VIDEO: A week in December

Thursday, 29 January 2015

Obviously, the Coen brothers need not quake in their boots.
But, hello, here's a week that happened in December.
If you could try and feign vague interest until the end and validate me in some way, that'd be marvellous.
I believe that's how YouTube works, right?

January in poetry

Friday, 23 January 2015

Heads in a place I don't want it to be
Commitment and devotion
Fell far too easily
I'll wrap myself up into a tight box
Sail back and forth
Through this lonely detox.

I am a jumble
Of then and now
I'd shed Monday's skin
If I knew how
A wash of past
On fresh eyes
Tomorrow's today
As yesterday's disguise.
Winter splints beneath the trees
Orange dusks and knocking knees
You drink my breath as I bite my tongue
Summer love under January's sun. 
Oh Kale leaves
How you depress me
I only eat you
So boys want to
Undress me.

Bitten fingers
Feel lost prints
Cherry, cola, wine
Is all I taste since
I'm distracted
Your eyes close
I don't know
Where this will go.
The bass of your sleep
Sends me right home
My foot on the door
My presence unknown
You'll kiss as I wake
And I'll turn to the side
Miss fifteen alarms
Rolling hangovers tide
"I'm sorry I missed you. Cx"
I'll text at past noon
I love you as much still
When I'm asleep in my room.
He is unsmoked cigarettes
And luke warm tea
A morning routine
(He's) not consumed by me
A craving that will fade
Left unfinished in the sink
Until my wine stained lips
Call the next round of drinks

I'll wake up in the morning
Next to someone new
But I still fell asleep
Hoping someone would be you.

In the throes of something old
We speak universal movements
Finding new on skin that's cold
And dancing around improvements
You laugh at me and I feel safe
Your body hot on mine
Drunk on a teenage taste
Happily sober for the first time.


The Hoxton Hotel

Monday, 19 January 2015

Hubbard and Bell inside The Hoxton Hotel in Holborn is Soho House's newest venture. 
If like me, you can't afford the £900 a year to be an ACTUAL Soho House member, this little bubble is perfect.
You might slip into thinking you're a big music producer or the owner of a creative agency if you stay in there too long mind, so be sure to drop your t's occasionally and think about your dissertation or the sales assistant job applications you're sending out.
Even if you're not, just for steady grounding. 

I've just embarked on a new job and felt all heady with the future, so I asked my most sensible no nonsense friend for brunch.
I met Sophie a few times back in the Jacksgap office and I always felt quiet in her presence. 
She was effortlessly cool and it terrified me.
When we went to Ibiza in the summer it all changed. 
Hot summer wind painted our salty skin on a kayak in the middle of the sea, clear crystal water trickling over our legs and a kindred passion exchanged in our eyes. 
Before not too long I'd find excuses to borrow her aloe vera after sun just so we could have time alone to chat.
Sophie really got me and I felt as though she let me really get her. 
It was like falling in love without wanting to touch her and stuff.
It was a friendship unfiltered that I knew even if we wanted to we couldn't ignore when we got home and we never did. 
Her crazy intelligence and emotional strength are now things that merit sunday brunches and it's times like these, in a central London cafe that I know I'm not alone and am wondrously blessed to have people like her perched in my life with a Mimosa in hand. 

We ordered a big ol brunch: avocado and poached egg on toast with brussel sprouts and cranberries (sans bacon as originally listed on the menu) and a Red Mojito for me and a full english and Mojito for Sophster.
You can't feel guilty about a cocktail when it's got carrot, beetroot, ginger etc in it. 

The service was slightly testing, when Sophie asked to change up her full English she was greeted with a bit of a smarmy 'maybe you shouldn't order it.' remark from the waitress, but to be fair I couldn't work out if it actually cut me or if I was cut on the rum. Either way, service was lacking a smile.

Generous portions and exquisite cocktails, I'd say ditch the dinner and head straight for drinks instead. 

'There's no such thing as love, it's just fantasy'

Thursday, 1 January 2015

'There is no such thing as love, it's just fantasy.'
A nonchalant Zoe Deschanel echoed in my ear at a sticky floored Odeon cinema when I was fourteen.
I scribbled it in the back of my school planner thinking it important and as weeks went by it was replaced with initials of boys in the years above and kitsch tumblr pictures of love heart shaped fingers and silhouetted couples.

Shortly after this concept was instiled, a boy would hold my hand on Valentine's Day in that same theatre row that I contemplated the idea of love and a week or so later he'd call to break things off and I'd cry so hard it'd leave me with a nosebleed.
Six months pass and years to come follow and it's a similar routine, this time on a bench in Oaken Grove park and again over Facebook Messenger and again in a university dorm room and again in a car in Weybridge and again on a sofa in East London.
And again, and again until the 'you're a lovely girl, but-'s all transform into a monosyllabic noise that scream a now completely expected numbness through my fingers and lips.
I can recall every time I've convinced myself a drink with someone is the beginning of love and recite each memory I have of uttering 'I love you' under my breath somewhat delusional naked in somebodies bed.
This year I've scribbled love notes and turned up on people's doorsteps, desperate to consolidate in my head that I am the protagonist of my own shit romantic comedy, later to berate and beat myself up when things learn to be unreciprocated.
I am stunned to a freeze how crazed I must've seemed but it was always with such confused and kind intentions at heart that I twisted spontaneity for a naive idiocy.

Zoe Deschanel as Summer Finn had served me a resounding piece of advice that I chose to ignore throughout my heartbroken adolescence and it's only now, at 4:52am on New Year's Day, on a sofa I once balled my eyes out on silently, do I realise the weight of infectious honesty those words could've been.
Fourteen sucked just as much as sixteen did and as badly as nineteen ended up to be, being besotted with someone is often a chore we don't realise we're enduring until it comes to a bitter end and heartache swiftly takes over.
The last year has seen umpteen dates and four short emotional adventures and it exhausted me past a point of understanding why I was constantly traipsing my mind through a never ending labyrinth of relying relentlessly on the fantasy of love with the wrong people (but also wonderful and unsuspecting) instead of focussing wholeheartedly on the things that I love.

It is now that I can lay these shards of lustful nights and listless dinners and place each fragment into a solid understanding of what is actually important.
I don't want to be the dick that tells you to 'invest the love you want from others into yourself from you', but I am going to be that dick and you should.

Seldom do we give ourselves the opportunity to realise the person who ends up picking up the pieces and nourishing our wine stained mistakes is the one who will always love you the most.
Seldom do we give ourselves the opportunity to realise that that person is and will always be you.

Fourteen Pieces of Advice I Found Somewhere in 2014

Thursday, 18 December 2014

1. Don't do little cries. 
Feelings demand to be felt so give them the justice they deserve.
Pick a day, probably a Sunday because they're already depressing, grab a bottle of wine
and cry.
Full on cry. 
Cry until there's snot on your chin and more mascara on your knuckles than eyelashes.
Then call a friend and cry at them so you don't get the urge to post a pathetic tweet like
'I love crying NOT lol'.

2. Write love letters, but don't send them.
You are NOT Jane Austen.
Crack out your best penmanship on that flecked handmade
Peruvian paper you once bought hungover in Shoreditch and tell
someone you're madly in love with them and that they're great.
Just don't send it.
Adolescent men, (adolescence in guys tends to span until they're around thirty-fucking-years-old) already have enough on their plate; like being annoying and suddenly deciding they're not ready for a relationship.
So don't give them more fodder by kissing the back of an envelope and stalkerishly remembering their address from that drunken UBER one time. Trust me.

3. Don't opt for glass noodles in Itsu.
They're impossible to eat without it looking like you're vomiting small white worms back into your miso soup.
Udon noodles, are your friend.
You can put sincere trust in them and their nice thick.. girth?

4. Invest in a blanket scarf.
A really big Lenny Kravitz style bad boy.
One day, you might miss your last train and need to nap in the toilet cubicle of Paddington Station.
The blanket scarf will double as a pillow and duvet and you can later cocoon it around your face as you leave so no one knows who just fell asleep sat on the toilet.

5. Gay clubs are really, really great.
Never pay £25 entrance for a snobby, overpriced, white wash Mayfair club ever again.
Getting off with a girl will be less embarrassing and shameful than leaving with that prick Foxton's Estate Agent that you will undoubtedly end up fluttering your eyelashes at for a drink because you spent all of your money at the door getting in.
Or worse still, on the cloakroom. 

6. Write really shit poetry.
Rhyme 'I thought it was undying love' with 'until you shat on me like an un-peaceful dove'.
Taylor Swift started somewhere, you might actually remaster these one day.
Also, just really funny.

7. Don't pay attention to the time. 
You're 19 now, you can shove two fingers up at a bed time.
You're a woman.
Baths at 4am and cereal at 11pm are small but wonderful things.

8. Don't do shots of rum.
You see that idiot gracefully spluttering his entire stomach content into the gutter as his friends are getting in a cab home?
He did shots of rum.
Don't for any reason, shot rum.

9. Talk to strangers.
Not ones that look like Fagen from Oliver Twist or ones that might have a big empty van waiting for you, but the old lady on the tube or the haggard banker,
They know things you don't.

10. Scrap number 2.
Just don't actually even think about writing love letters.

11. You don't have to apologise for anything you don't think is worth apologising for. 
You'll look like a bit of a dick, but a dick that actually means what their actions suggest.
And that's alright, I think.

12. Unfollow inspiring Instagrams. 
They're not inspiring.
They're just a collection of nice sounding vowels captioning an alright photo of a wood or something.
Inspire yourself by knowing you don't need someone to remind you to know,
'If it's not okay, it's not the end.'
You've got this.

13. Have sex in a really unconventional place.
You can still blame the stupidity of youth now and also there are few things better than playing 'never have I ever' and being able to beat fifteen people because you once got laid under the sound desk of a radio studio.
During a show.

14. Don't get poo anxiety. 
Everyone has to poo.
That's why everyone has a toilet in their house.
Just wait for their hot brother to make a cup of tea and go and enjoy yourself.

Señor Ceviche, Kingly Court - My Favourite Date Spot

Thursday, 4 December 2014

All of my friends mock me for being a 'serial dater'.
They've all exhausted the joke, pondering upon my lack of keeping a night in the week free where I'm not out for dinner or drinks with someone new.
I let them laugh and sit in brief bemusement because what they think is a serious comittment issue is actually a more serious love of finding new places to stuff my face and get a bit drunk.
Señor Ceviche in Kingly Court has newly become my new favourite date night spot and as part of my bid to take Jack on 'a holiday at home', I thought I'd let him come and see what all the fuss was about.
Cassava croquettes with anji panca sour cream
Based on the bohemian district of Lima, Barranco, the 25 year old owner (jesus christ I better get to work) Harry Edmeades has crafted a sanctuary of Peruvian flavours and planted them right in the middle of Soho. 
It's as charming as it is electric, fluorescent posters and neon accents on the furnishings sewn together with a sway of island music that pushes your whittled central city mindset into a place far from here.
We ordered as much food as we could fit on the table, sharing unwillingly between us as we fought for the last mouthful of each dish.
Tempura baby squid, prawns and market fish with jalepeno tiger milk
The tempura baby squid, prawns and market fish with jalepeno tiger milk was incredible, so much so we ordered another plate. 
If it wasn't for the Tamarind BBQ Chicken Anticuchos (tender chicken skewers covered in what we both agreed on was the best bbq-style sauce we'd ever licked off of a plate) we'd probably have ordered it again between each cocktail.
Equally, Señor Ceviche's signature dish was divine.
For the last two weeks I've delved haphazardly into the world of attempting a vegan lifestyle but obviously (...OBVIOUSLY!!!) I had to give it a miss when we arrived here.
However I did try and do my fill of greens and ordered the Chimbote and Cusco Quinoa, that whilst weren't as good as their meat and fishy counterparts were still pretty exquisite as sides.
Fries covered in spicy peruvian cheese sauce and tomato fondue
As the meal came to an end and I'd had enough Ayahuasca cocktails to try and pronounce everything proudly on the menu, I let out a little weep.
Mostly, because the chocolate brownie and coconut ice-cream dessert was so good.

I don't think I've ever seasoned a restaurant write-up so kindly, but this place really is all it's cracked up to be.

Good job Harry, I'll definitely see you in there for a drink sometime soon. 

A real life actual first youtube video

Wednesday, 3 December 2014

Guess who did a thing?
I did a thing!
Imagine my pointy fingers averting your eyes down to the comment/subscribe/validate me button. 



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