Tag Archives: Emma Bridgewater

Christmas: the verdict


So myself and I had a vote and came to the conclusion that Christmas in the country is nicer than its urban equivalent. Not that London Christmases aren’t great and all (I missed outdoor ice-skating, the South Bank’s German market and the all-out, end-of-days boozing, but managed to fit in a Christmas show – Matilda, which is ace, and no you don’t need a kid to drag along.)

But Christmas in the countryside was something else altogether – dog-walking across fields crunchy with frost, attending the crib service at the village church (faith not required), cosying up by the log fire…

Actually, no: let me shatter that myth. Log fires are the worst form of heating I’ve ever come across. The only way you’ll get warm from a log fire is by roasting on it, like a pig. The rest of the time you’re standing in front of it, arms outstretched, alternately blowing on your palms and wondering why the hell it’s gone out again.

Over New Year we went to Hampshire (leaving the countryside to go to the countryside feels like a massive exercise in pointlessness, but there you go. Some people swear each English county has its own identity; I say visit one and you’ve got the idea.) But in Hampshire we came across the Holy Grail. A country house that was actually warm. All the time. Even at night.

The secret was the Aga, a country cliché up there with black Labs, SUVs and Emma Bridgewater crockery. They might cost upwards of five grand and use as much energy in a week as a standard oven does in nine months, but as the temperature plummets and wind howls, all I can say is that clichés are clichés for a reason.

But back to Christmas (this post really is all over the place. What can I say? I’m tired.) Check out how one of my presents came wrapped. Look! Special folds! I was wildly impressed.

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Filed under General rants and moans

Things to miss about Shoreditch pt.2

Now that we’re leaving the area, naturally I’m dwelling on all the things I like about it: the narrow, Dickensian streets, the Barbican, the coffee stand in Fortune St park run by the nice Aussie bloke and the girl I thought was a Kiwi but who turned out to be a Geordie (such is my ear for accents).

And, as always with East London, there are new places popping up all the time. On Saturday I checked out Story Deli in Redchurch Street, which has relocated from its old premises off Brick Lane. Run by a former Vogue stylist and her husband, it serves what are hands-down London’s best pizzas (way better than Pizza East, or that place in Brixton everyone bangs on about). At £15 apiece, they’re also its most expensive, mind you. I was quite huffy about the price until I tried one:

The shit iPhone picture isn’t really doing it justice. They’re also massive – we found that one between us was plenty.

Despite the ELLE Deco décor, it’s the most child-friendly eaterie I’ve been to in a long time (ever?) thanks to one ingenious touch… A box of Brio. The owners have left one in a corner, meaning that my two-year-old – the kid who would have been shouting/running around/generally pissing you off – was silently engrossed in trains for the duration of our meal. Heaven. If only all café owners would do the same.

I’m going to miss the people here, too. When we were set to move to Battersea, I was slating South West Londoners (for being thickie minor-public-schoolkids with an inflated sense of importance, penchant for spotty Emma Bridgewater crockery, etc), when my friend gently pointed out that there were some people who thought that Shoreditch, too, was chock-full of idiots. Oops, point taken. If you haven’t seen this already, it sums them up far better than I ever could:

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Filed under General rants and moans, Kids, parenting... Non-mums may want to move along, Yum... Food