Sunday Afternoons

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

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.

Nottingham

On Thursday night, post work, Mum, Dad and I jump in the car, drive to Nottingham. We arrive late, venture out for dinner. It is dark and cold, damp, and the streets seem to be full of packs of men, some possibly students, some not, drunk and loud and vaguely intimidating at worst, simply unpleasant at best. But on Friday, still grey and cold, we explore the city, and I find much to like. The Nottingham Contemporary an amazing gallery, the purpose of our visit - Dad, an architect, wants to see the building - concrete and modern but imprinted with the pattern of Nottingham lace. I like the contrast. The exhibitions are good, Anne Collier's photographs, Jack Goldstein's installations and acrylics. Tucked away in a small room, we stumble upon John Newling's Miracle Trees, find the artist himself there, tending the saplings, start talking to him. I am hooked, fascinated by this amazing plant that I have never before heard of, that has huge nutritional value, is able to purify water and possesses medicinal qualities. We have lunch at Delilah's, a deli near the gallery, goat's cheese, honey and pecan nut sandwich, a choice of bread. Rows and rows of jars, jams and spreads, olives, fresh meat, cheese, baked goods, friendly staff. My kind of place. Tea and something sweet in The Walk Cafe, exotic tea blends (I have Nosy Be, because of the Madagascar connection, black tea with peach and vanilla, divinely scented) huge slices of sponge, light as a feather, glorious golden yellow in colour. Lemon sponge for Mum, blueberry sponge for me, and Dad has the carrot cake. The china is mostly floral and mismatched, and again I feel at home. Later we explore the vintage shops (including here and here) and charity shops, I buy a few things, lust after others, lots of great stuff on offer, and much cheaper than in London. In the evening we eat at The Larder on Goosegate in the original Boots the chemist, wonderful atmosphere, all candlelight and chandeliers dripping with cut glass, fans beating lazily up above. I eat a vegetarian Shepherd's Pie, brown lentils topped with cheesy mash, perfect to ward off the cold outside. It is the Nottingham Light Night, a festival of light installations across the city, and we stumble across a few of these, my favourite being a human jukebox in an old trailer. True Grit at the cinema, which I enjoy, but am not blown away by. Saturday we drive back South via Melton Mowbray, the pork pies for which it is famous go unappreciated by this family of vegetarians, but the charity shops are good and there are fat bunches of red tulips for £1 each at the market which is packing up for the day. I buy two bunches, fill a jug with them when I return home. Sunday I breakfast on grapefruit, hit the Clerkenwell Vintage Fashion Fair again with Anna, then retreat indoors again, away from the drizzle and the seemingly constant grey, chop onions and measure out spices for Dal, let its turmeric dyed depths putter away on the hob as I get into my pyjamas, pull on a cardigan, tuck myself away from the February night.

Coloured cotton, green shoots

I go to Norfolk at the weekend after another busy week, the theatre on Monday, a failed attempt to see Sofia Coppola's Somewhere (broken projector) on Wednesday, pizza with C instead, uneaten popcorn under the table, another supper club on Thursday with H, this time South of the river at Rosie's Deli in Brixton, most delicious rice pudding I have ever eaten, and Rosie and Steph are lovely. Hopping on a train Friday afternoon, stepping out onto a darkened platform, wind gusting, tugging at my hair, whipping the trees, Dad there to meet me, pulling up the drive to a bright kitchen, Mum, cups of tea. Norwich on Saturday to see S, my sister, smoothies at Giraffe, catching up on her exploits, losing track at romance situation number 3. Meeting Mum and Dad later, all of us heading to the cinema, Brighton Rock, the new adaptation, powerful, gripping, and wonderful lead performances, but I think it helps that I have just read the book and am able to project all the complex, tortured internal monologues of characters onto every half gesture, sneered remark. I must watch the original film too. Driving back to London Sunday night feeling almost homesick. And tucked around all this, the rest of the weekend, signs of life in the garden, winter leeks, grey-green, purple sprouting broccoli that I scoured for caterpillars last summer, earthworms, pink, in the compost bin, clusters of snowdrops under the apple trees, rhubarb, emerging, mossy walls, bright green. Shoots in the conservatory, hyacinths in glass jars. Sewing machine out in the kitchen, using fabric from the Liberty sale to make tiny cushions, and Muji handkerchief featuring old New York backed with velvet from an old skirt to make a large one. Lychees, dusky pink, sticky juice, Madagascar scented.

Hello to everyone who has joined me from here and a massive thank you to Jeska for the link - which means so much to me as Lobster and Swan was one of the first blogs I truly got hooked on, and got me through many a dull hour at a post-graduation temp-job.