Full on midnight

So here i am - it's late at night and the pictures look good. Tomorrow I'm planning Sunday lunch but tonight we're taking pictures for fun. It's London and it's MTV and it's late and it's one more tune...More posting tmw. Find me on Twitter in the meantime. baby. xxx

So over snow

The snow at the beginning of the week was lushly beautiful. A bright white light that lasted into the night when it reflected the moon on slivers of tree branches. The world stopped still - no buses, no trains, no people, just a few snowmen. ("All of which have cans of lager in their hands - you've got to love Acton," a friend wrote to me.)

But in town, the disadvantage of snow took the romantic edge off it pretty quick. No work, no school. No rubbish collections, no post. Every meeting backed up and everyone feeling weirdly like it's christmas again and consequently unable to work properly at all. Frozen dog turds. Pavements of solid ice. Sandy grit that melts the snow to sludge and has the colour and texture of sick. Hunter wellies look frankly ridiculous in town and harrassed men are at the local swimming pool wondering what the hell they're doing there on a Tuesday afternoon instead of being nice and cosy at work. Snow is for the countryside. Vast white landscapes that make us think of Russia, vodka and philosophy (I've been reading Kafka this week, which turned out to be beautifully timed with with the weather).

Still, it could be worse. It will be much harder to be depressed about the recession when it's summer. Let's see how we cope then...

Nuts vs The Economist

I sat on the tube today next to an oversized, odorous man reading a copy of Nuts magazine. What exactly is the point of Nuts? The editors would no doubt say it's a one-size-fits-all mag with everything in it a bloke wants; cars, football and boobs. But really, it's about the boobs, isn't it? If a bloke wanted to know more about cars and football, he'd buy GQ or Exchange & Mart or Goal! (is there a magazine called Goal! - ? There should be). So who it's for is men who want to look at boobs while sitting next to repulsed women on the tube. Or for men who can't reach the top shelf. Whateva, girlfriend. I was suitably repulsed. And here's the thing. On my right was a man reading the Economist. He didn't smell but was also grey-haired and wearing specs. But guys - if I had to choose, it would be the Economist reader every time. Ditch the Nuts.

Monday morning

Right. I'm pledging to myself that I will write and update this blog regularly, using the same discipline employed when i was doing my Country Life 'Town Mouse' column. Eg, under duress and on a Monday morning. Hah.

This weekend, I learned that Cockneys call a prostitute a 'tom' (thanks to Eastenders) and that we should always look on the bright side of life (thanks to Eric Idle). Aside from watching the telly box, I managed to get outside too. Got up close and personal with Prince Albert - his blingtastic memorial to be exact. I'd never noticed before that the four corner pillars which each represent a continent (Europe, Asia, Americas and Africa) all have beautiful, big-bosomed women as the main characters. Wifey Victoria clearly knew what her man liked.

Then walked to the Serpentine Gallery, which has a pretty terrible exhibition on - Indian Highway - bar one exhibit in a tiny room with lots of battered tiffin cans hanging from the straps in a train carriage, some of which have little tv screens in them showing interviews with people on the streets and headphones hanging everywhere at full volume. A brilliant image of India combining the old and new and masses of noise with it. But even better was the bookshop, an afterthought at the side of the building and crammed with beautiful books. I bought my favourite book ever: a colouring-in book for grown-ups with drawings by Marc Quinn, Damien Hirst and the like.

Yesterday - a walk on Wormwood Scrubs (which feels like being in a film written by Rachel Johnson but directed by Mike Leigh - the vast prison on one side, a Cash 'n' Carry on the other and posh women in Hunter wellies and fur hats walking their terriers in-between) and the rest a haze of newspapers, roast chicken and Rummikub. Great.

Black tie on the tube

Went to the Walpole Luxury Awards last night - well, to the drinks beforehand. Award ceremonies are only fun if they are stuffed with famous faces, or you're up for one yourself. Being neither, the BF and I snuck out after two glasses of champagne and a mini hamburger (exceptionally good). It was held in the noisy antechamber of the Banqueting Hall - you could hardly hear a word anyone was saying. But that's OK because at the moment there's only one conversation doing the rounds: "How's it going for you then?" "Oh, OK - it's tough you know - waiting to see what happens next year...". No one talks of anything else. Anyway - it reminded me of the time I saw on the tube just a few weeks ago two middle-aged men in black tie travelling from Holland Park to Liverpool St. At one point a ticket inspector came round and they asked him what time the last tube was. Would there be one at around 2am? Of course they didn't know - they've always been able to take taxis from their houses to the City for their bank's shindigs and now they have to get public transport. Rather like the judge who, presiding over a case for which the setting was on the bus, decided to take one home himself to see what it was like. When asked by the conductor where he was going, he replied: "Number 42 Eaton Square, please."

Past Imperfect

My uncle Julian's novel, Past Imperfect, was launched on Tuesday night. As the book is set in 1968 and 2008, we were invited to dress accordingly. In the end, his wife Emma had the best outfit of the night (as I knew she would), with a bright pink bobbed wig and a pink and black chequered PVC mini-dress. I wore a black and white pop-art dress, had my hair done up a la Amy Winehouse and stuck on huge false eyelashes that make one feel as if curtains are half-drawn across the eyes. There was a big turnout - Christopher Cazenove and his lovely girlfriend Isobel, Hermione Norris, Harriet Walter, Princess Michael of Kent, Freddie Windsor, Cristina Odone, Lady Apsley (who I had interviewed the day before for the Telegraph, oddly enough) and lots of old friends whom I hadn't seen for ages, which was a delight. Blue Strawberry did the yummy ca-naps, and we drank every drop of champagne. Afterwards, a few of us went to supper at the Sloane Square Hotel and I sat opposite J's publisher, apparently a legend of Wiedenfeld & Nicholson, and now semi-retired. He's just finishing a biog on Alan Clarke and I have a feeling he told me some really good stories but I can't remember them. I don't know what it is about me - whether my conscience is just too good for keeping secrets but the next day all I can ever remember is someone saying: "You mustn't repeat this to anyone but...." and then my mind goes blank. Damn.

Last night was upstairs in the "petting room" of new members' club at Quo Vadis. Huge sofas and tv, brown shrimps on toast and endless glasses of crisp white wine. We watched the election special and I wanted to throw my shoe at Jeremy Paxman and his patronising interview with Dizzee Rascal ("hip hop won the election"). JP said, "well, why don't you run for office then?" and SMIRKED. Git. But aside from that - total, absolute happiness at Obama's election. It's a JFK moment for our generation.

Owner Eddie Hart came up and had some fish pie with us and later, when we snuck out for a cig break, Eddie introduced me to my distant cousin Robert, Lord Fellowes. Isn't life marvellous?

Country Life bigs up da Mud

http://www.countrylife.co.uk/culture/article/279788/Mud_and_the_City.html

From mud to tarmac

A little bit ironic that as soon as my book is out - MUD & THE CITY: DOs AND DON'Ts FOR TOWNIES IN THE COUNTRY - we have decided to give up the country house. It was just too blimming cold (see blogs passim) and so expensive to heat (oil tank) that buying a new fur coat every week would have been cheaper (and warmer, probably as fur coats tend not to have draughts coming from above and below).

So. Now I'm hunkering down in the London flat and will continue to blog on City stuff. We're still venturing to the country now and then (staying tonight in the very lovely Stapleford Park hotel in Leics). I'll report back on any rustic sightings.

In the meantime, enjoy a couple of links and attachments I'm posting up here. And do get a copy of the book - at £9.99 it's a great stocking filler!!

Run, pheasant, run, run, run

The Man clipped the wings of a young cock pheasant last Saturday night and dutifully finished it off quickly (he doesn't shoot, so easier said than done). Got it home and plucked and gutted it immediately. I roasted it (salt and pepper, streaky bacon on the top, with potatoes and parsnips in the tin too) and served it up with buttered curly kale and steamed carrots. It was delicious. I don't particularly love pheasant, but as this was younger and hadn't been hung, the meat was plump and tasty. Roadkill, who'd have thunk?

Party on

We had the book launch last week - at Julie's in Holland Park. What you might call a rip-roaring success. All three authors launched in one night (Mud & The City, plus Cupboard Love by Laura Lockington and The Tail of Augustus Moon by Melanie Whitehouse) and the publisher, Book Guild, supplied plentiful bellinis and kir royales to keep us bubbling. Daily Mail gave it a mention on the Richard Kay page the next day. And now we just hope that word -of-mouth spreads the good, muddy word...

Radio ga-ga

Huge fun going on the radio yesterday. Only problem was I forgot to say why country people should buy the book. So just to clarify - the reason is: to give to your townie friends! Keep a copy in the spare bedroom so your townie cousins can fit in better and not step in the cowpats.

BBC Radio Suffolk

Very exciting. Am going on Luke Deal's show on BBC Radio Suffolk at 2.20pm today - will update later on how it went. Plus am being interviewed for East Anglia Daily News next week! Local author fame at last!!

Fourth day in the Big Brother house

...well, not quite -but fourth day in the Cottage. I came down here on Saturday - it's now Tuesday - and I've been very happy. Rearranged the bedroom, cleaned everything up, made a proper desk for myself in front of the dining-room window. Thinking I might set up a little bird table just outside so that I can enjoy the distraction of their twitters. Been hanging out with the kids, cooking and playing. I have barely left the drive, bar for a couple of short walks.

So this afternoon I thought I'd better go to town and get some shopping (and send off the postal order for my ebay Jimmy Choo boots - yayayaya!). I said to S: "I haven't been out of the house since Saturday." He looked at me. I was wearing: red moon boots on my feet (it's cold inside), bright blue jeans, pale grey cashmere mix hoodie, which is moulting on to my brown vest top and the final flourish - a tape measure around my neck. No make-up, mad country hair.

He said: "It looks like it."

Scruffy toffs or just scruffy in the country?

V amusing piece in the Mail today by the wife of the F***ing Fulford. It's a response to the pic of Rachel Johnson that has apparently caused outrage around the country - she was photographed in her country home in a supremely scruffy sitting-room, with wellies on indoors, unhoovered rug by fire, sleeping bag as a 'throw' on armchair (itself with stuffing threatening to burst out any second), old LPs haphazardly on the shelf etc.

Mrs Fulford (Lady Fulford? Whatever) defends this position and explains that toffs love scruff - it's more comfy, it's nicer for the dogs, it's less work and why would you ever take your boots off when you're going to go outside shortly anyway?

I can testify to this - I think it's less about being toff than country though. In my flat in London, I polish the bathroom mirror and the glass sideboard at least every other day, I hoover as soon as the carpet needs it (ie almost every time I look at it), I make the bed beautifully even when it's only me that's going to see it, washing up is never left in the bowl and cushions are fluffed and magazines, tv remote controls etc put away every night before going to bed. If I feel the slightest bit of chill, the heating is whacked on and I have an immersion boiler so that I can have as much hot water as I want, whenever I want it. I have an electric blanket on my bed and if I want to switch it on in July, I damn well do. When I go out, which is most every night, I am dolled up to the nines with freshly washed hair and clean, ironed clothes.

In the country there is no heating on between May and October and even then it's on as little as possible, Him-Indoors (country and quite toff) would rather we just huddled closer to the fire (see blog passim for notes on being scorched on one side, frozen on the other). Anyone who complains of the cold is told to put on another jumper. He positively relishes a cold bed with maybe just the feel of burning rubber from a hot water bottle on snowy nights. I never take my wellies off if I can help it. The hoovering is done when I feel like it (ie almost never). It only really comes out when the cobwebs threaten to obscure the walls completely and we have to suck up all the spiders.

My bath in the morning is always 'grey' - I go second (my bf likes it hotter than me so he goes first) - which saves time and water. We don't use the timer for hot water as that might heat up more than we need and uses up the precious oil - we just switch the immersion on for an hour (and boil kettles to do the washing up). Needless to say, there is no hot water to wash your hands at any point in the day. I never dust - don't be silly. I once bought special cloths for cleaning mirrors and was asked "what fool spends money on this sort of thing?" and they have consequently only been used once.

Dogs come to the house and are welcome everywhere - especially on the sofa (but I say no to the bed). The favourite house game is indoor cricket. The same clothes are worn for at least three days in a row - my bf even favouring the shirt/jumper-in-one combo for dressing with ease. Socks are maybe given an airing overnight - hanging out of the bathroom window - but still worn the next day. My hair is unruly and far too curly and I have no inclination to iron anything worn beyond the M25. We never go out anyway.

I wouldn't have one without the other - they are both bliss in their own way. But there's no question that my life in the country is much more 'green'. We are considering a permanent move....watch this space.

Blackberries and carnivals

Not to be smug - just a tad, perhaps - but had one of those idyllic weekends: long walks in the sunshine through a beauteous village and its surrounding woods. Then blackberry picking - collecting a haul big enough to attempt Ramsay's blackberry meringue pie (not picture perfect result but still delish). Even made home-made beetroot soup too. Lazed, ate, read the papers. Finally reached the end of being on holiday or even wanting to be. So got the train back to London on Monday night. Couldn't have come home to a greater contrast: the tail end of the Notting Hill Carnival. We waded against the groups of revellers wendin their own way home and felt quite left out without a joint in one hand and a can of Stella in the other. An impromptu disco was taking place on the pavement by my flat and I had to push past a crowd of Japanese tourists sitting on the front steps. By 11pm the party was over, bar a few stragglers shouting drunkenly and the odd tooting horn. The next morning the streets were cleaned, although there was a broken bottle of wine and a thousand fag ends on the steps. Ah, home sweet home.

Aristo outrage

Update on the below. Since that bbq, I wrote a piece for the Telegraph on sex and horses (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/portal/main.jhtml?xml=/portal/2008/07/30/fthorse130.xml) and mentioned the Happy Valley story.
Turns out, someone in the village emailed the story link to EVERYONE and they all know it's me. I'm half expecting to find a cross painted on the front door. Actually, apparently they all find it pretty funny....apart from the local aristo who is apparently furious with me. So I don't think I'll be asked to cut the ribbon for the local fete anytime soon....

Happy Valley

On a rare night out in the country, l'homme and I went to a neighbourly bbq. It was classically British - we stood outside holding umbrellas and a makeshift cover for the fire was made with a stepladder and golf umbrella balanced over it and the back door. The best bit for me was meeting our fellow neighbours - the men talked to each other and the women stood under a tree chatting. The women were great - very strident and clearly the ones in charge. One said to me, "So, you're from London?" I looked aghast and said, "Oh no, have I given myself away with the wrong clothes? I thought I'd got it right!" (I was in brown boots, white loose jeans with pale blue stripes - which sounds revolting, but think OshKosh - and an old jumper.) Anyway, they were chatting about horses, as they do, gossiping about the pony club mothers who boss everyone about and I said that I really must get back to riding - I keep seeing streams of riders go past our door. Where do they all come from I asked? Is there a riding stables nearby I could go to for lessons? At this, they gasped, and one said: "You really don't know where you're living, do you? You're in Happy Valley." What's that? Is everyone on Ecstasy pills? No, apparently, our little corner of Suffolk is the meeting point for three hunts and the reason they are all so happy is that they have lots of wife-swapping parties and gossip about it ferociously afterwards. (No, I haven't been invited yet.)

Wife in the North

Am rather heartened this weekend - a townie in the country has just published a book, Wife in the North, about her own trials and tribulations for being a, er, townie in the country. She started off with a blog, which became an enormous hit, and now has a book and is in 'talks' about a tv drama being made out of it. Shows there's an appetite. As for my own book - the jacket has now gone to the printers. Not long, I hope, before I have the actual hard covers in my hot little hands. We've found a venue for the joint-book-launch party - the v lovely Julie's in Holland Park - and set a date for the launch. (I'd like to pretend otherwise, but really, the party is the best bit of publishing a book.)

Meanwhile...we're in the country. After weeks of procrastination we've finally cut the lawn (well, I say lawn, it's more of a steep bank of bumpy ground overrun by nettles, knotweed and some brown grass). A long walk this morning included one glorious narrow path cut through long fields of corn that is just beginning to turn gold. A single biplane flew overhead, making us feel as if we were in a film that had spliced together the Wizard of Oz and North by Northwest. I shall roast a chicken later and then draw the curtains on the blooming, bird-singing countryside in order to watch Wimbledon.

Country comes to the city

This has been around for a while....but it still makes me laugh:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9P0KFa8G4dw

Another wedding and a bit of polo

I feel proper country-like today. It's too cold to work in the house (aka The Freezer), and not quite warm enough to sit outside, although it's sunny. So I'm working today from the back of the Land Rover. Praise be to WiFi. Great weekend. Went to another country wedding - proper from-the-country this time. Beautiful tiny church with every inch of pew bedecked in summer flowers. Speeches that had us all sobbing. Supper was served by what appeared to be the local school dinner ladies (we all got told off for trying to have a bit of coronation chicken AND lasagne) but was hearty and delicious. And then a lot of bad dancing to the local mobile disco outfit. The only tricky bit was the annual perilous event of walking across country lawns in high heels - I decided you have to approach it a bit like a run across hot coals - never landing too heavily to bear the consequences.

Yesterday was the Vivari Queen's Cup at Guard's Polo Club. In the Royal Box, natch. Well, only to help set the table. Then a very exciting match between Sumaya (with one of the infamous Leguy brothers playing) against Ellerston (with legend Kerry Packer's son, Jamie, in shirt no.4), who won 10-9. The Queen was there in fetching raspberry but I was more distracted by Chris Evans sitting behind me and canoodling with his very attractive wife. Celebs. In the country. I know!