Fancy food.

I like pretty food. Look at that, erm, scallop and ... erm ... well look at it. Doesn't it look dainty and delightful? Oh yes it does. (Of course, if I was being r-e-a-l-l-y picky I'd make the portion about seven times bigger but hey, that's just me.) I think this lust for attractive nosh is sister to my utterly inappropriate method of supermarket shopping too. I am the prime target for those marketing moguls who yell on about fancy packaging to seduce the fools who amble idly down the aisles, casually picking up bright packages or items boasting the words 'rich,' 'stone baked,' 'parmesan crust,' *wipes mouth* and the like. Yep. I am a sucker for food porn.

I even sort of do it with books too. If I'm in a library feeling adventurous enough to throw caution to the winds and NOT get a Richard and Judy voted book, I tend to just browse willy nilly, going for the books with the prettiest or most eye catching titles. Which, if you think about it, is quite funny when you ponder the ol' proverb about not judging a book by its cover. Hmm. Not sure what this says about me but ...

So. Me and my aesthetically charged appetite went for supper (oh and the boy and his wallet came too, of course) and what did I choose? The linguine with the cream AND gorgonzola in. Bacon AND chicken in. My saucer eyes could not be dissuaded. I was definitely going to eat it all. Even the fact that the rather petite waitress needed help just to carry the gargantuan bowl over to me couldn't stop me. DIG IN, I thought. (And yes, yes I did put extra parmesan on top.)

Later as I sat in the bathroom, my cheek resting against the cooling tiles and my tummy yelping furiously at me, I thought about my greed for fancy food. Creamy goodness is just evil wrapped up in an appealing disguise. I sighed loudly enough for Marc to poke his head around the door and deliver the entirely unhelpful line, 'Well I did warn you it would be too rich, didn't I?' before I furiously lobbed the Andrex twelve pack at his big, fat head. (Women are meant to have MYSTERY attached to them. This is clearly quite hard to keep up when your boyfriend catches you on the loo.) So yes, yes I was warned but did I heed? No. No, I did not. But I defy you to ignore the menu when something whipped and creamed and tousled into something beautiful is staring back at you.

Revolving restaurant of DOOM

Ok, so the title sounds dramatic but it was truly, truly one of the worst restaurant experiences of my life. And as a humble foodie obsessive, dedicated to the carbs cause this was shattering.

Yes, I was hanging out of my arse and thus unable to come to sensible eating decisions, or any sensible decisions come to think of it... but my friend, Holly, had come up from Cape Town and was jolly and perky as only the dead sober and moderate can be. (Witch). We decided lunch would be a very wise plan since I had only munched liquid calories in the last 24 hours and my skin was turning a funny colour. APPARENTLY I have Lonely Planet to thank for the subsequent horror... my friend leant over and squawked, 'ooh let's go to Revolving Roma!' It sounded quite fun and I wasn't in any position to discuss anything coherently so I just mumbled 'gafudidiparr' and off we went.

I hate it when people over use the term surreal. You know- when silly, sparkly creatures flick their hair and squeak "OHMYGODWEJUSTBUMPEDINTOEACHOTHER....sooooo surreal." Argh! No it's not! That's a coincidence airhead! *calms down* Anyway what followed actually warranted one of those comments. We emerged on the top floor of a rather shaky building, the restaurant slowly clunking it's way around as only a revolving restaurant born in the 80's can. What greeted us was part horrifying, part hilarious. It was like someone had vomited chintz everywhere. The walls were daubed with fat, slightly leery cherubs and nude Raphellite sort-of-beauties. Everything was in dark mahogony and the carpet bore a slightly exhausted it-was-fashionable-in-the-70's look. The Manager was the only person who took orders (ego trip anyone?) so we sat for forty five miserable minutes before we were graciously handed a menu. I, now almost dribbling from the night before's antics, decided that since I'd been bullied into this (I just wanted a burger) I would have to get hopelessly drunk again to survive Giuseppe's plastered on smile and Isabella's 90th birthday celebrations on the next table.

So I opted for pasta carbonara and a bucket of red wine. Simples. It's an Italian, isn't it? Oh dear. My carbonara arrived in a twee china bowl that looked like it should have been chucked many moons ago and the pasta was cold, covered in tomato and had SPAM in it. Wait a minute- didn't post war Britain eat spam? Hmm? Where was my crispy bacon, egg and cream? I wilted in horror, my headache screaming DON'TMAKEAFUSS as I attempted to wolf down my main course.

A part of me died that day.

I LOVE pasta and that horrid restaurant ruined it for me. Ok that's a lie, I'm definitely eating pasta again- as soon as possible actually- so I can reassure my poor tum that it still tastes nice really. And actually the decor was quite funny. In fact, the restaurant experience was akin to seeing that old relative of your's plastered at a wedding and groping as much bridesmaid bottom as possible. It's horrendous but sort of amusing at the same time. And I was hungover slash drunk throughout the experience. I would warn you all off it but I doubt you'll find yourself in Durban by the water, a little too close to the CBD for my liking, musing on the benefits of a fun afternoon out in an Italian that charmingly revolves around grey tower blocks. But just in case- DON'T DO IT. Lesson learnt.

FOLK'ING FANTASTIC

The new Laura Marling album, 'I speak because I can' is bloody wonderful. Truly. I've listened to it on repeat all morning and I seem to be liking it more and more each time.

The finish is incredibly professional whilst still retaining a vulnerable rawness. She's that bit more accessible than Joanna Newsom's bleating harp yet doesn't cross into the pop realm that other folk artists, such as Regina for one, seem to have slipped into.

I honestly don't know what more to say. I'm not a music critic so I can't wax lyrical about the subtle nuances that scream of a folk revival akin to the blah blah blah... but I love decent music and this, my friends, is decent. Lyricism like, Eye to eye, nose to nose / Ripping off each other's clothes in a most peculiar way, coupled with sitars, strings, eery howls and acoustic guitars ticks all the boxes.This is folk celebrating rural England in all its frost covered, blackberry foraging, dog walking, tea drinking, by-the-hearth warming glory. Bravo Laura- epic.

Spinning. (Apparently not as gentle as it sounds.)

Looking around the gym, all I could see was sweaty, red faced victims who looked like they'd happily trample over their own grandmother if it meant there was an easier way to work off last night's lasagna. Peeking through the window on my left were men heaving giant weights onto their shoulders- hmm, probably not- and in the other room, a terrifying man wielding a megaphone at a mass of exhausted, windmill arms. No.

Suddenly, in front of me, I spotted some smiley people on bikes. Perfect. Everyone knows that exercising on a machine is easier. What I didn't spot was that the walls were soundproof and that, sauntering in to the warm up all jack-the-lad like, the ear shatteringly loud, German techno was masking people's groans of pain (and the occasional and frankly unnecessary 'whoop' from the instructor) and the smiles were actually grimaces of pain. Ah. Well, too late to back out now. I sidled onto my seat (ouch, these saddles were NOT made for people with normal sized bottoms) and started pedalling...

I will be honest, fellow bloggers, I did not immediately take to it like the proverbial duck. I was enjoying myself in a weird sort of sado-masochistic way, but I was huffing and puffing over my handlebars in a small wheezing lump, my eyes crossed as I grunted most unlady like through the session. For future reference- DO NOT choose to sit/collapse next to someone who is quite obviously a regular. (Ways to spot this include smooth legs- both boys and girls- professional cycling kit/trainers and an eager smile plastered over their face resembling that of Hitler's at a book burning.) The man and his giant muscles on my right was pedalling like billy-oh so I tried to take a leaf out of his book and use him as motivation. Well, I never knew you could have a heart beat in your head. I think in fact that's your body giving you a thump to warn you it's about to keel over but...

Anyway one hour later of sprints, climbs and several muttered voodoo curses from yours truly I surprised myself by being MILDLY DISAPPOINTED when the she-devil bought us to a stop. Truly. I was so flushed (no seriously, I was purple) with pride that I positively bounded out of the studio. (Actually I really wouldn't recommend bounding. Bambi legs is a very real consequence of post spinning and enthusiastically leaping off your bike only to collapse in a puddle on the floor does rather dent your gym rep.)

Well, that was about six weeks ago now and I've been two or three times a week since. Not bad, hey? (I'm the kind of person who ditches the diet three days in maintaining I'LL START NEXT MONTH, so this new found discipline is alarmingly refreshing.) I still want to throttle my instructor about seven minutes in and find any sort of climbing after utter torture- even my bed poses a worrying feat when I consider how on earth me and my jelly legs are going to clamber in- but once you hit your stride and find the beat to cycle to it becomes bizarrely enjoyable and I'd highly recommend it to all of you who want to eat fun, normal things (you want me to give up carbs?! Oh the horror...) and not live off celery and diet coke for eternity.

Blog no. 1. (Be nice. We all have to start somewhere.)

So. This being my first blog (blog or Blog? Right that's done it, ballsed it up in the first six words.) I feel there's a lot of pressure riding on this first sentence. *wipes brow* Having never written one of these before I can safely say I genuinely have no clue what I'm doing, and the fact that it was my GRANDFATHER who recommended I write one of these on moving to South Africa (in an almost jaunty 'two fingers up' to my youth) just makes it worse...

I'm a romantic. Yep. I may have grown out of the admittedly childish habit of pushing squirming boyfriends TO INCITE DRAMA (Cathy and Heathcliff eat your tragedy-on-the-Yorkshire-moors hearts out) but I still haven't really embraced computers fully. I mean, they're great. Obviously. I'll tweet the hell out of my day to day trivial nothings and upload photo after serial tagger photo on Facebook, but the trust just isn't there. Do you know what I mean? It's like you just don't know if, at any given minute, your computer isn't just going to go- 'Nah, had enough of this lengthy and precious piece you've been labouring over for hours.' And suddenly you're confronted by the blank screen. That blank screen or worse, that evil little note, (sister to the "Did you mean..." Google search prompter) "Windows has had to unexpectedly close..." that stares smugly at you whilst you wail dramatically and contemplate lifting the thing clean out of the sockets and lobbing it out of the window. Unexpected?? I'm not prepared to put my work in the hands of an erratic psychopath who may just UNEXPECTEDLY turn itself off.

So, my romantic inclinations push me to write things. You know. Properly, by hand. This may not be either right or time effective, but it's raw in a sort of- scribbling pieces by candle light as you struggle to stay warm eating your baked beans out of the tin way. Don't laugh. Anyone who read Jilly Cooper and Jane Austen- yes at the same time- found this romantic too. (Admittedly, my near unnatural and unquenchable greed means I'd probably switch the baked beans for goats cheese stuffed lamb rack, potatoes dauphinoise and spinach mourne followed by a wheel of crumbly stilton but still, you get the overall effect.)

Basically- there really should be a point to this rambling- I'm a little suspicious of computers. Not in a 'I have dozens of cats and believe aliens abducted JK' way. I just acknowledge my very limited knowledge of the inner workings of a computer. More specifically, what to do when they die on you. But, since moving to South Africa and the advertising industry I seem to be surrounded by Mac sad tops. (Yes, yes, the bitterness is very closely related to the teary revelation that I cannot afford one of these beauties.)

Unfortunately it's not quite the Mad Men of my fantasies. It is, however, full of Nike Dunks and graffiti-ed walls. Of quirky office additions like climbing walls. Of people who sit at their desks, vulture-like, their eyes narrowed in concentration (or from being stoned...), dressed in graphic tees and hole ridden jeans- dinosaurs of the advertising world of yesterday who terrify with their astounding creativity and determination that they can still pull off that 90's skater cap. (Truly, I never saw so much facial hair or Marvell themed attire before I moved into this industry.) So in essence, my aversion to electronic creativity is about as out of place as a Hummingbird Bakery cake wielding fanatic at a Weight Watchers meeting. And so, fellow bloggers, I like to think of this as my first, Bambi-shakey step into modernity. See how 'in touch' I am now, eh? Y-e-a-h.


*Seriously, I finally know how those contestants feel on 'Who Wants to be a Millionaire.' The let's-ease-you-in-gently question- What is the capital of France? comes up, and suddenly they're squawking I'LL PHONE A FRIEND PLEASE! My mind seems to have kindly emptied itself somewhere and I've subsequently gone from, 'On a good day she had a tendency to move from mildly irritating to passably amusing' to pond fodder. Oh dear. Here's to 'second time lucky'...