Chilly!

Considering autumn began circa July this year, it is hardly surprising that bleak mid-winter has arrived already.

Mr E and I have been house-hunting all weekend, having sold our flat (subject to contract, I might add - the solicitor in me flinches every time someone announces that they have sold their home when in fact they have accepted an offer). We left for a 3pm viewing at about 2.30pm yesterday and the street lamps were just coming on. Streams of cars, crept along the flooded streets, fog lights blazing. From that point, all sense of day and night went out of the window. My circadian rhythms were so skewed that I began to crave supper, even though I had just had lunch. When I got home, just after 4, I went to bed.

Which brings me onto the difficult question of what to wear to work at this time of year. Me and my inner eco-warrior walk to work, which is a good 20 minute schlep, along a very long, open road, that seems to channel most south westerly winds as they hit the UK. Such a journey necessitates a strong pair of shoes and a thick coat. I arrive at the office windswept and literally glowing with exertion ("you look healthy" my secretary remarks, meaning that I look a complete mess). I maintain a cosy, yet diminishing temperature for the next half an hour, when the air-con suddenly kicks in and I reach for my suit jacket. The rest of the day follows a predicable pattern of adding and then removing layers as I move from one part of the office to the other. The British formality of talking about the weather ascends to new heights in my office. We rarely discuss the weather outside (Outside! What is this mysterious place you refer to?). No, we discuss the micro-climate weather systems which sweep throughout our floor. "Ooh, its cold over here at the moment, I can definitely feel a draught". "No, actually I'm just right". "Ooh, well you're usually cold, so if you feel just right, it must be warm" and so on.

Of course, nothing prepares you for the shock of leaving in the dark to find that it is twenty degrees lower outside, or worse still, twenty degrees higher.

Bread, cheese and thermal waters

As I type this this I am picking at two large hunks of warmed sun dried tomato bread, filled with squishy ripened baby plum tomatoes roasted with rosemary, balsamic and sea salt, some roasted red onion from my father in law's garden, generous chunks of Godminster Organic Cheddar (just on the point of melting) and a slug of extra virgin olive oil. It is essentially a cheese and tomato sandwich, but oh what a cheese and tomato sandwich...

I would like to boast that this sort of simple rustic snack is the norm in the Ms E household, but I would be lying. My current craze for locally sourced and ultra delicious peasant-inspired grub is a knee-jerk reaction to my afternoon at the Taste of Bath Festival on Friday.

The mother and I had spent the morning floating around the Thermae Bath Spa (which my friend S, who is into Latin and all that, informs me literally means "Bath Bath Spa"). The rain had kindly stopped for long enough for us to take to the rooftop pool and enjoy the views across the city, while we tried to resist the urge to swim so as not to undo the pervasive sense of relaxation. An hour and a half of bobbing around and half an hour of sweating in the magnificent steam rooms later, we wandered over to the Royal Victoria Park looking up towards the even more magnificent Royal Crescent, where a large area had been fenced off for the food festival.

Having spent £12 each to get in, we were determined to quaff as many freebies as possible. We were not disappointed. We knocked back a vast array of thimbles of wines and spirits, including a rather nice capirina and a surprisingly enjoyable toffee vodka. Add to the equation freshly baked bread, handmade chocolates, strawberries in balsamic, cheese with beetroot and apple chutney amd we were ready for a nap. We watched the excellent Richard Bertinet demonstrating how to make Fougasse, unfortunately missed Michael Caines' demonstration, but made up for it by spotting a rather svelte-looking Wozza scrutinising a set of Japanese knives.

The sun shone, Brazilian musicians played Bossa Nova. The only thing lacking was meat. As a vegetarian this didn't ruin my day, but I was under instructions from Mr E to bring him back something I thought he "might like". This is Mr E-speak for meat, and unfortunately there was very little to be had at the festival. In the end the mother and I popped into Chandos Deli on George Street to pick up some Pastrami for the poor fella.

So, I now have a cupboard full of cheese, chutney (spiced gooseberry and corriander - delicious), jam, breads and pastries. I have just worked out that my cheese and tomato sandwhich cost £15 to make. Still, it is nice to get out in the sunshine and share good food once in a while. The only problem is that the cheese is very more-ish. I may need another trip to the spa.

Decorating

Mr E and I have just finished painting our hallway.

Our flat was a new build when we bought it three years ago, and this is the first time we have painted since we moved in. The old paint was, shall we say "cheap" and somewhat reminiscent of that classroom shade of magnolia - not a look we were keen to hold on to.

It all started last weekend at B&Q. After spending the best part of half an hour considering dozens of colours, all of which could be described as "beige", we finally agreed on "almost oyster" in a silk finish.

Our, shall we say, "bijou" hallway didn't take very long to paint - I knew there were benefits to be had from such a small flat!

Here is the finished result, with photos we took in New York (a first wedding anniversary present to ourselves) hanging up:

I Wish We had One of Those in Cardiff (Part I)

Just back from a couple of days in London. The hotel was ok (although it claimed to be 4* but felt more like a 3, and was supposed to be in South Kensington, but was definitely Earls Court). More importantly, the Event for which I was there went very well.

Mr E and I found ourselves with a day to kill on Friday, before getting the train back to Cardiff in the afternoon. We had decided the day before to go to Tate Modern to ride the slides (erm, sorry, to appreciate the art). Unfortunately neither of us managed to remember to set our alarms on Thursday night so, come Friday morning, I was in a mood with Mr E for not setting his alarm, he was in a mood with me for being in a mood with him and...well, you get the picture. We stormed onto the tube , me defiant that the queues would be impossibly long and him defiant that we were going to go anyway.

By the time we got to London Bridge, we were at that stage in the argument where each of us wanted to be at least ten metres away from the other. Cue, me sitting outside Tate Modern twenty minutes later, with Mr E nowhere in sight. I went inside to establish that, yes, the queues were too long, at which point Mr E arrived outside Tate Modern, with me nowhere to be seen.

Several narky phone calls later and Mr E and I finally found each other beside the Golden Hind in Southwark. Mr E announced that he had seen a "nice looking farmer's market type place" and wanted some breakfast. I was beyond arguing any more so followed him around the corner.

The market in question was actually Borough Market http://www.boroughmarket.org.uk/
It was also possibly one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. Rainbows of the freshest, brightest fruit and vegetables stretching as far as the eye could see (many of which I had never seen before). Bakers' stalls piled with stacks of baguettes, bloomers and ciabattas. Cheese stalls which smelled like french delicatessens. Fish counters, shining silver in the dim light. Even as a vegetarian I was captivated by the vibrant braces of pheasants hanging merrily next to a headless deer.

There is very little you cannot get at Borough Market. For a moment I felt a pang of jealousy towards the city workers just over the river who had all of this within such easy reach. I imagined what it must be like pitch up and do all your shopping there each week. Then I remembered that those city workers probably had barely enough time to order their shopping online from Waitrose every week.

I came away with a loaf of rye bread, an avocado which was just the right side of overripe and some award-winning haggis sausages for Mr E. Call it a peace offering.

A tough week...and treating oneself

Have you ever had one of those weeks where everything you touch turns to shit?. Well, this has been one of those weeks.

I won't bore you with the details (and believe me, they are very boring) but needless to say that I managed a total of 1 lunch break all week (not bad going compared so some weeks, I admit) and every night was punctuated with "nocturnal moments" (lawyer-speak for waking at about 3am bathed in cold sweat at the thought of what might go wrong on one of your files).

Three-completions-at-five-to-five-on-a-Friday later and it is, at last, the weekend! I almost don't know what to do with myself I am so excited at the thought (although an early dinner out with Mr E, followed by Ugly Betty is a good start).

This week has got me thinking about the need to compensate oneself after a hard week. I remind myself that if I want to earn the money I earn, I have to accept some degree of stress. Fair enough. But that makes it even more important to treat yourself when you can.

My "compensation" began mid-week (during my one and only lunch break) when I took myself off to Howells. I often while away the odd (or should that be rare?) lunch hour in Howells. It is probably my favourite shop in Cardiff and almost makes you forget about the total lack of high end shops in what is meant to be a capital city.

Anyway, I was browsing in the Origins section, admiring the lovely-smelling things, when I fell into the radar of possibly the friendliest sales assistant I have ever had the good fortune to meet. I got away fairly lightly, with just a tube of White Tea Skin Guardian - and a whole bunch of freebies. It was a relatively small purchase, but it has given me such pleasure. I have been stroking my now baby-soft face with an (albeit fleeting) sense of yogic calm for the past three days.

Now, I don't advocate spending beyond your means, but I am a strong believer in saving to buy really lovely things every now and then. Almost everyone has their "essential luxuries". These are, of course, entireley personal - one person's basic, is another person's luxury, is another person's idea of hell.

For what it's worth, my essential luxuries are:

Monthly scalp massages at St David's Spa
Good chocolate from Charbonnel et Walker (Prestat is also good - although I would never turn my nose up at a bar of good old Cadbury's)
Proper cheese (a little of which goes a long way)
Anything from Fortnum & Mason
Aveda Shampoo and Shower Gel
Liz Earle and Origins skincare
Beautiful jewellery from wherever you find it

It almost makes it all worth it...

Conference Weirdness

I have spent much of the past week languishing in a hotel "oop-north" with 50 of my colleagues. It was the usual thing: Arrive late at night after a full day at work and a five hour journey and then don't so much as look out of the window, let alone go outside for two or three days. Apparently we had some bad weather this week, which I completely missed as a result of my imprisonment.

What is it about conferences that make twenty and thirty-something professional men think they are 17 again? I go to a few of these sort of events every year and every night without fail, the men will go out on the lash. Cue two dozen twenty five to thirty five year olds running amok around the hotel at 3am knocking on residents' doors "for fun" and vomiting in plant pots.

The next day the lads huddle as close to the door as possible, occasionally popping out "for some air" or "to take an important call from the office". Their eyes are bloodshot. Some even fall asleep on the table in front of them (or in the toilet). They are faced with the overwhelming urge to go back to bed and order room service. Yet in a sado-masochistic twist they must sit through seven hours of discussions on the VAT treatment of a lease surrender for a reverse premium. Hah!

I always think these sorts of events have an air of Big Brother about them (the Channel 4 show, that is). You are cooped up with a group of people you hardly know, you have no contact with the outside world, and are made to carry out all manner of strange tasks. On the down side (yes, it gets worse) you don't have the chance to vote anyone off and the chances of OK Magazine offering you a six-figure deal for your story are slim.

Still, at least you don't have to do the washing up.

Socialite Rank

I have come across the most entertaining US website: http://www.socialiterank.com

Socialite Rank is a sophisticated blog charting the highs and lows of the competitive New York social circuit. Nobody knows who is behind the site, which has led to much speculation across the pond. One featured socialite has reportedly even hired a private investigator to unveil the person(s) responsible, without success.

The busy socialites are rigorously assessed and ranked each month on the basis of the following stringent criteria:

1. Personal styles and designer relations (1-20 pts)
2. Press coverage in major publications and gossip columns (10 pts)
3. Appearances and commitment to events (10pts)
4. Hot factor- what makes each of the individuals sizzle with personality (10 pts)

What strikes me the most having read the articles (and especially the public comments which follow them) is how utterly obsessed the US appears to be with class. Discussions about what shoes one socialite wore to a fundraiser quickly turn into heated and venomous debates about whether their "breeding" befits their wealth and who their great great grandfather was.

My initial reaction to Socialite Rank was that the US were far more obsessed with class than the British. Otherwise, why would they be making such a fuss about it? In this country, for my generation at least, there is very little talk about class. But then it occurred to me that maybe that is because an awareness of class is so ingrained in us that we do not even need to discuss it; we just know it. You either have a title or you don't and that was probably settled hundreds of years ago. End of story. It reminds me of that sketch with John Cleese, Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett. We know our place. However, most of us also know that it doesn't matter. Success and class do not go hand in hand.

In the US the upper class is new and competition for the mantle of "aristocracy" is hot. The criteria are very much based on the notion of "old money" which, of course, compared to British old money, is new money. Without the aid of hereditary titles, 21st Century Americans are left to work (or fight) it out for themselves: hence sites like Socialite Rank. Much of US Class is based upon entrepreneurial wealth and there are a lot of wealthy entrepreneurs in the US. The problem, which Socialite Rank highlights so beautifully, is whether the descendants of an entrepreneur 100 years ago are to be considered more highly-bred than the children of an entrepreneur of the 1980s. The existing class system in the UK, of course, has had hundreds of years to mature, or fester, and so has much less to do with wealth. In 21st Century Britain you can be Richard Branson's daughter, but that will not make you an aristocrat. In the US being heir to an oil fortune or hotel chain might just get you in the door.

In the UK you get the odd aristo seeking a bit of celebrity every now and then (think Lady Victoria Hervey) and of course you get the odd celeb with delusions of aristocratic grandeur (think Victoria Beckham)- Their lives may be equally privileged, but each one knows on which side their bread is buttered, and so do we. In the US they would both be battling it out for the Socialite Rank Silver Spoon Award.

Ultimately, of course, your class doesn't make any difference if you are successful (take the Victorias above). As Imelda Marcos once said “‘Nouveau riche’ is better than ‘no riche’”.