Monday, 20 April 2015


Food. You can't live with it, you can't live without it. Sorry, that's wrong, you can live with it, you HAVE to live with it. The five of us go through mountains of the stuff. As a family we must be at Optimum Food Consumption with boys who are now 18, 16 and 12. Particularly since the 18 year-old is still living at home with us, working full-time during his gap year.

We never have enough potatoes, bread, juice, milk, kitchen roll or shower gel. Don't ask me why the latter two, that's just the way it is. I reckon they stand in the shower, tipping gel bottles upside down while scratching around their nether regions, or something. Either that or they drink the stuff because we never have enough juice. And they must grab whole handfuls of kitchen roll to wipe their hands/feet/noses/unmentionables/spillages when my back is turned.

And guess whose responsibility it is to keep us stocked up with it all? Oh yes, muggins here. The truth is I feel like a failure if we run out of things they particularly need/like/want. I am programmed, like some sort of demented mother blue tit, with a desperate desire to sate their every need.

You want smoked salmon to go in that bagel, darling? Of course. It's an oily fish. It's packed with Omega 3. The instinct to feed the boy a high protein, low fat, super food he is actually requesting virtually tears me from the sofa by itself, as if my feet have been pre-programmed to take my reluctant body with them straight round to Tesco Express. No matter that I am tired because said boy came in at 3 am and woke me up. No matter that smoked salmon costs a King's ransom and that when I mention having to get some to my mother on the phone, she shrills: "Smoked salmon? That's for Christmas!" And she has a point.

In truth I flit from Tesco to Sainsbury's to Lidl to Waitrose, depending on where I happen to be at the time, in a never-ending and fruitless quest to keep the cupboards stocked. One big shop a week on a Friday (in Waitrose) is supplemented by three or four smaller ones during the week (Tesco Express, Lidl, sometimes Sainsbury's). Plus Husband visits the farmers' market every Saturday on his bike to buy meat and eggs. 

I shop til I drop because I dread, DREAD I tell you, the moment one of my fledglings declares his desire for something I cannot supply, especially if that desire is a healthy one. 

At the moment I cannot keep enough plums in the house, or deodorant, or blueberries. Middle One has gone all fussy over breakfast since I substituted the white bread he was using for cheese toasties with half and half (half white, half wholemeal, because white is SO BAD for him). Now he will only eat breakfast if I make him some homemade blueberry sauce to go on his pancake (oh yes, Youngest has pancake EVERY morning because he is skinny and we are trying to build him up, have been trying, as it happens, for about four years). And Middle One must eat a proper breakfast at the moment because he is 16. 16! Work it out for yourself. Exam season looms. He must be at peak performance, race-horse ready.

Right, so I can't linger here blathering on, we need some little gem lettuce for a salad tonight to go with the chicken risotto I plan to make with yesterday's leftover roast chicken. And we've run out of kitchen roll. Again.

Love E x


P.S. And I know kitchen roll is not environmentally friendly and shopping in Waitrose makes us sound obnoxious. I liked what Tim Dowling wrote about Waitrose last week, cut and paste it, it's funny -

Tuesday, 14 April 2015

Completely beside myself.

I have the zeal of the convert, the enthusiasm of the crusader, I am born again, bathed in the true light, or perhaps that should be the Paperwhite light? 

I never thought this could happen to me. I was a non-believer, an agnostic at best. I've always eschewed them, some of my best friends are Luddites, it took me years to throw out my leather-bound BBC Filofax, remember those? (But to be honest this was at least in part because I HAD a leather-bound BBC Filofax, from when I worked there millions of years ago). 

But now I have ripped it from its packet at last, from where it was languishing, rejected and unloved since Christmas when I rashly bought it as a present for Husband and it backfired spectacularly: "But you know I hate them, Elizabeth." I have appropriated it as my own, worked out how to use it, bought a book to read on it, read that book, and now I am completely in love with the Kindle. Sorry, the eReader (no branding here).

I know what I said. I know I said they are witchcraft. I know I said I like proper books: the feel of them, the smell of them, the swank of them. But you can't take proper books on holiday with you, can you? Not lots of them. You can't take a The Rough Guide to Herculaneum and Pompeii with you on the train from Sorrento alongside the novel you are currently reading and not have the combined weight of them in your handbag break your arm off as you walk around the best preserved Roman amphitheatre in Europe.

And there numerous other benefits I hadn't even thought of. I can turn up the font size so I don't need my reading glasses. I can continue reading my book even when the Captain says, "Crew, dim cabin lights for take-off".  I can instantly look up words I don't know the meaning of, like ithyphallic, (a prize to the lucky reader who can guess from this clue which book I am currently reading) and incidentally this is all very good news with regards to the book group of which I am currently a member, since recently I had been struggling to keep up with the reading.

This is in part because I had gone off reading books completely in favour of writing books and reading newspapers, which was in turn in no small part because reading books had become such a chore. And this, I now realise, was because of two critical factors: font size and availability. Sort out the font size, make the words HUGE, and it's a lot easier to read them even in the trickiest of conditions. Have the book with you at all times in your bag because it weighs next to nothing  and suddenly you can read it in places you wouldn't ordinarily have done so, like planes, trains and automobiles… or even downstairs.

I just read a book with a lot of fight scenes in it (this is not my usual choice of reading you understand, I was reading my brother's novel) and although I am sure lots of people LOVE books with fight scenes, they are not usually my cup of tea and with the Kindle I found I was able to read these bits quickly, the pages skimming by in a whirr of electronic characters at a speed my eyes and page-turning skills alone could not have managed. 

So now I have high hopes. I'm reading everything much faster. I really might be able to get that mountain of books on my bedside table despatched before next Christmas. I might even be able to get my book group book read in time for the next get-together, and even perhaps that novel a kind friend dropped through my letterbox some weeks back with a sweet note, which read: "the whole time I was reading this I was thinking of you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did." (How lovely!) 

The Kindle has opened my eyes to new possibilities. I honestly can't see a single thing wrong with it, except perhaps that I can't lend out books to friends anymore, but I never liked lending out books to friends anyway.

Now, where on earth has that charger gone?

E x


Saturday, 4 April 2015

A tripe sandwich.

"What I'm looking forward to more than anything" says the elderly American gentleman sitting at the next table,"is having a tripe sandwich." He delivers this very loudly, with his heavy New York drawl, as if sandwich is two very distinct words rather than one.

Middle One and I exchange glances. The guy sounds exactly like something out of Seinfield, which Middle One loves and which consequently I also know rather well. Every episode.

"You gotta go to Roma," he continues, "all roads round here lead to Roma." 

As you may have gathered we are on holiday in Italy, Sorrento to be exact, staying in a hotel on the cliff top. This is for a number of reasons:

1. We wanted to get away over Easter.

2. I love Italy and I book the holidays.

3. I have for some time been keen to see Pompeii and Herculaneum.

4. Tim Dowling (Guardian columnist) came to this area and describes it in one of his articles. That clinched it.

Day two and our guide up Versuvius, Raffaele, tells us it could erupt again at any moment. He says this as we are standing at the edge of the crater. Raffaele has a dark complexion, compact frame, wild curly hair, mad eyes. I can't emphasise enough about the eyes. 

He goes on to tell us that his wife is so terrifying she could kill a shark. If the volcano erupts they will move to Australia, he says, where his wife will swim in the sea and despatch any shark who dares to swim near her.  Middle One and I exchange glances.

Perhaps breathing volcanic fumes all day has done something to his sanity? Or perhaps telling tourists the exact same thing all day, every day has scrambled his brain? Or perhaps he was mad in the first place? Either way Raffaele is plainly bonkers and gives us something to talk about later.

On Capri we escape the crowds in the main square by heading up a steep covered lane which wends its way out of town, right across the island to the opposite side where we suddenly find ourselves alone, standing on a high platform, surrounded by cliffs on all side, staring out to sea. It's spectacular. 

"The Emperor Tiberius lived on Capri" I say, as the wind whips around us and howls through the trees. "He got up to all sorts. He had lovers he'd grown tired of thrown from the cliffs, possibly these very ones."

Husband looks at me warily.

"Nice," says Middle One.

In Pompeii we visit the stunning Villa Mysteri where we come across one of the calcified bodies for which Pompeii is so famous. It still has teeth. You can clearly see the open mouth of the person who died in agony two thousand years ago. Possibly he lived in this beautiful villa. Certainly he strolled this stunning land, nestled between rolling mountains and azure sea. The Bay of Naples is a beautiful place, I think, but it is the people here, both past and present, that make it so fascinating.

That evening, back at the hotel, the loud American is heading for the lift. "Over the counter drugs!" he shouts to his companions. "Take some and I guarantee you'll sleep all night. Don't come to me in the morning telling me you had a bad night's sleep if you had over the counter drugs: antihistamine. You'll sleep all night. That's guaranteed." 

Love E x 


P.S. After writing this yesterday we visited Herculaneum. It was absolutely incredible. If you ever get the chance, go. It is a perfect little Roman town sitting where the archeologists found it, in a huge hole in the ground. You are able to clearly see where the town originally met the shore line and where many of its inhabitants sheltered from the volcano in cellars and sadly perished. Their skeletons are still there.

Friday, 27 March 2015


There was a new television programme on this week about teenagers, called Teens, on Channel 4. Unfortunately I missed it but I did read Sam Wollaston's review of it in the Guardian, which said, and I quote:

"So what am I finding out about being 16 or 17 today? That although it might be expressed via different means and in different language, underneath it's pretty much the same as when I was that age. A nightmare basically, a time of catastrophic existential crisis, or worrying not just about who you are but also about who you're going to be. Also - most of all - about what you look like, and whether anybody likes you."

I read that bit out at the breakfast table.

"Only if you are a total loser," said Middle One, who is a teenager himself.

We will soon have three, teenagers that is. One son is about to be one, in a month or so, one has another year and a bit to run, and one is slap bang in the middle of it. So I reckon I know a bit about teenagers and I'd like to share my observations with you. In particular I'd like to share them with Sam Wollaston, although I know he's pretty unlikely to read this, but you never know.

First a caveat. I don't want to come over all smug because I know I might be tempting fate, especially with Youngest who is still adorable and the jury is still very much at the getting to know each other stage when it comes to what his teenage persona will be. So, caveat out of the way, here I go... 

I LOVE having teenagers, they are so much better than either children or fully-fledged adults. Why? Well, they are fairly low maintenance, they can pretty much feed and clothe themselves now, unlike children, who as I recall need a lot of input, or babies/toddlers, and again this is only as I recall it from way back, who require round the clock attention and are liable to cry or be sick or poo themselves at any moment. 

And you can talk to teenagers, they are interesting, and funny. A bit like friends, except that they are required to live with you all the time because they have no where else to go and no independent financial means, which is great because they are basically trapped here and I can talk to them whenever I like and get to know what's going on.

I would go so far as to say that teenagers, when they are on top form, are fantastic. Okay there are a few things I don't like about them: they are incapable of picking anything up off the floor of their bedrooms or hanging a wet towel on a towel rail; they can't get up in the morning at weekends and they leave crumbs and spillages all over the kitchen whenever they go in it, but mostly they are great and I recommend them. 

So here are a few of my observations for if you find yourself in charge of one in the near future.

1.) They like arguing about politics and/or contentious issues at the dinner table in loud voices.

2.) They like to bait siblings by saying loud things at the dinner table that are political/contentious.

3.) They love steak, either that or they are vegetarians. It's one or the other.

4.) They don't like country walks, or walking anywhere. 

5.) In fact they don't like going out of the house much at all unless it's with their friends.

6.) They hate going to have their hair cut and trying on shoes, or anything.

7.) They don't watch regular TV, only movies or American things on Netflicks or bands/musicians on YouTube, the more illegal the better.

8.) They don't use Facebook except to chat to people. Updating your status is 'for losers', apparently.

9.) They only buy things via the internet, not in actual shops, unless it's 'vinyl', which they buy to display in their bedrooms rather than to play, often because they don't have a record player.

10.) They would really like to have a record player.

11.) They think the 80s was a cool time and nothing you can say about it will make any difference.

12.) Don't talk to them before they eat breakfast. 

13.) They never wear matching socks, despite the fact that you buy them for them in pairs.

14.) Most of them play guitar, a lot, very loudly.

15.) Contrary to popular belief you CAN get them to do jobs around the house but only immediately before they want a lift somewhere because they have a heavy amp and they can't take it on the bus.

I should possibly add, for those of you who are not regular readers, that I am the mother of boys. I don't have any girls at all. Not wishing to sound disloyal to my sex or anything - I'm sure lots of them are lovely, although I know I wasn't - I am thankful for this fact every single day.

Love E x

Our three washing up, a while back 

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Although I have given up Facebook for the time being because I reckon it's bad for me, like chocolate or something, and obviously it's for losers, this blog does have a Facebook page which I am still updating. You can cut and paste the link -

P.S. Sam Wollaston did kindly read this and sent me a message on Twitter yesterday to say that our teenagers sound lovely and if his kids turn out half as good he is looking forward to it. How lovely of him.

Friday, 20 March 2015

A grave matter.

Last week I went to a cemetery for a day out. No, I haven't completely lost my marbles, I went with some friends and it wasn't any old cemetery, it was Highgate Cemetery in north London.

You might think it a strange day trip for a group of middle-aged south London mums but we had been wanting to go for a while. Why? Because it's a famous place, because it's reportedly beautiful, and peaceful, and in a vaguely exotic location: NORTH London. And because there are famous people buried there, Karl Marx for one. I told the younger two boys in the morning, "I'm going to Highgate Cemetery today," I said.

"Why?" asked Youngest, so I reeled off a few of the reasons above and then added, "and because I like graves, I think graves are important, I wish there was a grave I could go to to pay my respects to my grandparents but because they were cremated and their ashes were scattered, there isn't."

"What!" said Youngest, spluttering his cornflakes out all over the breakfast table, "they were what?"


"What the hell is cremated?"

Have you ever had to explain to a child that we burn the bodies of those we love and throw their ashes around afterwards? It sounded bad. He was horrified.

"And why do you want to visit Karl Marx's grave?" demanded Middle One, who is rather political nowadays.

"Because he's the father of Communism," I said, "an important historical figure, I suppose."

"He's responsible for the slaughter of millions of innocent people," he replied.

"How do you figure that out?"

"Stalin was a Marxist and so was Mao Tse-tung."

"I don't think you can say he's directly responsible," I countered, "I think you'll find that both those people somewhat adulterated his philosophy to suit their own ends."

Blimey. Who would have thought that a simple little trip to a peaceful north London cemetery could spark such tricky breakfast table conversations? And it didn't end there.

At Archway our little group took temporary refuge in a rather grotty cafe in order to recover from the epic trip along the Northern Line and gather strength to assail the rest of the windswept hill up to Highgate. Over not-very-good-coffee (have they not heard of Flat Whites in north London? Savages) we began discussing where we might all end up, when the time comes.

"The thing is," I said, "despite having lived in some lovely places: North Yorkshire, Vancouver, Norwich (don't laugh it's a beautiful city), I've actually lived in south London now for most of my life, so I guess I'll have to be buried there where I have raised a family, and be near my children."

My friends agreed it's a tricky one. One friend said she definitely doesn't want to be buried because what if she wasn't really dead and they buried her alive? (I think Edgar Allan Poe had the same idea.) Better than burned alive, I said. But you'd be dead, she said, so that wouldn't happen. Mmm. Strange logic, but I guess there's isn't much logic to any of it.

Another friend said she supposed it was logical to be buried near her parents house back home in the little churchyard where other family members are already laid to rest. It sounded lovely, and peaceful, but she also thought she'd want to be near her children.

This led to a discussion about the scattering of ashes and how ashes can be taken to multiple locations. Another friend said her husband's mother was "divided up" between his children and their step-mum, which sounds very progressive, and rather depressing.

On the plus side it felt quite liberating to be having such a conversation at all, living in an age which is, to say the least, not very comfortable with death.

Highgate Cemetery is really beautiful. I had no idea it would be so wooded. The gardener in me couldn't help but wonder how they mange to dig all those holes… And the spring flowers are out now, the trees are just coming into leaf, the place was very quiet, as you might expect for a graveyard on a chilly weekday morning. You might even say it was deathly quiet, except for the birds.

For me graveyards, headstones, graves themselves, all have a romantic appeal. It might be directly traceable back to my childhood visits to deserted Yorkshire churchyards, or you could lay the blame squarely at the feet of Emily Bronte (is there a graveyard in Wuthering Heights? There's certainly a ghost, and in my memory Heathcliff visits Cathy's grave).

A beautiful church graveyard we visited in north Yorkshire.

Last Autumn Youngest asked to visit a churchyard in the run up to Halloween, I think he wanted to feel spooked. And so I took him to a lovely old Victorian graveyard near where we live. I'd visited it myself researching a story I was writing in which one of the characters goes to visit his mother's grave for the first time.

Wondering around in the dusk with my youngest son by my side, I was struck again by the names. So many, just like their owners, are now long gone. We don't have Ethels or Wilfreds anymore. The graves I liked best were the old rather grand ones with crooked headstones and winged angels, where multiple family members are listed below...

So that's it, the rich, as with so many things in life, have death all sewn up. I bet Karl Marx would have something to say on the matter, if he wasn't dead, although people with enormous statues to their memory in Highgate Cemetery are possibly not in a position to throw stones.

The answer is to have a family plot then, or better still a mausoleum where you could all end up together. All I need now is a stately home or a castle where I can build one. In Tooting.

Love E x

Homage in Highgate.

P.S. It's my birthday tomorrow. I think that might be where all this death thing is coming from. I'll be back to a more cheerful topic next time.


Thanks to all the RTs and the Follows by the way. Great stats for the blog last week. Please keep reading! 

Friday, 13 March 2015


My mother sent me an email in response to my last blog about having a friend for life. It said, and I quote:

"Actually, when your mother dies you realise that she was the person you had known the longest. She had been there all your life and suddenly isn't there for you any more. She was the person who had looked after you and always been there for you. That precious relationship that you took for granted has gone. And then you really do feel alone. You're by yourself now even if you have loving husband and family around you. That one person whom you've known from the moment of your birth, who has loved you all your life, is no more. It leaves a huge hole. It did for me anyway."

She's right of course. How silly of me. Your mother is, at least for most people, your friend for life, the one who will not forsake or turn away from you, no matter what. And what better time to be reminded of this than now, just before Mother's Day.

And now that I have children of my own I know what motherly love is and I see how it is returned, sometimes all with show and affection, sometimes with hardly any show at all, but still there nevertheless.

I am lucky that my children, the younger two especially, are not afraid to tell me and show me that they love me, and I know what my love back to them is for: providing a service. 

Here you are, it says, have this unconditional adoration from me with a cherry on top. Have my admiration and affection, my hugs and kisses, my ear to listen to you when you are moaning, my shoulder to cry on when you are upset, my broad back to carry your burdens as well as my own as best I can. Take anything and everything I have, very ounce of empathy and sympathy I can muster, every bit of strength and every morsel of time at my disposal, and on top of all that have this meal I have cooked for you and this pile of clean washing, and this snack I have brought up three flights of stairs, take it all and I will ask for nothing in return, except, of course, your love back to me, because I am your mother. 

And when I hold my youngest child in my arms as he lies in bed at night (which I still do) sometimes I think of all the children without mothers, those sleeping on city streets in India or Africa, those who have been abandoned or denied parents through death or disaster, and I imagine for a moment that I am holding one of them also, because it is an almost unbearable thing to think of a child without his mother, longing for that special love that has been denied him.

And what of my mother? Well she's not like yours. You know those arguments you had with your friends when you were little: my mother is better than your mother? No? Well I do, and mine really was, and is, better than theirs and yours. My mother looks younger than she is, and acts younger than she is, and is full of life despite now being 75 years-old. 

My mother is the chattiest, friendliest, ever-so-slightly maddest person you could ever wish to meet. Think of an extrovert and double it. When I was a child I thought she was the sexy lady whose silhouette danced to the opening titles of Roald Dahl's Tales of The Unexpected, because she too was little with a blonde bob and danced just like that; she still dances whenever she can. 

And my mother was the little girl with the Shirley Temple bow in her curled fair hair, whom everyone thought was special because even her name was special and different from everyone else's, someone who became a teacher and then a head teacher when all the other mothers I knew did nothing, or so it seemed to me, and that made her special too. And she was busy, always busy, which was the one thing I didn't like about my mother, because that 'business' took her away from me.

And when she is gone I will grieve for my mother more than anyone has ever grieved for theirs. My loss will be greater than yours, my heartache stronger. In her own words it will leave a huge hole, and the hole my mother leaves behind will be the biggest. 

Happy Mother's Day to my mother and to all mothers everywhere.

Love E x

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This blog was the Mumsnet blog of the day and has been retweeted by them numerous times and by many others too. Thanks to them all.

My mother, my friend for life
Now that I don't know how she doesn't do it is a mother herself, she truly appreciates the friendship and understanding that can exist between mother and daughter
"Here you are, it says, have this unconditional adoration from me with a cherry on top. Have my admiration and affection, my hugs and kisses, my broad back to carry your burdens as well as my own as best I can. Take anything and everything I have, every bit of strength and every morsel of time at my disposal, and on top of all that have this meal I have cooked for you and this pile of clean washing, and this snack I have brought up three flights of stairs, take it all and I will ask for nothing in return, except, of course, your love back to me, because I am your mother."

Thursday, 5 March 2015

A friend for life.

Who's the person you're going to have the longest relationship with in your lifetime? Your partner? Your sibling? Your child? Nope. It's obvious isn't it, it's you. As a friend of mine rather gloomily announced the other day, "You only really have yourself, at the end of the day." 

At the time I begged to differ, "Oh no," I said, refusing to sign up to a sentiment so bleak, "I have Husband, he is always there for me, I can always rely on him," and so far this has been true. I have always been able to rely on him and he has always been there, since I was 19 anyway. 

But I thought about what she had said afterwards and I have to admit that I do, rather reluctantly, take her point. Look at how many seemingly perfect relationships end in disaster. Look at how many people cheat or betray one another, even those who remain married and close. Look at how many elderly people find themselves ill-equipped for bereavement at the close of their lives because they have never really learned to rely on themselves. 

We can't take anything for granted. We need to be able to like ourselves, to rely on ourselves when necessary, because YOU are the person you will definitely be spending all of your time with until the end of your days, whether you like it or not. 

And then a few days after that conversation, another friend told me about her Mindfulness Day. Oh no! I hear you say, not that obsession du jour, 'Mindfulness', what a load of old pretentious, self-indulgent claptrap. But hear me out, or rather her out, because she told me that on this Mindfulness Day she was not allowed to speak, at all, not once, to anyone, or even make eye contact, because this is a form of communication too, and once she got used to it it was great.

I don't really understand what the point of this not speaking thing is, except that it's meant to be good for you in some way, but for a rather chatty person like me (okay, substitute rather for very) this had a certain appeal. I talk too much, sometimes I exhaust even myself with my inane chatter. So I imagined it must be rather nice to be released from all that, to be MADE to be quiet. How refreshing. How freeing. How weird. 

And so when I saw there was an exhibition on in town that I'd quite like to go to, instead of trying to drag Husband along, or the boys, or a friend, I went by myself. Just me. Essentially it was a date with myself, and I recommend it (that's a date with yourself, not with me).

Maybe you are accustomed to doing things by yourself anyway and so it's no big deal but for a woman my age, in her 40s, who is married, with three kids, and parents who are still around, and plenty of female friends, this doesn't happen very often. Indeed my knee-jerk reaction is to find someone to go with to all things, be it cinema or the shops, or even a walk. It doesn't usually occur to me to do things alone. But this combination of friend A. telling me we are essentially all alone in life, and friend B. saying she spent a whole day surrounded by people while not uttering a single word, made me decide to have a date with me.

I got the Tube to Victoria, I walked past Buckingham Palace, I crossed Green Park in the early spring sunshine, sought out an exhibition in Mayfair I had read about in The Guardian and then went to the RA, where I signed up to become a member (I must have been the youngest person in the members' cafe by about 20 years) and then I looked at the exhibition (Rubens), did a spot of shopping and came home. And all while the boys were safely ensconced at school and Husband and Eldest were at work and so no one was any the wiser (except that I will, of course, tell them). 

And what of it? Well, it was relaxing, much more relaxing than chatting the whole time to somebody else, and I think I took more in. I noticed things that I wouldn't have noticed otherwise and I relished just pleasing myself, going where the whim took me. I enjoyed the peace of it. I wasn't really alone anyway since I had my phone with me and was receiving texts and emails about work (possible work) the whole time. Have you noticed how many people are glued to their phones in the street and don't look up? It's incredible. This is partly why I've given Facebook a bit of a rest lately, not posting, not even reading it, just spending more time BEING. After all, your true friendships will always be there, social media or no social media.

So that's what I did yesterday. Okay I did post a teeny tiny thing about it on Twitter, but mostly I drank in the weather and the scenery and the paintings and listened in to the conversations around me in the cafe, and as I browsed the paintings, and I recommend it. Have a date with yourself sometime, you'll only have yourself to annoy. You might even find you have a friend you are happy to spend time with for the rest of your life: you.

Love E x



Alex Katz: Black Painting at the Timothy Taylor Gallery in Mayfair

Rubens and His Legacy at The Royal Academy of Art

Good article in The Guardian about social media