I like to go out on a Friday night – if I ever go out, which has been pretty rare since I was about 21 – as it makes the weekend feel so much longer. As this is a fantasy weekend, I’ll tell you my ideal, even though it happens all too rarely – I’d meet all my best girls and gays (to include Louise, Neil, Tom, Jonny, Ali, Rachael, Niki, Nicky, Sherri, my sister and my mum), in London, somewhere where we can get a good cocktail and all manner of small snacks, and hang around for several bottles of wine if we fancy it, cool music but quiet enough for chatting to be top priority. We’ll probably head for Soho – I like the Sanctum Hotel, especially hanging out on the rock n roll roof terrace, or maybe the Dean Street Townhouse.
After a few hours, we’d pop into Garlic & Shots to unleash our inner Goths and down a quick ‘bloodshot’ (that’s basically just a very tiny and very strong Bloody Mary), then traipse to Lucky Voice for a couple of hours, where I’ll belt out some terrible renditions of Cher and Alice Cooper.
I love going out dancing, so that’s what we’d do next – but it would be to a magical semi-imaginary discotheque that exists only in my mind, in a dark and glittery basement where my friend Neil is the DJ and he spins my ideal playlist, no matter how eccentric – Jason Donovan and Lolly interspersed with Hole and PJ Harvey, a lot of Placebo and terrible 90s indie. We’d end up in an all-night American diner, where I eat a tuna melt and chili-cheese fries, along with the world’s biggest chocolate milkshake.
Magically, I’d wake up with no hangover in my flat in Brighton with my boyfriend. I’ll go to an early morning hot yoga class at Yoga Haven, to make me feel smugly awesome about myself for the rest of the day; because this is a fantasy, I’ll be able to do the ‘crow’ pose perfectly, which I have never managed in my life, due to my freakishly feeble arms.
Then it’d have to be breakfast at the Rock-Ola café, where I eat my own weight in pancakes and hash browns and all manner of other loveliness, flick through the Times to Caitlin Moran’s hysterically brilliant pages, and make liberal use of the free jukebox. Then we’d head to the cinema for a matinee show at the Duke of York’s, which I am lucky enough to call my local cinema, as it’s the best in the world. It’ll be a double feature – something French and sexy followed by something silly and hilarious, preferably both from the 60s. Film snacks are important – I’d treat myself to a big tub of wasabi peas and a slice of one of their lovely cakes, maybe a glass of red wine if I fancy it, otherwise a massive Diet Coke.
Then it’s out for a very late lunch, somewhere sunny and sitting outside. Miraculously, a gang of lovely friends and extended family will have turned up and are saving us a table at Due South on Brighton beach, where I’ll eat some oysters followed by steak and chips. I’ll have a glass of rosé – I know it’s not cool but I don’t care. While we digest we might have a little walk on the beach and stroll into the Lanes for some light record-shopping, junkshop-browsing and general pottering. Then it’s home for a game of Scrabble and an early night, perhaps a bit of cheese on toast. If I’m lucky, it’ll be the right time of year for X Factor and I’ll follow Neil’s hilarious tweets about it.
Sundays are sacred. The morning is all about a strict routine of bagels, the Observer, Radio 4 and abject laziness. I’ll make it only as far as my brilliant local shop, have a strong cup of tea and maybe a pain au chocolat as a breakfast pudding. I’ll read the papers while half-listening to The Archers, then start concentrating on the radio properly because someone amazing is on Desert Island Discs. Then I quite fancy some vintage I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue, please. We may or may not make it out for a long, long walk along the seafront before lunch, followed by a swift pint of Harvey’s in the Battle of Trafalgar pub, but I hope we do. Lunch will then be nudging into the evening and will be something like shepherd’s pie or a proper roast chicken.
On Sunday nights I like to stay up as late as I physically can, so as to make the weekend last as long as possible. I get terrible Sunday night blues, which can only be staved off with staying up late and distracting myself. This will involve a very long hot bath with a great book, followed by a DVD boxed set, ideally 30 Rock or Flight of the Conchords, with a late-night supper of Heinz tomato soup with cream cheese sandwiches and pickles, maybe the odd chocolate button afterwards, under blankets on the sofa and wearing our onesies. I make my boyfriend pretend it’s a ‘sleepover party’ and use the term repeatedly, just to jolly things up. We’ll probably fall asleep on the sofa then sleepwalk into bed in time for Monday morning, and that’s the end of the lovely weekend.
* Another self-centred little frippery in which I give my own version of newspapers’ regular features, usually reserved for celebrities.