You’d think I’d have loads of time to do all this, being a stay-at-home mum and all, but seriously, my days just vanish. Along with my complete naivety in thinking that Oscar would only play with French wooden toys (no, my once-tasteful abode is now adorned with brightly coloured plastic shit) and sit and read books rather than eating them like sandwiches, was the assumption that I’d have loads of time on my hands when I wasn’t at work. I soon realised that actually, I am at work. Looking after my little mite, entertaining him, deciding what he’s going to wear, organising his social calendar (which is markedly more exciting than mine) and puréeing organic veg is more time-consuming than one might imagine. Combine that with trying to keep the flat in a habitable state, being a decent girlfriend, doing a little bit of exercise and seeing my family and friends every so often and that’s it – time = gone.

Christian and I have made an effort to go out recently though and it’s been amazing. We are lucky enough to have family close by, so we can pack Oscar off to his grandparents for the night and let loose a bit. Back in June we went to a Beyond the Clouds party at Corsica Studios which was pretty incredible. For me, there’s always a high point, and when Lil’ Louis played Donna Summer’s I Feel Love, everyone went totally nuts – the atmosphere was blissful and there’s something quite euphoric about being part of a moment like that…I found this clip on YouTube of said moment on said night, and I’m getting a bit tingly watching it again:

Last Friday we did the same. Oscar went off for another mini-break (this time with his Uncle Jack & Auntie Alessia) and we headed over to Shoreditch for Derrick Does Disco Dammit for a party with Chicago house DJ, Derrick Carter. By the time we got there about 1, the dance floor resembled a rammed Swedish sauna. Seriously, it was so so hot. Making your way to the bar was like crawling through the Sahara, desperate for a drop of water, and it was clear that we either needed to embrace it and sweat our faces off, or leave. We chose the first. Once I got into it I was actually loving it. Yes, I was huddled in a scrum of wet-clothed men, but the music was obviously great and I was happy enough with the opportunity to relax, let go and have a good dance. Furthermore, I’m told (by those wiser than I) that Derrick Carter’s skills were pretty phenomenal too, so desert-climate aside, we managed to keep partying till 5am.

So maybe I’m not doing too badly after all – I have an awesome little boy, a great, great boyfriend, lovely family and friends and the opportunity to go out and dance all night. I’m quite a lucky girl really, hey?

It’s weird you know, this mum lark. Retaining a sense of myself has been far more of a challenge than any of Oscar’s grass-eating, milk-guzzling, object-lobbing antics. One day you’re you – a pretty neat human being going about your business, wondering whether to buy the sensible black brogues or the petrol blue patent Mark Jacobs (the latter, obviously) – and the next you’re “oh, that’s Oscar’s mum”, sitting in a circle singing a song about two little men in a flying saucer, with actions.

To be honest though, I can’t blame it all on parenthood. I feel bad for not having blogged in so long and whilst I’ve just spent two paragraphs trying to shift responsibility on to my delightful 7 month old, I need to put my hand up and admit that I have a tendency to drift off.

It’s true, and I think it’s genetic. It’s common knowledge for instance, that my lovely brother has, at some point, “taken up” ten-pin bowling, night-fishing, shooting, archery, lawn bowls, paintballing, hot-air ballooning and becoming a spy. Joking aside, I’m pretty much the same. I mean let’s see, this year alone I said I was going to learn Italian and take drum lessons – haven’t started either, but I guess it’s only June. Truth is, it is highly unlikely that I will start either. See below.

Collecting things
Hamsters for instance. When I was about 9 I convinced my mum that it was no different having 12 hamsters to having 1. My room stank so I palmed them off. (Other short-lived childhood collections included rubbers, stamps, yo-yos, stickers, those clickety-clack things you put on your bike wheels, etc.)

Knitting
Bought a load of quality needles off eBay. Gave up before I even bought wool.

Running
Ran around the park twice and decided I hate running.

Origami
Made one wonky frog and got pissed off because it took so long and didn’t look like a frog.

Slow-cooking
Went all 50′s housewife, bought a slow-cooker and about 12 books, then concluded that the colour of said machine clashed with my (unused) smoothie-maker.

Renovating a house
Decided it wasn’t for me shortly after knocking down the stairs.

Now that’s just what I can think of off the top of my head, but I assure you there’s plenty more. What I need to do, is ensure that blogging doesn’t drift off into oblivion with my hamsters and smoothie-makers. No, I don’t get out as much these days, but I’m still pretty neat and I still have stuff to say, so I promise you that you’ll hear from me a bit more often, okay?

Just over a month ago I was stood in the dark, in the early hours of the morning at Kings College Hospital, cradling my tiny newborn child in my arms and singing this to him. He was wrapped up tightly, his eyes were opening ever so slightly and he looked up at me, his mother. A feeling ran through my body that I have never felt before. There are no words I can find to describe that feeling, but it was overwhelming and more strong and fulfilling than I could ever have imagined. Tears ran down my face as I sang softly to him, promising him my love. Here was this precious, beautiful little boy – Oscar, my son.

Something like this is really hard to write. I’ve been wanting to do it for the last five weeks, but said beautiful little boy has been keeping me otherwise entertained. I want to share my experience with you, and whilst I appreciate it may bore some of you, I’m going to totally indulge myself nonetheless, because this is the single most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me and I want to tell the world.

It’s fair to say that as labours go, mine was pretty long. Five days from my contractions starting on Sunday, and Oscar entering the world on Friday. It was a gruelling, tiring time – the most physically and emotionally demanding time of my life, but in such an incredible sense. At no point in that time did I want it to be over, or doubt my ability to carry on. I had total faith in myself, in Christian and in my unborn child, and I completely surrendered to the miracle that was unfolding through me.

During my pregnancy, Christian and I had been practicing something called HypnoBirthing. HypnoBirthing teaches self hypnosis, relaxation and breathing techniques for a comfortable birth. It allows you to experience birth in an atmosphere of calm relaxation, free from the fear or tension that facilitates the pain and panic so commonly associated with childbirth.

I cannot speak highly enough of HypnoBirthing and quite frankly I don’t know how I would have given birth without it, let alone got through five days of labour feeling wonderful. And wonderful I did feel. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt so loved and in love as I felt that week. The serene and peaceful environment that Christian and I had created allowed us to be completely together in our own world – totally united in birthing our baby. I have never felt so profoundly close to another human being, so safe and held and so able to trust in myself. I felt absolutely no fear, anxiety or pain. I felt nothing but love.

Early on in my pregnancy, Christian and I had decided we wanted to have our baby at home. We didn’t want any medical intervention and we wanted to enjoy being in our own environment. Because of the length of my labour, we didn’t end up getting our home birth, and headed to hospital on Thursday evening when an impending snow storm meant a midwife might not be able to get to us at home if we needed her. At this point, I was starting to get despondent and disappointed. I didn’t want to be in hospital and my dream of a quiet home birth had ended. For a moment I lost faith in my ability to get the birth I wanted, but within an hour we were in a lovely room with a huge birthing pool and a wonderful midwife who totally respected our wishes and what we’d been working towards. We dimmed the lights, put our own music on and I got in this lovely warm pool and totally relaxed on an even deeper level than before. It was incredible.

I was in the pool for a total of 18 hours or so, and that was a blissful time. Christian has since told me that I was moving like ‘a yoga-teaching ballet dancer’ – just doing what felt right for my body with each contraction, and using the water to move freely and naturally. Recalling it is a bit hazy – I just remember feeling really high and euphoric, I think I was singing to myself at one point and I was so deeply relaxed that I was actually nodding off between contractions now and again.

Despite the midwives’ concerns that I was not progressing quickly enough, Christian and I kept insisting that we wanted to let things happen at their own pace as the baby was showing no signs of distress, but after a further 12 hours at 8cm dilated and the realisation that the baby’s head was getting swollen and not budging, it was decided that a caesarean section was going to be the way our baby was delivered. By this point I was so exhausted and things became a bit of a blur. Everything seemed to happen very quickly and within an hour I was on an operating table with bright lights and lots of doctors looming over me. I felt a pang of momentary devastation that I wasn’t getting to complete the final stage of this mammoth week naturally. I felt cheated and sad, but when at 7.06pm the surgeon said “lower the screen” and I saw my son lifted from my body, umbilical cord still connecting us, those feelings were overridden with ecstasy and sheer joy – enormous amounts of sheer joy.

Whilst I was being sewn up, Christian had taken off his top and was holding our little baby’s naked frame against his chest. The pang of devastation came back – that I wasn’t holding him – but again was quick to disappear when I looked to see this incredible other half of me holding the magnificent product of our love. It moved me in a way I can’t describe.

Twenty minutes later I was back in recovery and could finally hold our son. I held him tightly, studying his amazing face (and thinking ‘oh no, he’s got his dad’s big hooter’) and stroking his long fragile fingers. I put him to my breast and he fed. It felt wonderful to have him attached to me again and to be nourishing him again – our first twenty minutes of separation in nine months had felt like a lifetime.

Oscar de Cruz, born on 3 December 2010 at 7.06pm, weighing 7lbs 14oz

Later that night, Christian went home and I was left with our sleeping little boy. Despite having had no sleep in five days, I couldn’t shut my eyes. I lay there staring at him all night long.

People keep asking me if I feel ‘back to normal’ yet, but I don’t really remember what that felt like. Life has changed – I have changed. Everything feels so much more wonderful. Yes, I now only sleep for two or three hours in a row; yes, there are nappies and muslins in every corner of our house; and yes we now have discussions about the colour of poo; but all of that seems okay because we have Oscar – this amazing boy.

And amazing he really is. Of course I think he is the most beautiful child ever born (but honestly, he really is). He’s so expressive, so calm (most of the time) and largely unphased by most of his encounters so far. In fact I think the only times he’s been phased in the last five weeks are those unfortunate instances where he’s managed to piss in his own face or poo up his own back. Other than that he is pretty happy to be eating about 90% of the time, sleeping in between or dancing around the lounge in daddy’s arms to disco records. There are then times when he sits in his rocker, hands folded, with a frown that suggests he’s planning world domination.

I can’t say the last five weeks have been easy. Having a child – a little person who is completely dependent on you for everything – is exhausting and truly relentless. There are times when he’s crying and I’m thinking “what do you want from me??”. Breastfeeding is bloody hard, as is the realisation that there is no going back. There is no end of day, no shutting down and leaving the office, it is FULL ON.

It is also the most wonderful. The love I feel for this child is unrivalled. I feel constantly overwhelmed with pride and joy, and just awe for this little person. He is phenomenal and I cannot, for one second, imagine life without him in it. Oscar I love you – you are my life, and there is nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for you.

And Christian, thank you. I love you.

Every time I watch The X Factor I swear I’m never ever going to watch it again. Then it’s the following Saturday and I’m watching it again. Why? It’s like a car crash. You know it’s a terrible thing to look at, but you do slow down and you do try to catch a sly glance of some blood or a dismembered limb. And to those of you saying “that’s sick, I’m not one of those people” – yes you are. So yes, The X Factor car wreck: Boot camp is now over, and the hundreds and thousands of hopefuls have been whittled down to the top 100 (I use the word top loosely) who will go on to the judges’ houses, for another round of humiliation, heartbreak and a tad more exploitation.

For a start, does anyone else wish that the people on our TV screens were just a little bit different year-on-year? It’s all so predictable. We’ve been listening to sobbing contestants wail their way through the same old shit by Shania Twain or Boyzone for what feels like a lifetime, claiming they’re doing it to give the kids a better life, or for their dead step dad, or because they don’t want to work on the checkouts forever, or because it’s all they’ve wanted to do since they were in the womb. What??? Don’t pin your child’s future happiness on the zero percent chance you have of winning The X Factor, and don’t kid yourself into thinking that dead Auntie Jean is watching from heaven as you cry your way through a bit of Michael Bublé. It’s ridiculous. It’s boring.

And then they grace the stage, wearing (9 times out of 10) some sort of neck scarf, a stupidly positioned hat, and some rosary beads. Once their performance is over with, there will be one of four instrumental outcomes: Flying Without Wings if it’s gone well, Hero if their kids are waiting backstage, You Raise Me Up if they’ve plugged a dead relative, and probably something by Snow Patrol if they’re going home to reevaluate their life ambition. And if it’s not bad enough that we watch the average Joe click his way through a Frank Sinatra backing track wearing his new Next shirt and tie combo, we then have to witness the tragic exploitation of the poor souls that literally possess about as much self-awareness as Vicky Pollard; feeding the filthy mitts of the tabloids with headlines such as “I did take cocaine but I’m not a prostitute”. There’s just something so tragic about it, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who hates myself for buying into it.

Whilst I’m getting stuff out of my system, I thought I’d share some other pet peeves:

Baby on Board signs: Why do people have these in their car? I’ve promised myself I won’t get one, because you know what? I (perhaps naively) rely on the assumption that people aren’t going to hit me whether or not I have a baby in the car. Do people really think that the drunk or reckless road-prats are suddenly going to drive more responsibly when they see one of these? Don’t be stupid. And don’t get me started on the Hot Babe on Board signs. I’m saying no more.

Trainers: I love my Vans and my Converse as much as the next girl, but please ladies, can you stop pairing your beautifully cut two-piece business suit with your grubby cross-country running shoes. It looks shit. I understand that you might not want to walk over Vauxhall Bridge in your 4 inch heels, but why don’t you just get some comfortable flats, and save yourself from becoming another urban fashion victim.

Various distressing things about Facebook: Applications = the work of the devil. Take FarmVille for instance, the “real time farm simulation game”. Why do people play this, like actually spend time on it, and then enforce their stupid virtual activity on everyone else? It goes without saying that I don’t want to harvest your crops, I don’t want to rescue your lonely sheep and I am not interested in your lost fucking cow. Mundane status updates such as “Sheila has got the ham out the fridge” or “Trudy has parked the car next to a skip” (note: putting lol after any such status adds serious insult to injury). And lastly, couples who continuously comment/have conversations via each other’s status. This is just weird, and quite terrifying.

Okay I’m done. I promise my next post will be a happy one. Ta-ra.

Sylvain Chomet's The Illusionist (L'illusionniste)

The story opens in 1950′s France, where an old-time magician is struggling to find work and ventures to England with nothing but his unfriendly white rabbit, in search of opportunies and eager for some appreciation of his dying vocation. A few paying gigs lead him to the Scottish highlands, where he acquires a young girl who becomes his travelling companion, and moreover, an admiring daughter figure. Her whimsical nature and sincere belief in his magical abilities are touching and beautifully portrayed from the moment she witnesses his first trick. Something in her is ignited. The relationship they share is innocent and unaffected – a fond reflection on the period in which it is set, and we watch them both blossom in each other’s company. What struck me most of all with The Illusionist though, its beguiling beauty aside, is the message that it sent to the audience – to me, sat in Brixton’s Ritzy Picturehouse, in 2010.

Ultimately, this film tells of a disillusioned illusionist, and it poses the question – is that what we have all become? Without a magic paper flower in sight, are we nevertheless a generation of disillusioned illusionists?

Today we seem to need constant entertainment and distraction from real life. Why? Why do we spend so much of our time ensuring that we are preoccupied? We seem to live in a culture that is so obsessed with consumerism and activity, that just being is, in itself, a dying art, an alien concept, a magic that has been left behind. Escape from reality is being endorsed everywhere. I find it terrifying and I wonder how much of it should be blamed on the advance of technology and social networking. Facebook and Twitter demand our updated statuses at all times – they aren’t content with us sitting still, they are rubbing their little hands together, eagerly awaiting the opportunity to broadcast our next move to the world, or at least our 600 friends who we haven’t seen in seven years. It’s crazy, but we feed it.

It’s like we have this need to fill every second of time. Why be content with walking home, when at the same time you could join the street’s army of human dodgems by eating, texting (using the iPhone’s ‘handy’ new app that allows one to text, whilst seeing a view of the street ahead…?!) and listening to music? Walking without doing something else has become an unconsumated experience, and it’s fucking mad. We’re all thinking about what we need to buy and where we need to go, or which set of photos we can next share with our online harem, and it begs the question – has our engrossment in the virtual world left us oblivious to each other, and ourselves, in the real one?

Not having a TV or internet access at home for the last month has been one of the most refreshing experiences I’ve had in a long time. It’s been liberating. I can hear the gasps of outrage amongst you all, but I urge you to give it a go. Talk to your friends or your other half; sit down for an hour and write about how you’re feeling; or for those of you for whom sacrificing activity is the equivalent of holding your breath, learn how to play gin rummy. At first, the feeling might be terrifying, but that’s only because your withdrawal from the online world forces you to spend a bit of time with yourself, something that far too many people seem to be losing the ability to do, or more shockingly, never even acquiring in the first place.

I just want to finish by saying that I really don’t mean to preach or sound like a whingy old bint. I think the internet is amazing; I get excited that I can record tonight’s episode of Mad Men from the comfort of my desk; and I love my iPhone more than I love some of my distant relatives. I guess all I’m stressing is the importance of knowing who you are; of reminding yourself that the virtual world is just that; and of remembering that all you are is a human being in a human world, where magicians do not exist.

Like our protagonist in The Illusionist, learn that magic doesn’t require a suitcase of accessories, but that the real magic lives under our noses every day.

Today I’d like to leave you with a quote from American writer, Dale Carnegie:

One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living. We are all dreaming of some magical rose garden over the horizon-instead of enjoying the roses blooming outside our windows today.

By the time I made it into our new abode, my wonderful other half and his lovely pals and parents had already spent a few days going back and forth like little beavers. The hard graft was done, so by the time we were alone in our new lounge on Saturday night, we could just sit and take it in, enjoy our new surroundings, and focus on the important things, like whether it was more of a priority to unpack cutlery or records. Thankfully, as baby de Cruz isn’t due to land for another fifteen weeks (*gulp) we were able to create a relatively tidy living space by loading his/her room with our onslaught of boxes, bags and other vessels. So yes, our baby’s room looks like SafeStore, but that’s okay for now.

On Sunday we decided to get out and explore our new neighbourhood. East Dulwich’s main shopping street is Lordship Lane/East Dulwich Road, which is lined with lots of little restaurants, independent shops, and organic delis. On Fridays and Saturdays, there’s also a market on North Cross Road, selling antiques, second-hand books and fresh produce. On our mooch down East Dulwich Road, we stumbled across Le Chandelier, a gorgeous little tea room come dining space, with vintage French and Italian chandeliers dripping from the ceiling and the heavenly scent of freshly baked treats to seduce you on entry.

Le Chandelier | East Dulwich

Le Chandelier really rivals the popular big-brand coffee shops of its time with a gentile alternative – a fresh, artisan revival on the humble British tearoom. With a selection of teas from farms in China, India, Taiwan and Japan, there’s something to delight even the most discerning tea drinker, and breakfast doesn’t disappoint either. Fresh pastries are baked on the premises daily, and the eggs florentine is to die for. Well worth a visit if you’re in South London.

Fresh loose leaf teas from specially selected farms

Today I’ll leave you with a quote from Buddhist monk, teacher, author, poet and peace activist, Thich Nhat Hanh:

Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the world earth revolves – slowly, evenly, without rushing toward the future.

I love being pregnant. I love it that I’m carrying around a little life inside of me. It’s a wonderful and extraordinary experience – a feeling to which I can’t do justice with words – but my God, when did I just become “the pregnant woman”? It’s so boring. Not pregnancy. Pregnancy is not boring. But people are so boring to “the pregnant woman” and I’m getting seriously fed up of it.

I decided yesterday, that if one more person asks me if I’ve had any cravings, I’m going to resist the urge to ask them what they fancied to eat last Tuesday morning, and just tell them that yes, I have had a craving – spiders. That’s right, I catch them, pull their little legs off, sprinkle them with salt and gobble them down. NO – of course I’m not beseeching such eight-legged cuisines, but I refuse to waste another fifteen minutes of my life talking about broccoli.

Do people really think I want to talk about broccoli or breastfeeding all the time? Why aren’t people talking to me about interesting things any more? I’m pregnant, not a brain-dead recluse.

When I had the overwhelming urge to punch a woman who looked at me sympathetically whilst I was crying at a tube station on Saturday (as if she wanted to pat me and tell me it was just my hormones ‘love’), I began to question what this adverse reaction was all about. Of course I don’t want to end up randomly attacking people for asking me if I suffered from morning sickness. I just don’t want to talk about sick, okay?

I’m terrified that I’m suddenly losing my identity – an identity that I’ve only recently enjoyed finding, developing and exploring – as if people think that on this journey to becoming a mother, I’m dying. I feel like I’m not entitled, or expected, to bring anything to the table anymore. I feel like people want to pat my tummy, sit me down, and then carry on with their conversations about real life.

As unlikely a comparison as it may be, I couldn’t help draw on the correlations having just finished reading Wild Swans and a few weeks ago watching the film, An Education. Whilst the first is an incredible family memoir by Jung Chang, following the lives of three generations of women through China’s terrible 20th century history, and the latter is a British coming-of-age drama based on the memoirs of Lynn Barber, they both follow the journeys of their female protagonists, in finding their own way, their own identities, and not wanting to conform to what society wants, or expects, them to be.

Carey Mulligan and Peter Sarsgaard in An Education

In An Education, school girl Jenny Millar is well on track for an Oxford education when she is pursued by a charming older man (David) who introduces her to London’s fine restaurants, concerts and jazz clubs – all of which tap into Jenny’s desire for broader horizons than the monotony that 1960′s suburbia offers her. She wants fulfilment, excitement and cultural enrichment, and readily accepts David’s marriage proposal and drops out of school. She is devastated when she discovers that David is already married, worrying that she has thrown her life away on her bourgeios fantasies, but with the help of those around her, manages to get into Oxford as she had always hoped. At the end of the film, Jenny poignantly remarks “I probably looked as wide-eyed, fresh, and artless as any other student. But I wasn’t.” – which I think is paramount in describing her experience, and just who she is. No, she didn’t do everything in the way that was expected, but she got there without sacrificing her own desires – her own identity – and it quite obviously made her experiences richer, more personal ones. I guess what it touched in me, is my desire to achieve things my own way, without conforming to what is expected of me by society. I want to live a full life, without ever losing who I am at the hands of expectation.

Similarly, although on a much larger scale, reading how Jung Chang faced her teenage years through the midst of the Cultural Revolution and the growth of Mao’s personality cult, really struck a chord in me too. Chang’s strength of character really shone through in this memoir, and it was really awe-inspiring to read. Despite watching her family suffer terribly at the hands of the revolution that they had always supported, she remained dedicated to her ambitions for an education and exposure to a world beyond the nation’s suffering. Although joining the Red Guards, you really got a sense that Chang was never willing to surrender her personality to conform, which must’ve taken an unbelievable amount of courage at a time of such unrest, social brainwashing and brutality.

Wild Swans by Jung Chang

I guess what both of these really tapped into with me was the desire to keep in touch with my own identity at a time when I find myself ranked as nothing more than “the pregnant woman”. Yes, I am a pregnant woman, but I am also a woman who retains the identity – the interests, ambitions and desires – that I have with or without being a pregnant woman. I haven’t lost anything to becoming pregnant, I’m growing (physically and emotionally) and learning more and more with each week that passes, and I’m ready to embark on the most miraculous, joyous challenge of my life so far.

The Sheviock Barton B&B

Despite arriving a bit later than anticipated (we had to stop in a brilliantly primal village pub, where we were bundled into a back room to watch the football with a couple of the local ale-drinkers), we decided to go for a little drive up to Maker Heights, where the weekend’s celebrations were being held. Although things were winding down, and the camping guests were off to their tents for the night, a few lamps were still aglow and it gave us a nice chance to have a nose around and say a quick hello to the grooms before their big day.

And the big day itself was a big day indeed. Seeing the setting in daylight was breathtaking. Maker Heights is officially an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, and its views over the bays of surrounding coves were just beautiful, especially in the glorious sunshine. The ceremony itself was the most moving exchanging of vows I’ve ever experienced. With their own words and passages and poems from friends that obviously really meant something to them, I was in tears from start to finish at the love and intimacy that was being shared between them and everyone. For me, it really held a poignancy of what a marriage should be about. It’s not about a man and a woman churning out a generic list of ‘promises’, but rather, an exchange of trust and true love between two people who already share that. Andy and Juan captured so beautifully all of the things that are important to me in a relationship; friendship, laughter, love, care and understanding – all of which they ooze individually, and even more so together.

The day’s delights certainly didn’t stop there – there were lots of heartfelt speeches, the little children at the wedding worked hard all morning and put on a gorgeous pagan ritual for the couple, where they danced around them with hand-crafted symbols of the elements; earth, wind, fire and water, to bless their marriage. In fact, what was really lovely was how so many of their friends contributed to their marriage, with three of them serenading us with two violins and a bass clarinet, in the form of Hayden, followed by When I Fall in Love, and finally the love theme from the Italian film, Cinema Paradiso (my favourite film!), which I have found an orchestra clip of to share with you below..

A delicious (and hot!) South Indian meal, courtesy of Chennai Dosa, was the next treat for everyone, followed by dancing and flame throwing, in keeping with the constant entertainment of the day. Christian and I (and I expect every other guest for that matter) headed home feeling lovely and warm inside, and above all, very very happy for Andy and Juan – two lovely people who deserve all the happiness in the world.

Sunday was wedding-wind down day, and time to come home, but before the long slog down the motorway, we mooched through a little coastal town called Kingsand, which was again breathtaking. The waters were beautifully clear and enticed us in for a paddle, before tucking in to some super fresh fish and chips and some proper Cornish ice cream. De-lish.

Kingsand

Today I’m going to leave you with a small passage from The House at Pooh Corner, by A A Milne, which made for a really sweet reading at the wedding on Saturday:

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.

“Pooh,” he whispered.

“Yes, Piglet?”

“Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw, “I just wanted to be sure of you.”

The month of May saw my friend Steve’s 30th birthday, and celebrations kicked off with a lovely meal at Tiles restaurant/wine bar in Victoria. With an upstairs dining area and a view out onto the hustle and bustle of Buckingham Palace Road, this is the perfect venue for relaxed dining and top quality nosh. Meanwhile, downstairs is more of a lounge, with sofas and music, making it the perfect place for an evening with friends. Stage two unfolded at The Green Carnation on Greek Street and was the perfect alternative to a rammed nightclub. Slap bang in the heart of Soho, The Green Carnation is an interesting and decadent watering hole, where the bar staff are beautiful and the lacquered walls are adorned with quotes from Oscar Wilde, to whom the venue is dedicated. We had a lovely little room all to ourselves, with a big round sofa, nibbles and lots of champagne (well, not for me..but then I was happy enough because there was air conditioning!). It was lovely having everyone together to celebrate my friend’s big 3-0, and of course, things didn’t stop there..

Hix, Soho

Nicky and I clubbed together to treat Steve to the last part of his birthday surprise. The penultimate bit being a delicious meal at Hix in Soho. Run by ex-Ivy head chef Mark Hix, this great restaurant is much more than your average London gastropub, offering British seasonal food at its best, in surroundings that quietly whisper “ooo”. The decor is classic and clean, with windows that give off a James Bond abode vibe and ceiling mobiles by edgy British artists like Damien Hirst and Tracey Emin. We went for the pre-theatre menu, which actually works out at brilliant value, and all opted for the butternut squash starter followed by good old fish and chips (with minted peas to die for). Feeling happy and stuffed, we wandered down to The Palace Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue where we were off to see Priscilla Queen of the Desert. Now, I had mixed ideas about what to expect from the show – I’ve never seen the film but I’d heard great reviews of the stage performance, so I was eager to make up my own mind. As we took our seats, I was desperately hoping we weren’t about to sit through a two hour trashy musical. Being a pregnant woman sat near the ceiling and in what must’ve been about 200 degrees heat (I was tempted to smear my mint choc chip ice cream all over my face in the interval), a nauseating assault of colour and noise was the last thing I needed, and luckily, it was far from anything I got. In fact, what followed was a fabulous floorshow of vibrant energy, incredible costumes and a sweet, touching tale. If you’re looking for a musical to check out this summer, I would definitely recommend that this is it.

Priscilla Queen of the Desert

Last on my list to report on are a couple of books that I’ve recently devoured: A Million Little Pieces and My Friend Leonard, both by the American author, James Frey. The first is a memoir of his experience during his treatment for drug and alcohol addiction at a centre in Minnesota, whilst the latter picks up where A Million Little Pieces left off, and concentrates on the father-son relationship he develops with Leonard, a friend from rehab. Before I rave about how wonderful these two books are, I just want to cover two things. Firstly, although I would insist that you read them, you probably won’t enjoy them (or have the energy to persist) if conventional prose is fundamental to your reading experience. A Million Little Pieces in particular, is written basically as Frey’s chain of thought. There aren’t really any properly formed sentences contributing to neat and orderly paragraphs; but rather, a sensation that someone is grabbing you, carrying you on their back, and not putting you down. Don’t expect to be told a story from the comfort of your seat, but be prepared to accompany Frey through the emotions of his experiences, which at times can be too much to bear. Secondly, there has been a lot of controversy surrounding James Frey and these memoirs. He has been accused of fabricating details of his criminal record and his time in rehab. In 2006, an article entitled “A Million Little Lies: Exposing James Frey’s Fiction Addiction” was published on The Smoking Gun website, which led to an onslaught of criticism. He has always defended his work, and argues that all memoirs alter minor details for literary effect. So basically what I’m saying is that if you can’t approach these books with an open mind, then they’re probably not for you. If you can get past a bit of controversy and a lack of commas though, then you are in for a ride that is going to move you beyond belief. On finishing My Friend Leonard, I was inconsolable for two days. I was actually grieving, and not just because I’d finished two of the best books I’ve ever read, but because of Frey’s incredible ability to create an environment where you experience his pain, almost first hand. I can’t cover all the emotions I felt when reading these, all I can say is that honesty, sincerity and an unaffected openness poured through all aspects of his struggle, anguish, fear and hope, in a way that leaves you feeling inspired and truly moved. I urge you to give them a chance.

Until next time x