being time for them to get there before we did (Rule #2 - don't go to cemetaries if you have a vivid imagination).

My paranoia was not helped by the fact that i had no sense of the cemetary's size or boundaries so we preceeded to get deeper and deeper into the park until the the trees thickened overhead, the comforting noise of traffic faded and the pathways became less trodden. (Rule #3 - take breadcrumbs)

I don't think i've ever been so relieved to see both a woman with a dog and a park map so with the haste of a possessed greyhound we got the hell out of there and didn't look back. (Don't let me put you off Abney Park Cemetary though as it's truely beautiful if you follow the rules above)

P.S. In case you were wondering the answer to my question, I've since found out that the cemetary is a popular gay dogging spot so yes I am right to be suspicious of lone men in cemetaries. (In this instance I'm also lucky not to be a man or you could be reading a far more traumatic ending.....)

http://www.abney-park.org.uk

Me & My Courgettes - a cautionary tale

There is nothing quite like the thrill of picking your very first home grown veg (apart from the end of a powerplate class..) And for the past 3 months I have been proud mother to a healthy, happy brood of courgettes, a moody bunch of tomatoes and a downright boorish crop of peppers. 

The funny thing is that whilst I am proud that I’ve managed to keep at least one breed of veg alive I think my neighbours have had far more enjoyment from my vegetable plot than I have. This is mostly because I am a wimp and if anything other than organic matter touches me I totally freak out.

So imagine my neighbour’s (a middle age man who lives next door but to whom I’ve only ever waved at) delight when whilst casually looking out the window witnesses a Beadle classic of me screaming being “chased” around my garden by a HUGE frog. Now I’m not exactly scared of frogs however when they are purposely camouflaging themselves as a courgette leaf ready to pounce, they’re not going to make it onto my Christmas card list.

Fast forward a week and once move I naively ventured down to get the penultimate courgette (sniff sniff) of the season and proudly entered my plot. Within seconds I knew I had been violated. To my horror I’d walked through what can only be described as an arachnids lair and had the mother of all 8-legged creatures trying to bite my calf. I have never thrown such crazy shapes as I did at the exact point that I preceded to strip off my clothes. The rest is not a pretty story but let’s just say by the time I got back into my front door I was just in my smalls hitting myself indiscriminately.. yes I know, i'm so cool.

So the moral of the story is vegetables = ritual humiliation. You have been warned.

Powerplates - wait for the massage...

Try as i might to be inspired by the notion of exercise, i'm a couch potato with a penchant for pork rind in a relatively slim persons body, so it's only a matter of time until the saturated time bomb goes off.

I therefore managed to convince myself that at precisely the moment i turned 30 my metabolism had turned on me and i was going to need a whole new wardrobe if i didn't act fast.

So as i've previously mentioned my bike had the cobwebs dusted off it and i braved the traffic but i still felt that this wasn't drastic enough action. It was then that i heard about the Powerplate and people's war story crys of "my god it hurts", " it's like 2 hours of toning in 25 mins" and thought i've got to get me some of this!

With my lycra armour on and inhaler in hand i booked in for a session and wow was it tough. Genuinely these things are like evil machines sent to make you have a whole new respect for 60 seconds but you've got to assume it's doing you good.


All this aside, the most interesting thing about the whole experience is the last 3 minutes, as this is the "massage" part. Picture the scene: your muscles are aching, you're relieved that it's nearly over and you're feeling pretty damn pleased with yourself. The instructor tells you to sit on the edge of the plate, with your legs wide, and they press the massage function button... Now i'm not going to give you a female anatomy lesson but lets just say that it hits a certain spot that you don't expect to hit in a brutal exercise class. But you know what,  I just like to think it's the machine-bots way of saying "well done..."

Cycling: Good for the body, bad for the nervous system

The good old government cycle to work scheme bestowed a bike upon me about 18 months ago. At first it sat there gathering dust, as the thought of venturing off the pavements into the roar and dirt of the traffic was nothing short of terrifying (i'm a complete wimp btw).
Add to this the emotional blackmail i received from my mother - something like this: I cycle = I might die = I'd ruin mum's life - and is it any wonder that i stuck to the safety of the bendy bus.

However a change was brought about by a bike service which turned my slowmo sloth into a super-charged speed demon, and the addition of a natty little basket, which is just plain handy. So now i actually quite enjoy a bit of pure fear to kick start my body and mind in the morning. Yes i'm still scared by the bits of my journey when i have to make a right turn (as, in a Zoolander-esque way, i can only signal left convincingly) or leave the relative safety of the cycle lane, but i feel that if it doesn't kill me (fingers crossed mum) it will only make me stronger. Also the recent introduction of Boris' super-bikes makes me happy as they are the only chaps i can actually overtake as i have more gears than them... Boom!


So i'd certainly say give it a go. You won't win any prizes for cool with your helmet, fluro vest and gloves (a must for avoiding callouses!) but you'll start your day energised and just pleased to be alive.

Now for the journey home...

Fancy taking your neighbour's motor for a spin?

Since moving into my flat about a year ago i have made it my mission to actually get to know my neighbours, rather than just avoid eye contact and hope i never need their help. My road is full of varied occupants; most friendly, some slightly odd and one downright rude, however the good certainly outweight the bad. Anyway, i'm completely digressing. The reason for this waffle is that i'm a HUGE advocate of schemes like freecycle (www.freecycle.org) where you get to give and receive items that are now longer wanted within your neighbourhood (and it's often some cracking items although i did once see "one left shoe" and "keys to the kingdom of god" on there..) However through various sofa giveaways and chest of drawer pickups i've come to realise the  value in these type of mutually beneficial exchanges. 

So imagine my delight when, as a neighbour loving fan of sustainable things, i came across Whipcar (www.whipcar.com). The concept is simple, lots of people around you have cars and not everyone needs their car all of the time, so why not make a bit of cash by effectively renting out your car. The vehicle owner benefits from some extra cash and the hirer gets the freedom of having the occasional use of a car without all the ties that ownership brings.

Check it out and let me know what you think.

Some of my favourite things

* Sea salt caramels from Paul A Young in Camden Passage (N1 8EA) - but don't eat too many at once, you've been told....

* My new hungarian goose down duvet - worth every pretty penny

* Grilled courgettes with Marks special sauce (not what it sounds like) it's a chilli and lime delight

* Getting parcels at work, even though i'm expecting them

* Being stopped and asked where i got something i'm wearing from - and even more so if they're from somewhere that makes me sound worldly wise (even though i'm really not!)
* Pork scratchings. yes yes the hairier the better