A Cure for the Holiday Blues

Last week was one of the best in my life. I know that’s a pretty bold statement but when the whole seven days, back-to-back, are incredible, it’s hard to ignore the facts.

This was for a few reasons; mainly the company, the scenery, the weather, the music and the far away feeling that helped me slip into some kind of parallel universe. That’s how I always feel when I get home to English weather – like it was all a dream, in which sunshine is only experienced in a make-believe world.

The festival itself was the best I’ve ever been to because (dare I say it), it didn’t always feel like a festival. It was small enough to recognise everyone by the end of the week and friendly enough to want to recognise everyone. No V-Festival chavs at this party. And then there’s the beach. Awww. Now I’m daydreaming again. The water was the clearest, most turquoise water I’ve ever swam in without the worry of unwelcomed creatures and the sun was warmer than I could ever remember. The fact that a whole week gave us time to enjoy that, as well as the music, was another success of the Garden Festival.

So my cure, on return, is to daydream. Thom and I are already planning our next trip and where to travel next time we visit Croatia’s stunning coastline. We hear Montenegro’s nice but with Tuscany, India and Coachella before that, maybe it’ll find a bit of competition on the way. Until next year Croatia. 

Mastering the Basics

Cooking’s a funny one, isn’t it? I mean, I’ve never been a bad cook or poisoned anyone at a barbeque but there are just some things that take a little longer to master. Like the humble omelette. Now, you’re probably reading this thinking that I’m an absolute numpty if I can’t pull off that simple culinary quest but it’s one of only a few things that took a lot longer than most.

Lasagne was my first hero dish and I still have to make it at dinner parties where uni friends will be there. Haloumi with peaches, cous cous and honey mustard dressing was the post-uni, post-gym meal that was so quick and tasty that it’s still a staple today. I even cook roast dinners on occasion, with rather legendary roast potatoes. But the omelette is another matter.

It might be because I never really liked them. Mum made a cheese one for me once and I was sick. I also don’t really like onions or mushrooms, which most seem to include when you’re out and about. But when my sister – the self-confessed non-cook – made one for me, I decided it was time to sort it out. So I made my first one last week with cheese, tomatoes, peppers and spinach. Three eggs to start with so that I had more leeway when flipping. It kind of worked out but I realised more oil would have been beneficial. So every morning this week, I’ve been aiming to make the perfect omelette and, this morning, worked out that actually it’s the pan. A smaller pan with more oil and less eggs worked perfectly and although a good workman never blames his tools, the star-patterned IKEA pan just wasn’t cutting it. So there you have it – the perfect omelette in a smaller pan. Oil, heated. Eggs, beaten. Whites, fried (until nearly white). Filling, added. Half, flipped. Count down from 30. Hey presto. 

Stargazing in Hackney

This weekend marked the end of day festival season with the much-anticipated Hackney Weekend. Although I hadn’t actually looked at the line-up since I booked and wasn’t particularly fussed who was playing, due to it costing just £2.50, I was pleasantly surprised. We arrived early so as not to miss Bombay Bicycle Club, who were first up on the ‘In New Music We Trust’ stage. They were awesome and I was even more pleased, as I missed out on seeing them in April when they clashed with a friend’s 30^th. Following them were Santigold, who wore amazing costumes and even brought a pantomime horse to the stage. Enough said.

Ben Howard was dreamy, Florence and the Machine was, as usual, incredible and Rihanna’s headline act was out of this world. When Jay-Z joined her on stage, the crowd – who were already giddy with RiRi love – seemed to reach another level of energy; more than I think I’ve ever experienced at a gig of that size. We weren’t even close to the front.

The only disappointment was the ‘Special Guest’, who was left unannounced for so long that we assumed it would be a bit better than Dizzee Rascal. He played his latest track that seemed to be about not doing drugs; funny in an audience of pilled-up sixteen year olds. 

All in all though, a really well thought out and well laid out festival. The toilets were the best I’d ever experienced – apart from the queues – and the bar was never too busy. I think Radio 1 did a pretty good job. Let’s just hope they come back next year, when the hype of East London will have been and gone. Fingers crossed. 

Rewarding Coffee

I’m sitting in a Soho Starbucks, drinking a grande skinny latte and remembering the first coffee I actually enjoyed. I was 16 and in Romania, building a school for post-orphanage children and we had nothing. We ate stale bread and grapefruit and drank fizzy water (another taste I mastered on that trip) and black coffee with a LOT of sugar.

The likelihood is that I didn’t actually enjoy the coffee but its warmth and that sweetness of the sugar that took the edge off. Romania had some pretty miserable days when it rained and taking a coffee break was something we learned to love. It was comforting in a ‘we’re all in this together, let’s try to grow up’ way. It was also the only treat we had access to in the rural expanse of the village.

Needless to say, the caffeine was addictive and on returning to the UK, I drank more of it that ever. It was never very good though and as I gently adjusted to the comforts of home, I reverted back to tea. Now, I’ll never drink coffee at home but ALWAYS when I’m out. I think I still consider it a treat. Not that I drink it with sugar anymore or without milk but there’s something in its taste that reminds me of working hard for something important. It’s probably why I’m out of the house more and procrastinating less. And for that, it’ll receive my eternal thank-you.  

Defeated by the eBook

I’m beginning to think that the best way to get myself out there is self-publication. And with the ever-increasing news of independent bookshops going out of business and the fall of the printed novel being fuelled by the Internet and eBooks, it’s not a bad shout.

It’s a difficult one to submit to – writing for digital readers, rather than old school ones. That’s because I’ve never been a fan of the Kindle or cutting bookshelves out of the home. It worries me that our children will live in a white box and only interact through a remote control and the swipe of a finger.

That said, this New Year, whilst holidaying in Mozambique, I read so quickly that the Kindle of our new Marine friend seemed suddenly sensible. He got through five books, while I read two. He had more space in his suitcase while I weighed mine down with paper. Something I thought I’d never resent. In Afganistan, he told us, books are a rarity. Who’s going to want to lug them around when the Kindle can do that for you? They had enough to carry.

When I got home I looked at my beloved book collection and picked up the second in the Stieg Larsson trilogy. In rush hour, The Kindle got another point as I squashed myself onto the Central Line with a book that couldn’t get much bigger. I realised defeat.

Some people do like to read when they go to bed or in a comfy chair on a Sunday afternoon but I’m not really one of them. I read on the commute and a holiday just like most of the population and would probably do better to just buy a Kindle than keep filling my bookshelf. Whether I will or not is another matter but it’s suddenly becoming more apparent that the eBook is the future, either way. And if it’s going to be easier to get my work out there that way, then I guess that’s what I need to do. On my own. 

Out of Advertising

I think it’s fair to say that I’ve never been a fan of authority; the smugness of ‘the man’ as he tells you what you have to do, not to get fired/kicked out/arrested. And as I stepped out of full-time work in one of London's best advertising agencies, that feeling of freedom was surprisingly the last thing to hit. 

I did it because I wanted to work on my own stuff and was sick of the clients that battered your ideas down so far that they became unrecognisable and embarrassing to call your own. I did it because I worked out that maybe advertising was a load of bullshit that people did to make money instead of good work. I think the latter comment is actually unfair on some parts and that many agencies try to beat the client but time and time again, there are only a handful that succeed. It’s clear then where their loyalties lie. 

Raw creativity rarely gets seen and that’s why I felt it was time to follow my heart and turn my head to writing my own stuff. Two novels down the line and a film almost finished, the plan is to work as long and as hard as possible this summer to make just one of them a success. The dream was always to write and if I can do that on my own, writing what I want, for people that appreciate it, I'll never care about waking up. 

An Olympic Alternative?

OK, so it’s not often that we get to host the Olympics but is it really necessary to jump on every bandwagon it brings with it? Brands are doing it everywhere, from Weetabix changing their packaging to ‘Fuel Britannia’ and The National Lottery copying an age-old Hovis ad to the British flag popping up at every opportunity. There was even a TV spot last night that advertised the ‘Official Cereal Bar of the Olympics’.  What else will become ‘Official’? Toilet paper? Ironing Boards? High-Vis Jackets?

What might be more interesting is to watch is the backlash. I didn't win any tickets (although didn't apply for many) and although I’m interested to see what the games will bring in terms of culture and tourism, I live in East London and am slightly more concerned about how I’m going to get anywhere.

So who’s going to engage with us that way? 90% of the Londoners I’ve spoken to are hoping to escape the city for those two weeks, which must create a huge opportunity for the brands involved. Or should I say, those not involved? What if they gave us an alternative; a way to step back from the overly patriotic standard that’s been set since the Royal Wedding? An opportunity to take a breather from London life, that is persistent in its determination to ware out its dwellers. I, for one, would welcome it.