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….the 5th of November, gunpowder, treason and plot.  In England this historically always had far more significance than Halloween (which, from an early age, I knew to be a fiction like Father Christmas, confirmed during a flight when five, that revealed no witches on broomsticks flying alongside our plane).

As a kid, November the 5th had a magical ( Read more... )

Tonight should go bang.  Tomorrow will explode awesomely, if I can get from wholesome Highgate to dirty ol' Herne Hill in time for the excessive explosive madness.  The very affable, pikey welder in the arch adjacent to my artist friends is, apparently, completely firework obsessed and has spent £5000 on the fuckers.  He plans to have his teenage ( Read more... )

I woke up with saw feet; often a mark of a good night out. The rest of me was filled with the dull ache of dead alcohol. I’m am now about to return to my bed with red wine wrapping up a good weekend. I may get round to filling in the gaps.

Why is that it that the best parties have the worst toilets?

I have been lining up little pearls of pleasure to fill my free time since finishing: meals with friends; grand picnics into the night; belly dancers and suckling roast pigs; visits to soft-headed babies and their happy parents; and trips to rambling, country houses to make jam and conversation, all from the finest ingredients. These small joys all ( Read more... )