I know I've been really quiet lately, but it's because I've had my head down at my desk furiously working through so much stuff because I'm off on holiday on Saturday!!! Before that though, I have a massive meeting in Zurich that has needed quite a lot of prep. Today is my last day in the office and I'm furtively writing this in between back to back meetings to let you know that, fear not, I'm not running off forever but just for 10 days to the sunny (hopefully!) Cote d'Azur. I'll be back in September with lots of stories and warm weather tales and lovely photos - I'm getting giddy just thinking about it!!!

Until then, enjoy Bank Holiday and Labor Day in the US and I'll talk to you all very soon! xxx

Well, it's been great but I fear that summer is over. Maybe not officially, but it's been cold and cloudy with intermittent torrential downpours for about 2 weeks now and I'm losing faith that we'll get a return to sunshine and warmth. I've found myself wishing I could burrow into my sofa under a blanket for the duration. Meanwhile, I'm the last woman standing at my office who hasn't had her summer holiday and I'm eagerly preparing for our 10 days on the Cote d'Azur at the end of the month. I've been religiously applying Johnson's Holiday Sun self-tanning moisturizer, so my feet are orange and The Irishman says my face is significantly paler than my neck and deems me 'ridiculous'. I'm ignoring him and clutching all of my tank tops and summery dresses because I just can't accept that its mid-August and the Autumn fashions in the magazines have more relevance to the current weather outside my window than they do.

Sometimes I wonder why I choose to live in a country with stunted seasons and a default climate of cold and rainy. Not only is it bleak and depressing, but even now, after a few months of record-breaking heat, I feel like my bones never properly got warm in the summer. My internal temperature gauge never got a good baking. If I don't get to lay in sun, soon, so that I can reset that gauge, I might have to hibernate this winter.

... is that eventually, you're not a tourist any longer. You become a resident.

My friend Mindy has been here in London since May; she works in my company's New York office, but was seconded here for the summer. She has been taking full advantage of her time here, and frankly I am extremely jealous. Not of her travels - I'm very satisfied with my travel itinerary this summer and actually wish for a bit more home-time - but more her freedom to run about London and experience everything at her own pace and on a whim. For what happens when you've lived in a place for 2+ years is that you naturally start to make ties to the place around you. So you start to make friends, make plans with those friends, have obligations and commitments, and then suddenly you find yourself scheduling time in your diary FOR YOURSELF to do WHAT YOU WANT. I was looking at the calendar and saw that the next weekend when I had some free time to go bumming around Liberty was September 13th. Sheesh. And it all came barreling home when I only had 2.25 hours today to go to Tate Britain to see the Henry Moore exhibit - and I couldn't put it off because today was the last day, and I hadn't had time to see it since it opened in February!

Of course it is an enviable position to be in, but one of the draws of expat life is that you're in a new place and constantly discovering new cool places and marveling at all of the little wonders you encounter just strolling through various neighborhoods. So when all of a sudden you're really settled in, you tend to stop doing those very agreeable activities you used to do when you were new to a city because, well, you're not!

So I've decided that this fall, after our vacation and the personal commitments already on the books, I'm going to reserve some "me" time doing things in London that I simply haven't had time to do all summer. Perhaps I will stroll through Primrose Hill park, and have a cappucino at one of the small cafes on King Henry's Road. Maybe I'll visit my old friend Marylebone High Street for a bit of window shopping. Maybe I'll finally treat myself to an afternoon in the Geffyre Museum in Shoreditch! Maybe I'll just go to a part of London I haven't explored and just soak it up.

I have to remember that London is my oyster (and I have my trusty Oystercard!) and that I really need to make the most of it.

Part of the Walker's Flavour Cup. Obviously, I had to taste them as part of an ethnographic understanding of the strange English obsession with weirdly flavored potato chips. And guess what: THEY TASTE JUST LIKE A BIG MAC!!!!

One of the issues The Irishman and I are facing as we reconcile all of our stuff in a one-bedroom apartment is his insistence that he have a man drawer. Before you think I am a terrible girlfriend and that I am refusing him that right, let me say that I totally accept his need for a place to stash all of his stuff but I didn't understand why it couldn't be a man-box-on-a-shelf, or perhaps a man-sack-hanging-off-a-hook. I was chatting with my boss about my confusion and she highly recommended I check out comedian Michael McIntyre's sketch called Man Drawer. So last night The Irishman and I found it on YouTube and watched, and, well... here it is for you, in all of its enlightening glory:



I get it. He's getting his man drawer.

Film4 Summer Screen at Somerset House, The Strand
Film bill: Team America and A Town Called Panic
July 31, 2010

Hi friends, long time no chatter. I apologize for that, but I think my excuse is pretty good:

I moved in with The Irishman.

[cue squealing]

I've never lived with a partner before (or boyfriend, as one would say in the US), and, while I've no doubt that The Irishman is the loveliest man I've ever met, I like to think of myself as the quintessential SINGLE INDEPENDENT LADY and therefore have no need for a man, let alone to cohabitate with one. I've been having mini panic attacks for the last month. DCKatastrophe gave me a stern talking to a few weeks ago, though, and lovingly sent me her well-worn copy of "The Good Girl's Guide to Living in Sin" so I could prepare myself.

And prepare I did. When I finally made the decision to take the plunge, The Irishman and I saw a few apartments in our price range and winced at how gross they were. We decided to be responsible and I moved into his apartment, a bigger than normal 1-bed flat near Highbury. I was month-to-month at my old flat so I scheduled the move for this past Saturday, 31 July. Arsenal, however, had other plans; Premiership football kicked off on Saturday, and parking regulations meant we wouldn't be able to park infront of the apartment to unload a car or van. So at very short notice, I had to fast-forward my plans and have everything packed and ready to go on Friday night. Nevermind that I had 2 straight 12-hour days at work last week with clients in from out of town. Yeesh. I was super bummed because I had been looking forward to one last Friday night on my own, with my roomies, eating mac-n-cheese from the box on the sofa while drunk after a night at the pub, watching bad tv and laughing.

Again, its not that I objected to moving in with The Irishman, or even didn't want to, but I really grieved for the things I would lose - my freedom being one, and my lovely roommates being another. I was living in a share with a couple and another roomie for a year and they were awesome. We really felt like a little family and somehow our house seemed to absorb everyone into quiet corners so many days we would all be home and I would feel like I was home alone for hours. They put up with my knitting and my parents visits, and I contributed occasional homemade chocolate chip cookies. If you ever wanted to chill out in the garden with some rose, my roommates (at least one of them) were game. Luckily for me, The Irishman's place (sorry, OUR place) is only 10 minutes up the road from my old share, still in leafy Islington, so I can still see them all.

So yeah. The move is done and we spent all weekend trying to find places to put STUFF. You've read it here first people - The Irishman has a lot of shoes. Not as many as me, but a lot more than you'd think! And between us, there are more electronic gadget chargers, extension cords, cables, etc, etc. It's mind-boggling. We only had two minor tiffs during the whole process, which is pretty good overall. We're off to IKEA on Thursday, though, for the requisite flat-pack furniture shopping trip, so expect an update on that tally then. Last night I got a bit stroppy as we both sort of lapsed into our independent-person selves: we spent 2 hours on the sofa watching the same program but absorbed into our own worlds. It sort of hit me that this is it, and its up to us to decide how we want to live – together. Scary. Yet ever so exciting.

A while ago, when I met the Irishman's best friend, he asked me what I missed most about New York. I had just booked a haircut with my New York hairdresser Paul for my visit home a few weeks later, and said that he was definitely at the top of the list. The Irishman's friend turned around and made a sage comment about how it meant I hadn't full transitioned to London if I my heart was still with a New York hairdresser.

Well fast forward nearly a year and I still hadn't found someone to replace Paul; for the last few haircuts I've gone from salon to salon seeking out someone I trusted to take care of my very unruly mane. Until last week: I was at the pub having a few too many glasses of rosé where I met my friend Ben's mate Daniel who cuts hair and is amazing. He immediately diagnosed the issue with my constant frizz and gave me a stern talking to about the state of my locks, and told me to come around and see him to get sorted out.

On Friday night, I went round to his salon and for £30 I've got a new lease on my hair. It was funny - usually I seek out trendy salons with edgy stylists and chic interiors, but Daniel's salon is like a neighborhood family business. At any given time, 4 or 5 people who were related to or close friends with Daniel and his business partner Natalie popped round to say hi. They were drinking pints from the pub across the road and were good citizens to take the glasses back after they were done. Someone came in and asked to use the loo and was welcomed with open arms, just as the myriad kids who came round with their parents. It was such a cosy environment that I overlooked the poor hairwashing (a lot of water ended up on my face, rather than my hair), and having to wait 30 minutes to get in the chair.

So am I ready to completely transition from Paul to Daniel? Maybe - maybe not. A lady can't give up her loyalty to her hairdresser so easily, and Daniel and I have only had one date. We'll see if the magic lasts, and if my hair continues to look fabulous. But lets just say, London is feeling a bit more like home lately.

You know when life is just crazy, and there is so much going on that you want a vacation just so you don't have anyplace else to go? Yeah, that's me! This summer has been hot and heavy, with my weekends just as scheduled as my workdays. Last weekend my parents stopped by on their way to France, so Saturday evening the Irishman and I snuck in a quick date by going to ClerkFeast - an open air urban picnic that was part of the London Festival of Architecture. Held in an old, unused gas station, it was a big buffet of lovely food donated by restaurants like Hix Oysters, The Modern Pantry, and St John's. We drank English wine from Chapel Down, which was a revelation it was so good, and sat on blanket on the carport and watched the sun go down. It was magical.



And a good thing too because I then spent all day Sunday with my parents. Somehow I got a severe sunburn after sitting in my garden for all of an hour, which was unpleasant, but I was actually okay with it because it meant that I'm not dreaming the amazing summer we're having here. After a nice roast at The Albion, we went up on the London Eye, which I've never done and am pleased I did but I think once was enough for me. I had a bit of vertigo at the tippy top and every time the Irishman and my dad leaned over to look at something I got a bit freaked out. Amazing views though.



My parents left for France on Wednesday, so after meeting them on Monday and Tuesday nights I was happy to return to my yoga class. I haven't actually stretched like that in so long and I left on my bike resolving to renew my personal vow of making my Wednesday yoga class a priority. Speaking of bikes, I've been riding my new steed for a few weeks now. Meet Diana Ross!



Diana Ross was my friend Rose's bike. When she left London about two months ago to return to New Zealand, I took custody of her and have been getting to know her and her quirks. She is a true ladies bike, with a very low cross bar, so I don't have to throw my leg over the back and embarrass myself in a skirt. She only has 3 speeds - flat, little hill, big hill - and basically she's just really cute! I'm enjoying riding her around town.

I'm sitting here writing all of this with a lovely skinned knee and the remnants of hangover, thanks to this year's 2nd annual 4th of July kickball game (held a week late due to scheduling difficulties). It was violent match, much like the World Cup Final I've just been watching, and yet again the Colonies were creamed by the Commonwealth. I just don't get it. Anyway, I have to go get some first aid cream so I don't have yet another scar. At least the World Cup is over - I can't take this much sport. Especially when I lose!

The 4th Plinth by Yinka Shonibare
Trafalgar Square
30 May 2010

Millenium Walk
July 6, 2010

It's been hot hot hot here in London for the longest time and I am LOVING IT. I keep saying I'm in my natural habitat, because hi it is July and IT SHOULD BE HOT. The Brits around me are all fanning themselves and lamenting the heatwave, nearly melting the minute they step outside into the sunshine. When it is humid, they call it "close" - as in, the air is close and you can feel it - which I find amusing and quaint. But in this hot, sticky, humid, muggy, whatever you call it, weather, I've been absolutely craving ice cream. Obviously there is ice cream for sale here - Ben & Jerrys and Baskin Robbins and Magnum bars and Mr Whippy and lots of artisanal gelato type places - but no one has what I want: soft-serve vanilla in a cone with rainbow sprinkles. It was my treat of choice when I was a kid, and its the best type of feel-good ice cream around. The Mr Whippy soft-serve is gross in comparison, and sprinkles (called hundreds of thousands here, so cute!) aren't really an option.

The Irishman loves ice cream as much as me, and has been treating to some homemade ice creams this year, but sometimes you need a little bit of cheap goodness to make you feel good. So this weekend as all you American readers celebrate the 4th, pop down to your local ice cream parlor and get yourself a soft vanilla with rainbow sprinkles - for me.

Well, it's over - for me at least. I'm referring to the World Cup. In one weekend, all of the flags on my floor at work have been taken down: the US by Ghana, England by Germany (ouch), and Mexico by Argentina. After The Fat Duck on Saturday, we motored home to change and then ran over to my favorite pub, The Drapers Arms, to watch the US v Ghana. I was really excited, having only had the chance to watch the second half of the US's last Group game which ended in a thrilling 91s goal to push them into the next round. But Ghana was good, and the last African team in the tournament, and by the half it was clear they were the better team. Our World Cup run ended, and I was sad to see it go. Clearly, the defeat called for The Irishman and I to continue drinking into the wee hours and suffer just as much as the team (only from a hangover).

Sunday was the England v Germany game, my next team to support, and frankly it wasn't worth writing about. Having lived here for two years, and knowing the ins and outs of Rooney, Gerrard, and Terry's lives and exploits, I expected a bit more from the lads. All of the English I know are taking the defeat in stride, saying things like at least the disappointment came early rather than late. At any case, now I have to suffer through a month of newspaper and blog sites reviewing and critically analyzing the England match, what went wrong, whether Capello is the right coach, ETC...

Then of course Argentina whupped Mexico but good, and I am sort of in love with Diego Maradona - he's such an amusing character; the only thing bigger than his personality is the cross he wears around his neck. So I might have to support Argentina for the rest of the tournament, in addition to The Netherlands due to my love of the Dutch and my good friend Rietje. But when you choose teams to follow, it's never quite as good as when your home team really does good. Next time, USA. xx

So I've been sitting on a little surprise for quite a long time as it was a surprise for The Irishman and he is an avid reader of Bloody Brilliant. Some of you might know it was our anniversary this past week, and last year The Irishman surprised me with a trip to Bruges to celebrate. This year, it was my turn to come up with a worth surprise in return and, if I say so myself, I done good. Two months ago, I sat on hold for an hour and secured a reservation at The Fat Duck.

For those of you who aren't foodies, The Fat Duck is the number 3 restaurant in the world. It holds 3 Michelin stars and its chef, Heston Blumenthal, is a genius at taking apart classic, nostalgic dishes and recreating them in new and exciting ways. Now, I've never been to a Michelin-starred restaurant, but The Irishman has and as a foodie he's wanted to go to The Fat Duck for quite a while. I knew he'd want to be a total nerd and read all of the blogs about the restaurant and the menu before we went, so I gifted him with the official Fat Duck cookbook last Monday and told him we were off to Bray on Saturday. Needless to say, he.was.thrilled.

Yesterday was hot and sunny and we got up early to get to Bray for a drink at The Hinds Head, also owned by Heston. The Irishman found a great website where you can find reduced train fares around England, so we got out to Maidenhead for £5 each (it's good for as far as Brighton, so go go go!). Once there, we sipped our G&Ts slowly but frankly we were so excited that we just kept looking at the watch waiting for our reservation time. Finally we could go and we literally ran into the restaurant, excited to eat eat eat.

The Irishman and I decided not to be nerdy and photograph everything we ate, but to just enjoy the food and the experience. We chose not to go with the paired wine tasting menu - I'd heard everyone who did it just ended up getting drunk halfway through the meal - so we chose an amazing Sancerre to start, and then moved to a really rich and fruity Malbec halfway through the meal. Our sommelier was really grumpy but in a hilarious way; he was much happier when we asked him for his recommendation for the red wine. The rest of the waitstaff were also impeccable and really really friendly - they joked with us and made us feel like we were special and belonged there. It was fantastic.

And, the food. OMG. I don't know how to accurately explain how amazing everything was. Each course got better and better, and topped the one before it. Only one I felt a bit like, okay, that's a bit out there, I'm not down with it, but even that was phenomenally delicious. Every bite you took gave you more flavors, more textures, and more to marvel at. Heston is really a genius to think of how to serve up experiences, rather than just food, and I think that's why I was so excited about each dish. It rarely was served just food on a plate - there were sounds, smells, and textures to accompany the tastes. My favorite was the Seaside - we were given a beach of sand, fish, and seaweaed to eat while listening to the sound of waves from an iPod in a conch shell. It really did transport you from the dining room to the sea. The Irishman's favorite was The Mock Turtle soup, loosely based on Alice in Wonderland - we received a gold watch that dissolved in a teacup of hot water, becoming the broth for soup based on a Victorian delicacy.

We were at the restaurant for nearly 4 hours, and when we were ready to leave the staff were more than happy to have the chef sign our menu (sadly, it wasn't Heston) but when we mentioned that we were there to celebrate our anniversary, they produced a Happy Anniversary card signed by the man himself. Such a nice touch. They then called us a cab to whisk us back to the train station, and I really did feel like I was back in the real world after falling down a rabbit hole... a rabbit hole of gastronomic delight. The Irishman has pronounced the meal one of the best he's ever eaten, and I have enough brownie points to let me off the hook for the rest of the summer!

Another thing that happened in Brighton was I gave up my bike. She didn't have a name - I just called her Bike - but she was definitely a lady and a graceful one at that. I acquired her back back back during my first tour of New York, free from a newcomer to the city who posted her on Craigslist. I went all the way up to Inwood to pick her up and rode her home and never looked back.

We had such adventures, Bike and I. We rode in countless Critical Mass rides, we cycled over the Brooklyn Bridge, we traveled a daily commute from Fairmount to the Zoo in Philadelphia, we got doored by a cab in Fort Greene, and we made the ultimate trip together over the Atlantic. She traveled in steerage, thrown in the belly of the plane with the other luggage, and I wasn't sure she'd make it. But when I got to baggage claim the next morning, there she was propped against a pillar. She accompanied me around London during my first weekend here when I knew no one - she was my only friend and my trusty companion.

But lately, Bike's been a little worse for wear. She lived outside for many a winter and her chain had been described by someone as looking positively Victorian. Her basket has always been dented but has recently looked even more so and her front end was really wobbly. She got really rusty, and her gears didn't shift the way they used to. One day this spring I walked outside to see she'd been spray painted by vandals! A few bike geeks at work would mock her, but then took pity on me and gave her a bit of a tune up; gently, though, they told me there wasn't much that could be done.

I knew all this but stubbornly kept riding Bike. She and I had been through so much together, I couldn't just cast her aside. So I figured that one last big ride together, one last epic voyage, would be it. I would ride her to Brighton and then find someplace to donate her so she could start the next part of her life.

Let me tell you - bike donation is a hard thing to find in Brighton. A few places accepted them to fix them up and sell on, but no one was around on Sunday. I asked in a few charity shops if they would take her, but most said no because if the brakes didn't work they'd be liable. Shocking! I was so upset that not only was I giving up Bike, BUT NO ONE WANTED HER. Finally, the good people at The Sussex Beacon charity shop took her in. Hopefully her sale will help some people with HIV/AIDS, and she'll find someone who can fix her up and give her a new lease on life.

I won't lie - I walked away from handing Bike over to the shop attendant in tears. It was so emotional, cycling 60 miles to the coast on my trusty steed only to then leave her to a secondhand shop. But it's for the best, and I know in my heart that some spunky, sassy shorthaired university student will pop into the shop, see Bike, and it will be love at first sight. I hope they'll have many happy adventures together.

As for me, I have a new bike but I'm not yet ready to ride her. Both physically and emotionally (sore butt and all). I'll post her debut soon, but, until then, in honor of Bike, go outside and give your bike bell a ding for her.

In case you didn't read, I participated in the London to Brighton Bike Ride on Sunday. I lied earlier when I said it was 70 miles - it was only 60 from door-to-door - but past 20, I say who's counting. The day was supposed to be warm and sunny, with patchy clouds, but it dawned overcast and cold. It didn't help my mood as we had to get up at 6am to leave by 7am to bike to the start on Clapham Common at 8am to set off on the route. It also didn't help that halfway to Clapham Common, I pulled over to the side of the road to wait for The Irishman who got caught by a light, and a bird SHAT ON ME. And not just like, a little poo; The Irishman cycled up and asked me what died on me. It was disgusting, purple, and smelled like gingko tree berries. I almost cried right there and turned around.

But The Irishman mopped me off and would have hugged me if I didn't look and smell so foul, and headed to the start. There were hilarious characters of old women (people in drag) on motorized granny vegetable carts (dressed up segways), riding around and dancing to early hip-hop, which was possibly the only thing that could have lifted my spirits at that point, and then we were off! It was really difficult to get out of London; the sheer numbers of riders on the road was huge, and even with police directing traffic we had to stop several times in the first few miles.

The crowds didn't really let up throughout the ride; several times we turned a corner just to find that people were getting off of their bikes and starting to walk. Mostly this was at hills, and to be honest it wasn't so bad - it was like a nice break from all of the cycling. A bit over halfway, we came to Turners Hill - a small town at the top of a hill with a pub and some shops on a roundabout that sets up a BBQ, band, and several food tents for the riders. We stopped there for lunch and had a break to enjoy the atmosphere. It was like a carnival! The Irishman contemplated a pint, but frankly there was no way that was going to happen for me.

We attempted to make it to Brighton by 2pm, but with all of the stops we made it at more like 4pm. The very end of the race has a really horrible gigantic hill called Ditichling Beacon, and unfortunately a rider some distance ahead of us had a heartattack on the ascent. The organizers stopped the race for probably an hour to give everyone a rest, so we had some forced downtime that gave me the opportunity for a nap on the side of the road. But once we did get going, and made it to the top of the hill, it was all coasting down to the seafront.

Brighton itself is a mad, lovely seaside town. We stayed a fabulous little BnB in Kemp Town, the gay neighborhood, called Nineteen. I highly recommend that if you visit Brighton, you stay with Mark. It was so comfortable and calming and relaxing - less like a hotel and more like your own house in Brighton, just with breakfast in bed (for real!). After showering and stretching and etc on Sunday, we met one of The Irishman's friends for a few drinks and then headed to the seafront for seafood at Due South. It's a really nice restaurant, and really good value, so treat yourself! We were pretty exhausted after stuffing our faces so we headed back to the hotel for the night. Monday was fabulously sunny and warm and we spent the day exploring the pier and wandering the Lanes and North Laine (thanks for the tips Kate!).

I loved Brighton, it is like a cross between San Francisco and the Jersey Shore (two of my favorite things) - and at only about an hour train ride from London, I'll be sure to go back soon to sit on the beach chairs and enjoy the sea. Would I bike down there again? The ride itself, distance-wise, wasn't terrible - I'd definitely consider it - but maybe not as part of the organised tour. Riding with 26,999 other cyclists wasn't exactly easy, and I think I'd enjoy it more if The Irishman and I did it ourselves. Also - I'd invest in one of those gel bikeseats. REALLY.

UPDATE: Pictures here!

So, I've been working on this project for work for a while. Like, upwards of 2.5 years. It's not really a project as in client work, but more of a "hey, you are smart, try your hand at this and see what happens" type of extracurricular work. And it's been slow going. So much so that I've had at least 3 different people try to help me, and we've all gotten frustrated. The problem is, the brief in the beginning was nebulous at best, the topic is thorny, and, because I'm working weeks where I'm billing 71 hours sometimes, the last thing I want to do is come home and crack open my laptop again to work on this thing. And all it really is is a few written pages. It's gotten to the point where it stresses me out that this thing isn't done. I have dreams about it. This is truly procrastination at its finest.

About six weeks ago the CEO of my company was in town and we sat down to discuss this project. It seems that he's really keen to have it done (he doesn't know how long its been in the works, thank god). So we chatted, and suddenly the brief became a lot clearer (if not completely different), and so lately I've had a renewed interest in finishing the damn thing. I wrote an outline a month ago, and have been playing with a draft of the piece ever since. But today I stole the Irishman's laptop, marched to Euphorium, and wrote it. The whole sodding thing. In 2.5 hours. And I feel good. I just logged into my work email and sent it to the relevant parties with a plan for finishing it, and it's like 2 stone have just been lifted off my shoulders.

It's funny, because "real" writing (not this blog, because this is just stream of consciousness when I get around to it), like papers, articles, and reports, is really hard for me. I've been told I'm good at it, but the practice of sitting down and putting thoughts down is really hard. I liken it to giving birth, though I've not experienced that and I assume it's much more physically painful than writing. Writing is emotionally and mentally taxing, but, like childbirth, once you've finished something you forget the anxiety and second-guessing and emotionally-fraught hours staring at computer screen willing the words to appear in the right order with the right sentiment. It's excruciating. I've actually taken to writing on paper for the first few drafts because it's easier somehow; it feels less permanent, or perhaps less official, when you're literally putting pen to paper and scribbling. Kind of like sketching before starting a painting.

Anyway, I'm in that lovely afterglow when a piece is done for now. No doubt next Sunday I'll be back at the coffee shop, silently cursing all of the screaming toddlers and chatting mothers, wringing my hands over how to say what I really want to say, and wishing I'd never actually agreed to do this stupid project. But I never could keep my big mouth shut, so I'll just close it now and enjoy my bliss while it lasts.

So, I've been working on this project for work for a while. Like, upwards of 2.5 years. It's not really a project as in client work, but more of a "hey, you are smart, try your hand at this and see what happens" type of extracurricular work. And it's been slow going. So much so that I've had at least 3 different people try to help me, and we've all gotten frustrated. The problem is, the brief in the beginning was nebulous at best, the topic is thorny, and, because I'm working weeks where I'm billing 71 hours sometimes, the last thing I want to do is come home and crack open my laptop again to work on this thing. And all it really is is a few written pages. It's gotten to the point where it stresses me out that this thing isn't done. I have dreams about it. This is truly procrastination at its finest.

About six weeks ago the CEO of my company was in town and we sat down to discuss this project. It seems that he's really keen to have it done (he doesn't know how long its been in the works, thank god). So we chatted, and suddenly the brief became a lot clearer (if not completely different), and so lately I've had a renewed interest in finishing the damn thing. I wrote an outline a month ago, and have been playing with a draft of the piece ever since. But today I stole the Irishman's laptop, marched to Euphorium, and wrote it. The whole sodding thing. In 2.5 hours. And I feel good. I just logged into my work email and sent it to the relevant parties with a plan for finishing it, and it's like 2 stone have just been lifted off my shoulders.

It's funny, because "real" writing (not this blog, because this is just stream of consciousness when I get around to it), like papers, articles, and reports, is really hard for me. I've been told I'm good at it, but the practice of sitting down and putting thoughts down is really hard. I liken it to giving birth, though I've not experienced that and I assume it's much more physically painful than writing. Writing is emotionally and mentally taxing, but, like childbirth, once you've finished something you forget the anxiety and second-guessing and emotionally-fraught hours staring at computer screen willing the words to appear in the right order with the right sentiment. It's excruciating. I've actually taken to writing on paper for the first few drafts because it's easier somehow; it feels less permanent, or perhaps less official, when you're literally putting pen to paper and scribbling. Kind of like sketching before starting a painting.

Anyway, I'm in that lovely afterglow when a piece is done for now. No doubt next Sunday I'll be back at the coffee shop, silently cursing all of the screaming toddlers and chatting mothers, wringing my hands over how to say what I really want to say, and wishing I'd never actually agreed to do this stupid project. But I never could keep my big mouth shut, so I'll just close it now and enjoy my bliss while it lasts.

Guys, I'm so looking forward to this weekend - I'm going to Brighton! But I'm slightly fearful of how I'm getting there: The Irishman and I are participating in the London-Brighton bike ride.

70 miles. On my bike. Which is sort of falling apart. Eeps!

If you have any tips of things to do in Brighton once (if) I make it there, let me know!

I had a special treat on Friday when one of my colleagues took me and my team to The Barbican for lunch. For non-Londoners, The Barbican is a 1960s-era housing complex in between Clerkenwell and The City. It's regarded as one of the UK's most successful urban communities, and a testament to poured concrete architecture, but it's also damn ugly. I've walked, run, rode, driven past it thousands of times and vaguely thought about how there is a cinema and theatre inside, but ended up reestablishing just how cold and forbidding it looks. So when a colleague suggested our team head over there to get lunch and see an exhibit, I was curious as to what just lay inside the imposing towers.

Well! The Barbican is totally worth the inevitability that you will get lost while wandering through its lanes. It is a massive housing complex that has a cultural center inside, with art galleries, cinema, theatre, restaurants, bars, and just really cool spaces. There is a man-made lake with a terrace where you can sit and gaze on St Giles church. The whole experience reminded me of the old Tomorrow Land in Disney World, but with a much better end result.

And the exhibit? Totally awesome. John Bock is mental - I loved his creation of pod living spaces and a transportable home that takes the Clampetts overburdened vehicle to the next imaginary level. His attention to detail in decorating his living spaces and fashioning living basics made the whole exhibit more of anthropological extrapolation than a work of art, though he apparently enters his pods at certain points in the day and interacts with the audience which I would love to see.

So if you find yourself in The City and fancy a cup of coffee and some culture, wander to the Barbican. I guarantee that you'll find it both amazing and (literally) impossible to escape.