This was meant to be...

... a post about the evening I spent in the company of the venerable author Donna Tartt. Last week she was over in London to promote her latest novel, The Goldfinch, which is only her third - any of you who know anything about her will know that she writes, on average, one book every forty years or something. What you might not know is that when I went to meet my agent for the first time, before she signed me, she'd read an early draft of The Perfect Suicide and declared that it reminded her a little of blockbuster The Secret History. Which kind of blew my mind (also, with hindsight was superbly generous and possibly a little bit hyperbolic - I suspect the only similarity really was the university setting and general weirdness).

So when my friend Susie suggested we go along to a reading Donna Tartt was giving with Waterstones, I was thrilled and excited. It also coincided nicely with my mum's birthday - and her request for a copy of The Goldfinch as part of the present. Great, I thought. I can even get it signed for her!

But then this happened...

I came home after a morning meeting to find Percy had a massive great hole in his little paw. Cue emergency vets appointment, which meant my evening gawping at Donna Tartt was off.

By the time I got back from the vets - who declared that Percy's injury was, somewhat incredibly, a cat bite* - it was too late to make it into town. So instead I sulked in front of the TV, glaring at the injured party, while reading tweets from people like India Knight going on about how great it was.

Percy, clearly sensing my passive aggressive irritation, spent the evening looking cute and sad in equal measure.

So, instead this post is about a daft ginger cat. And his long-running feud with Beryl the Bold Tabby next door. On this occasion it was very much Beryl - 1, Percy - nil.

Depending on whether or not you're a cat-lover, you'll be pleased to hear he's since recovered well.

 *on a side note, I have since learnt that cat bites are really dangerous to humans. Who knew? Cats' mouths are full of bacteria, and because of the shape of their sharp and pointy teeth, they puncture the skin with a small hole and fill it with bacteria when they bite you. After which, the hole quickly heals over, trapping all the nasty things inside, meaning that if you're bitten by a cat, you've got a 50% chance of it getting infected. So if your cat ever bites you hard - go to the doctor's and get antibiotics.

I promise this will make you smile...

As one wise YouTube commenter said: 'I'd like to hear this just before I die.' The video was filmed in Brownsville, NY, which is one of the poorest parts of Brooklyn, and has one the highest rates of unemployment, poor health, crime, family violence, low educational achievement and overcrowding.

But this video is so moving. And lovely. And has ballet in it.

Happy Friday!

[embed width="640"] http://vimeo.com/43125819 [/embed]

Balthazar and the story of a Rolex

I'd heard lots of things about Balthazar - that it was over-rated and didn't live up to the hype. Also that it was too expensive. So even though I'd wanted to go for a while, I'd dropped it to the bottom of the priority list. I'm also not a fan of French food - strike me down! - after too many years struggling over an unappealing menu in Cafe Rouge when I was younger... Everyone I knew seemed to think Cafe Rouge was the height of continental sophistication, I just wished we could go to Superfish instead.

Anyway. I'm pleased to say that Balthazar won me over as soon as I set through the door. Similar to The Woleseley and The Delaunay, its decor is the kind of thing that instantly makes me smile: beautiful high ceilings, wonderful warm lighting, delicately tiled floors, plenty of mirrors and lots of textures. I loved it, even our tiny marble-topped table (which O complained was far too small, and it was, but I didn't care).

And best of all, the menu had one of my favourite dishes on it: steak tartare. I now basically have to order this whenever I see it, I'm so obsessed.

It was the 'mildest' steak tartare I've ever eaten, and O said he thought it was a little bland, but I didn't mind as it meant more for me.

I was tempted by the Steak Frites, but given the tartare starter, decided to go for the roast chicken breast with fregola, grilled vegetables and tomato and lemon puree. I still don't know what fregola is... hang on... *googles it*. Ah as suspected, it's a kind of couscousy pasta thing. Anyway, it was nice, as tasteless carbs go. The chicken was the best bit of the meal, and weirdly had a curried aftertaste which totally threw me, but was really nice and unusual. And the chicken was cooked amazingly - so tender.

O meanwhile, had roasted fillet of cod with broad beans and salt cod brandade. He enjoyed it but said it didn't blow him away. I think he was jealous of my chicken.

Just to prove the 'compactness' of the table...

After our mains, I went for a wander and fell in love with the loos...

Look at that floor!

I wasn't going to go for pud, but we were celebrating, so we decided to share a pavlova. Which was really delicious - with a kick of alcohol in it that I didn't expect. And so pretty!

Fresh mint tea finished things off just perfectly.

And the main reason for our meal, was to celebrate O's acquisition of something he's wanted since I met him; namely a Rolex Submariner (not 'sub-ma-reeena' as I kept pronouncing it). Now I know I waxed lyrical about expensive handbags, but I have to say I'm missing the 'watch' gene - I don't really get it. For that money, I want diamonds! But he's got the watch addiction as badly as I have the handbag one, so it was only right that I humoured him in his quest, and after he recently inherited some money, I managed to finally bully him into treating himself.

And eventually, after some interesting 'experiences' in many many jewellery shops - not least the fascinating emporium that is the Vintage Rolex shop in Burlington Arcade (to quote Ab Fab: 'you only work in a shop you know, you can drop the attitude') - he finally found HIS watch. And I have to admit, under the lovely lighting in Balthazar, it did start to look very pretty...

I heart Battersea Car Boot

Last Sunday I packed up Ron the Golf with all the victims of my latest declutter, and set off for Battersea.

I've been selling at Battersea Car Boot for the past four years. It all started when I moved from my rather spacious three-bed semi-detached house in Surrey to a comparatively small home in London. I had so much STUFF that I didn't need any longer, but that still had value. And I was bored of eBay and all the dodgy 'buyers' and post office queues.

I did a bit of googling, and found out about Battersea - one of the biggest and best car boot sales in London. Probably the biggest and best actually.

It's held every Sunday, all year round, and is really well organised - no turning up and hoping for a pitch, you have to book them in advance the Monday before. Beware, they sell out quickly!

It's not cheap, but it's always busy, and every time I've been as a seller I've made back the fee I paid for the pitch ten-fold. Best of all, it's held in the afternoon, so no stupidly early starts!

Personally, I can't think of anything more satisfying than getting rid of all your old junk and unwanted possessions and coming home with lots of cash in return. The buyers are all super friendly and you'll find you can pretty much sell anything.

The trick, of course, is not to let yourself wander round the other stalls at the end...

With a father like this...

I was always going to be doomed.

Yes, that is my dad, flying a Fokker Eindecker that he built himself in his garage. A Fokker Eindecker, for those not in the know, is a German WW1 single-seat monoplane. You can find out more about my dad's antics over on his Flickr page. I've been telling him for years to start his own blog all things aeronautical, knowing there's definitely an audience of anoraks out there who'd lap this stuff up, but he's always been a bit scared of words (insisting he's dyslexic, despite the fact that everything he ever writes is wonderfully lucid, like the rest of his thinking).

Anyway, ever since I was little, my dad has been flying planes. Not for a living, but as a hobby. He had a small plane when I was born, but was forced to sell it when my sister came along, and hung up his headset until we reached our teens, when he started again. For the last few years he's had a share in a touring motorglider - the 'Grob', and I've been flying with him on several occasions. I absolutely bloody love it. And learning to fly has always been on my 'things to do before I die' list (along with winning the lottery first, in order to fund the lessons).

But last year, realising I am now seriously getting on a bit, I asked him if I could have a trial flying lesson as a present for my birthday. He suggested that I try gliding, as opposed to motorgliding or actual flying (gliders have to be towed or winched into the air, whereas motorgliders have an, er, motor, so they can get themselves off the ground). So way back in July (I know, this post is a bit overdue) I went along for two trial lessons in a proper glider, at Lasham.

I chose the hottest day of the year so far to partake in this activity, hence the ridiculous headscarf - I would have seriously burnt my bonce in that little perspex bubble otherwise. My instructor was a very kind man, who, it turned out, didn't get paid to give lessons but was more than happy to do it as it meant free flying hours for him. Unlike my dad's glider, the glider we were going up in was tiny and we had to sit one behind the other, rather than side by side. He alarmingly told me that I was going to sit in the front. He also then put a parachute on me. I didn't like this much. Not least because it weighed a ton.

My dad has tried to give me some rudimentary instructions on flying before so I kind of know the basics - that if you want to go up, you push the nose up but in doing so you lose speed, and if you want to gain speed, you push the nose down but do it too much and you plummet to the earth. Something like that anyway. It sounds so simple when it's explained to you, but when you're actually in charge of the controls somehow it seems completely illogical. Having no spatial awareness whatsoever (I had about 60 hours of driving lessons before my instructor would even let me think of sitting my test) I find flying really really difficult. Because there's not even a road to guide you. There's nothing but sky around you and the dull threat of other aeroplanes and things in the sky that might suddenly just appear out of nowhere and smash into you.

In fact this was one thing I did like about being in the glider – it had a helpful little bleeping system that told you when there was another glider nearby.

Anyway, we were towed up by a rather cool old plane, which was pretty exciting. It literally pulls you along by a cable, which, once you've reached around 5000 ft, pings off and the plane swoops away (hence subsequent worrying that the cable would hit someone/something as it flapped about). Then it suddenly goes quiet, and you realise you've got no engine.

Once we were in the air, it was actually really peaceful. I think this is what I love most about flying in small aircraft - the quiet and tranquility and serenity of it all. Nothing like a commercial airliner, where you can feel how heavy and unnatural the whole thing is as it judders off the ground. Little planes literally GLIDE into the air, and it feels like a perfectly logical place to be.

Unfortunately my stupid camera had decided to break, so I didn't manage to take any pictures whilst in the plane. Needless to say, I didn't do too much flying, as my poor instructor kept trying to encourage me to, thanks to my constant freaking out about stalling it. He was also completely obsessed with getting lift, which is how gliders stay in the air - by seeking out 'thermals', little pockets of warm rising air, that they kind of hijack in order to stay up. So everytime I took the controls and inevitably lost height, he couldn't help himself taking over again and wandering off to find another thermal.

We had two good flights in the end - the second one lasted almost 45 minutes, and my instructor seemed very chuffed with this. But when I came down to earth, I felt a little flat. I'd enjoyed the experience, as I always do, but there was something about gliding that I found unsatisfactory.

I can only liken it to my distaste of ornaments. Weird analogy, I know, but bear with me. I don't like things that have no purpose. And gliding just for the sake of gliding seemed daft to me. I kept looking at the tow plane, thinking I'd rather be in that.

And when I go with my dad, because his glider has an engine, we can take a day trip somewhere - land, have lunch and then be home for tea. In a true glider, you go up just to try to stay up for as long as possible and then come down again.

So at the end of the experience, I left with a snazzy certificate and the determination that it was REAL planes I want to learn to fly.

Alas, the lottery win is still needed.

In defence of expensive handbags

My passion for expensive handbags started young. My best friend in sixth form, Lilly, first introduced me to Mulberry. Her mum had one, and when she was bored of it, passed it down to Lilly. And I was hooked.

Now, this was 1998, so we were pretty ahead of the game as Mulberry were really NOT popular back then. I got my first Mulberry for my 19th birthday, and I remember my mum saying that it had been in the sale (this is the benefit of having a January birthday) and I think it was just under £200.

Oh how I loved that Mulberry. It was TINY, in hindsight, but fresh-faced 19-year-olds don't need to lug around the same ridiculous amount of make up as 32-year-olds. Anyway, I loved it.

My next Mulberry I purchased myself, somewhat incongruously, while I was at university. I was pretty miserable there, and I had all this student loan money left (one benefit of having no social life at uni). So I marched into Leeds' Harvey Nichols at the end of my second year and bought the prettiest, most summery Mulberry on display. It was £225. I probably was the only student at Leeds with a Mulberry handbag in 2001. These days, I'm sure they all have them.

And over the years my love for beautifully made, beautifully designed handbags has continued - usually Mulberries, but I've experimented with Anya Hindmarch, Tory Burch and Marc Jacobs too.

I recently bought my first Prada handbag. It's beautiful, practical and a joy to use, and it cost just under £1500. I told a few friends the price, when they asked me, and their responses ranged from wide-eyed gasps to nods of approval to astonished swearing. People often tell me, with more than a whiff of moral superiority about it, they 'couldn't possibly imagine spending that much on a HANDBAG'.

And sometimes, just sometimes, I want to say that actually, I couldn't possibly imagine spending that much on a year's worth of alcohol, or a holiday in a hut on sticks in the middle of nowhere, or a fuck-off-massive super-duper TV with surround sound wotsit, or on a year's swanky gym membership, or on ALL THE OTHER THINGS THAT PEOPLE SPEND THEIR MONEY ON.

So yes, this is a bit of a rant. Here's why it's not obscene or disgusting to spend £1500 of your hard earned money on a handbag, IMHO:

1) You get what you pay for. Designer handbags last YEARS. I can't think of anything more depressing than spending a mediocre amount of money on a bag - say £80 - and having it fall apart on me after sixth months.

2) They keep their value. If you're savvy enough, you can actually make money out of the damn things. I sold my Mulberry Alexa two years ago to a friend for £500. I'd paid £700 for it. But new, that same bag now costs £1100. So I was the mug, and my friend did well there.

3) You use handbags every day. Now, I think people should be entitled to spend their money on whatever they like, personally. But of all the 'fashiony' things to spend lots of money on, handbags, along with jewellery, make the most sense to me. Because, unlike a pair of shoes, if you want to you can use them every day. For years. I did actually use my Mulberry Roxanne tote for about three years in the end, so wonderfully practical it was. It cost just under £500 in the Selfridges sale, so its cost per wear is less than 50p a day. Less than a coffee!

4) Call me naive, but I like to pay for something that's been designed with love and passion, and made with care by a craftsman. You can see the work that goes into these bags - every stitch is perfect. Cheap handbags are like cheap furniture, and I'd rather not support disposable consumerism if I can help it.

5) I don't collect anything - it's not in my nature, but I have this wistful idea that one day I'll be able to hand down my handbags to my (yet-to-exist!) daughter.

6) It's your money, it's your business. Spent it how you like. Whatever's your bag.*

*sorry, couldn't resist

Where are you going?

That's 'quo vadis' translated, for those wondering... Repeat after me: 'Caecilius est in horto'.

A little bit of food porn for you today - I've been super busy with work so thought it'd be nice to do a quick post about a recent lovely meal out I had with my usual culinary foragers, Mev and Amy. We only ended up in Quo Vadis, Soho, because Barrafina round the corner had a mahoosive queue (seriously, this 'no reservations' thing is SO 2011). Fortunately Quo Vadis had had a cancellation, so we gratefully filled the spot. Mev had already been before and recommended the theatre set menu, a bargainous £17.50 for two courses. But then the menu came, and I got a little distracted...

(Apologies for the blurry iPhone pics).

Once I'd spotted the hake on the menu, I was a lost cause. It came in the most indulgent butter sauce - any hope of this being a light-caloried meal went straight out of the window. It was beautifully cooked and the pickled beetroot added an earthy, tangy kick that stopped the dish being too sickly.

Across the table, Amy went for crab and mayo - it was meant to be a starter but was a decently sized portion to which she gave a thorough thumbs up.

Mev stuck to his guns and plumped for the lamb bavette with artichokes, from the theatre menu.

We ordered a side of courgettes, beans and mint to share, which was absolutely delicious and also smothered in butter...

Despite the fact I'd probably managed to consume my annual cholesterol intake during the main, I couldn't resist ordering the St Emilion au chocolat from the dessert menu. And MY GOD was it worth it. Despite being a bonafide chocaholic, I usually can't manage to finish a dessert like this - but before Amy and Mev had even had time to pick up their forks to go in for a cheeky taste, the plate was wiped clean. It was literally the best pudding I've ever had in any restaurant in London for years. Worth the entire bill alone. Go to Quo Vadis and order this. Seriously. You won't regret it. Just look at it, in all its sticky, rich wonder... smashed up macaroons and dark dark chocolate = winning combination.

As part of his set menu, Mev got an interesting twist on one of my all-time favourites, Eton Mess - namely peach and apricot mess. I was too busy devouring my St Emilion to ask him how it was, but it also didn't seem to stick around for long...

A quick mention of the interiors is necessary here - it was very subtle, understated and glamorous. A bit old world money. The beautiful patina of the mirrored walls make you feel like you've been transported back to the 20s.

After that feast, and feeling thoroughly sated and just a little bit greedy, I decided the best course of action was to walk back to Waterloo and catch the tube from there instead, hoping to burn off just a few of those calories.

Thank you Barrafina, for your no-reservations policy. Twas a lovely London evening indeed.

Adult ballet

As a blog title, that sounds a little bit dodgy really doesn't it? Or is it just that sticking 'adult' before an activity now automatically makes us think it must be something rather unsavoury? Maybe it's just me. I digress...

Like many middle-class girls from Surrey, I did ballet as a child. I also did: tap, tennis, swimming, horse-riding, ice-skating, Brownies and Guides, Duke of Edinburgh, Young Enterprise, piano, clarinet, tenor saxophone and was the member of a jazz band AND a church youth club. You name it: my parents threw it at me, hoping something would stick. I actually now think they must have read some book in the 80s that said hobbies were the making of a (wo)man, and thus tried their best to engage me in anything extracurricular that came my way.

Alas, however, I was SHIT at sport. I still am SHIT at sport. I loved music, and happily practised piano every night, but anything physical - ugh. I used to hide behind the big tree in the playground during PE, and managed to get away with it for quite a long time before eventually getting caught and given detention.

Ballet was a particular torture though - I hated it. I thought it was mind-numbingly dull. Also, I hated performing in any capacity (my career as a concert pianist was always doomed - my first ever recital of Beethoven's Moonlight began with me sitting down and feeling so overcome with embarrassment at all the faces staring at me I apologised before I'd even played a note).

But my Mum loved ballet. She wanted a little ballerina, as I am sure most mums do. And so I wasn't allowed to give it up, no matter how much I screamed and wailed and complained. In actual fact, it was my tenth birthday present - being allowed to finally give up ballet after six miserable years. Hurrah! I triumphantly chucked my stupid leotard and stupid pink tights in the bin.

Oh how things change. Those seeds were planted by my mother, and somehow, 25 years later, they've taken root. Because I am now a ballet addict.

It's all thanks to my friend Vicky. We both hate the gym, but we both agree that exercise is good and we probably should do more of it. So she suggested we sign up to a six-week adult ballet course. And I agreed, not really thinking much about it, but think it might be a good alternative to yoga, which gives me wind and makes me laugh (all that meditating - I'm just WAY too cynical).

What I didn't expect is to learn that BALLET IS BRILLIANT.

Adult ballet is anyway. I love it! I was terrible to begin with, but slowly and surely I do seem to be improving (just a little). And it's so much fun! I don't know why, but it's so much fun! Maybe it's the music that we get to bend and stretch to - maybe it's the fact that there's a bloke in our class who comes every week in a football shirt, and I just can't help but love him for his guts at being the only chap in a class of girls. Maybe it's the fact that you don't get sweaty or out of breath or gross, but you leave feeling all stretched and just a teeny bit taller than when you went in. Either way, I'm hooked. Anyone who's considering it - sign up sign up sign up! It's ace.

Here's the course I do. Beats huffing and puffing on the treadmill any day.

Disclaimer: the ballerina in the first picture is not me. Or Vicky. Yet.

Why every hen do should involve boating

Hen dos. Where do we stand on them honestly? Once upon a time, it was enough to march off to Strawberry Moons, with phallic whistles hanging around your necks, and make the bride dance around a pole after forcing her to down many many tequila shots in quick succession.

But not now. A night out clubbing? Not a chance. Hen dos now are strategic operations that take months of planning, days (if not weeks) from your holiday allowance, and more than just pennies from your pocket.

There's a ticklist too - a hen do in 2013 must include:

a) a 'girlie night in', gossip and discussions of the groom's penis size mandatory, facemasks optional

b) an activity of some kind - think dance class, spa visit etc

c) afternoon tea - mother of the bride's attendance often required for this bit, naked butlers are also a popular guest

d) a posh dinner - van-loads of Prosecco mandatory

e) the 'classic' aforementioned phallic-sponsored night out getting drunk/dancing like a loon in front of YOUNG people who titter behind their hands at all the tragic oldies in their thirties

I've never been lucky enough to be part of a big group of female friends, who all met at the same time, know each other really well and all get on. Instead I seem to have developed pockets of friends over the years, who may have met a few times at my birthday parties etc, but who don't know each other really.  So at every hen do I've ever been on, I'm kind of on the outside - really close to the bride but rather more unfamiliar with my fellow hens. Which can make them exhausting affairs. I've actually ended up feeling really guilty about it, and can put it down to my allergy to 'organised fun' but the truth is, I've often approached hen dos with a sense of dread.

I recently discovered a fantastic and brilliant excuse for my general Scrooge-like feelings about them however: namely, I'm an introvert. Who knew? Introverts are people who find other people EXHAUSTING. An introverts idea of 'fun' is a night in, with a bottle of Chanel nail varnish, a bottle of ice-cold Sauvignon Blanc and a boxset. Oh, and most importantly, no guests.

So last weekend I trotted off to Bath for my friend Sophy's hen do, with a little trepidation. Now, I love Sophy to bits. She was one of my flatmates in my first year at uni and I doubt I would have survived the Leeds experience if it weren't for her. And thankfully we have two friends in common, so I was literally among friends this weekend. But still when I turned up on the Friday, there was a sense of 'first day at school and I'm six again and wondering what the other girls will be like'. And of course they were lovely, and I was being an idiot. But I still felt shy.

Shy, that is, until the Saturday, when we went BOATING.

I've now decided - every hen do should involve the risk of drowning. It's a little bit like the advice (bear with me, this is obscure) they give you when you're trying to bond a pair of rabbits. Stick them in a cardboard box together and drive them around in the car. They'll be best friends for life after.

So forget the spa visits. Boating is where it's at. Fearing for your life (or maybe just your handbag) is a great leveller. Suddenly, we're all equal.

From now on, if a hen do doesn't involve a boating trip, I may have to decline...

Going up the Shard

I'm going to let you into a little secret, but it may disappoint you.

(It certainly disappointed me.)

Wanna hear it?

The Shard is shorter than the Eiffel Tower.

Don't believe me? It's true! The Shard is 308m tall, the Eiffel Tower is 324m.

Shocker, huh? However, either way, it's still bloody bloody bloody high. Which I had naively not really thought about much, before I booked tickets to go and see the view, for O's birthday. He's a lucky bugger, being born in June, and the sun was shining for his dotage and for once it truly was a beautiful London summer's day.

We first had a nice lunch in Kopapa, Covent Garden, before strolling along the south bank and hanging out on the beach (hurrah!). Then we walked all the way to the Shard, before going in at our allotted time of 7.30pm.

I'd tried to be really organised, and had booked tickets for then hoping we could both watch the sun set as well as get a good view in daylight. But I'd sort of forgotten that in June the sun PROPERLY sets at about 10pm - so alas we gave up, numb-bottomed and sore-kneed, at 9.30pm, after two hours of non-stop staring, and left (there are no benches up there, so it's the floor or standing).

But before we left, we got to see quite a bit. What a view! It is ABSOLUTELY FRICKIN' TERRIFYING. At least, it is if, like me, you are a normal person. However, I seemed to have been the only normal person up on the top of the Shard that day, as no one else seemed even remotely worried about the fact that the only thing standing between us and a 300m drop was one tiny piece of glass. So they were all clearly drunk or on heavy antidepressants.

Meanwhile, I spent much of the time up there clinging to a pillar, thinking in some small way it would save me from imminent death.

Anyway, here's what you get to see up on top of little ol' London... Not bad. Not bad at all.