London Love: Maltby Street Market

Maltby Street, London

It is almost the weekend people. I have that wonderful Thursday night feeling, only a day between me and Friday 5pm. It has been a hectic week at work, tomorrow won't be any better, but just there, on the horizon, tantalizingly close, is the weekend.

So, what are your plans? Maybe you don't yet have any. Maybe you happen to be in London and have a window of opportunity on Saturday morning. If so, do this: head for Maltby Street market. Jump on the Jubilee line, get off at Bermondsey. Wander for a little bit, stumble upon market stalls and tiny shops in the railway arches and surrounding buildings. Buy a custard filled doughnut from St John Bakery. Drown in its deliciousness, the sugared batter, the creamy, vanilla flecked filling. Try to eat it slowly, elegantly. Fail. Buy an espresso from Monmouth Coffee, or if, like me, you don't drink coffee, watch other people get their morning fix, wish your overly developed sense of bitter didn't prevent you from participating. And then explore the rest of it. Open studios at the London Honey Company, beer tasting at The Kernel Brewery (which comes highly recommended), cheese from Neal's Yard Dairy amongst others. Bergamot lemons and blood oranges to brighten a winter's day. Shellfish and sausages, buffalo mozzarella and Bea's of Bloomsbury cupcakes.

When you're done, you may, just may, want to head up to Borough Market, Maltby's older, more popular sister, but only because you've got an addiction to this cheese and need a fix.

Sunday Afternoons

This time last week I'd just built a snowman.

January

January came and went surprisingly painlessly. Normally I find that it drags, slowly. Skiing for a week took a big chunk of it. Hard to feel low with the wide open sky and snow covered mountains. So that was part of it. But, also, January was filled with good things. Bloody Marys on a Sunday, a walk in Stoke Newington cemetery, pub roasts and dear friends. New friends too, river walks, post work drinks, tea rooms in old pet shops. Maltby Street market with one of my oldest and bestest, then the new White Cube gallery in Bermondsey. Friday nights out with the uni crowd, tapas then tiki, or in with spaghetti and friends made a year ago. Ceremonials pretty much on repeat on the ipod (And I am done with my graceless heart, so tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart). A breathtaking exhibition of the Scott Shackleton expedition photography, taken in too quickly one lunch break. Columbia Road flower market, which never disappoints. Walking home with the fattest bunch of Dutch tulips. Brunch at The Breakfast Club, pancakes stacked and syrup smothered, and at Dean Street Townhouse, Eggs Florentine, velvet covered seats and wonderful service. Cinema trips (Shame, The Iron Lady) and discovery of brilliant North London pubs.

No, January was not so very bad at all.

Mountains, snow

We got the Eurostar from St Pancras, to wake up in the mountains and the snow. Sounds romantic, is actually less so when you factor in the upright, uncomfortable seats, fellow passengers playing Eminem through speakers at 3am, the never-dimmed lights, waking every 45 mins because your back is seizing up (me) or not sleeping at all (M and the others).

But.

All of this does not change the fact that on a Friday night at 7pm you are boarding a train post-work at St Pancras, and Saturday morning at 7am, still dark, there is the crunch of snow under your feet and the cold, fresh scent of it in the air. And that by 11am you are on the slopes, a million miles away from the artificially lit-office and the post-Christmas, post-New Year blues.

I'm not a particularly hardcore or adventurous skier. I can get myself down a mountain, mostly, and sometimes even with some elegance. But I've never been a first lift up, last run down sort of girl. I like the breathtaking views. I like the peaceful moments on the chairlifts, sun on your face, the soporific swoosh of skiers down below. I like rushing down a slope you know well, fast, thinking about nothing but the moment, then stopping for a hot chocolate. I like the end of a good days skiing, peeling of the layers, toes slowly thawing, stepping into a hot shower, warmth and water enveloping you and an evening of good company and card games ahead.

There were six of us. We mostly skied together, sometimes skied apart. Developed in-jokes and nicknames for each other. Ate lunch on the mountainside. The snow was fantastic, the weather glorious. We took it in turns to cook in the evening, drank snow-chilled beer and wine and cider from the balcony. On the final night ate our weight in melted cheese and could barely move from the restaurant. I practised my poker face, worked my way through a trashy novel (oh Jilly, how you kill me with your similes!), re-read Atonement, tears streaming. It was a wonderful week, and it took a big chunk of January, which let's face it can otherwise be miserable, with it.

London Love: Bill's

St Martin's Courtyard off Longacre, WC2E 9AB

Bill's is good for breakfast. I have also been assured by friends that it is good for lunch and dinner too, but I started with breakfast, and it was goo-ood. Eggs Florentine, full English, porridge, French toast, juice, smoothies, Bloody Marys, take your pick, everything we ordered (and there were six of us) looked and tasted delicious. Okay, so we didn't order the porridge, it was a Sunday morning and a birthday breakfast for chrissake, but everything else was delicious and I am sure the porridge would have been too, had we been feeling a little more restrained.

Bill's also sell grocery items, and it is worth a visit for the beautifully stacked and wonderfully colourful shelves alone. Also, branches in Brighton (the original I think, never been, but told it's fab), Cambridge, Lewes and Reading, so if you are not a Londoner you can still get your fix.

Happy New Year Everybody

(Belatedly)

So, 2012. Here you are, wholeheartedly so. Aware that we are well into the New Year, that once again the photos are stacking up on my hard drive, the words tumbling over each in my head. But posting about things chronologically maintains some sort of order, so here you go.

New Year's Eve. What was meant to be a quiet dinner for stragglers turned into a party of sorts as numbers snowballed. There are always more stragglers than you anticipate at New Year. Always. We drank bubbly with rose petals, punch from the latest Bompas and Parr. Ate the food I had spent most of the day cooking, homemade hummus, baba ganoush, beetroot and walnut dip. Spanakopita. Ottolenghi's winter vegetable cous cous. Nigella's gleaming maple cheesecake.

At half past eleven, bundled on coats and scarves, sensible shoes, headed up to Primrose Hill for the stroke of midnight and the fireworks. Always my favourite moment. Not for me the the overcrowded London club on New Year's Eve, but rather this open space high above it all, city below, sky vast, horizon erratically lit up by fireworks, not just those on the river, but elsewhere too, people all over the city celebrating. Champagne from plastic cups, sparklers distributed to gloved hands, mud underfoot and grass slick with earlier rain.

In the morning, New Year's Day, just M and I, blueberry muffins, bagels. A long, long walk up to Hampstead Heath, spying a woodpecker in the trees and later, some of London's parakeets. Back down past Parliament Hill, Kentish Town, Camden, discarded Christmas trees looking sorrowful. Getting caught in the rain, running for the bus, holing up in the flat with soup and toast and television.

Happy 2012.