vendredi 29 juillet 2011

Perfect Pop - 3

Because what could be nicer (or poppier) that some lovely Lush on a Friday?

mercredi 27 juillet 2011

Magic’s in the make-up.

‘Cherries In The Snow’ by Emma Forrest is a newly beloved book of mine.  It’s not a spoiler if I tell you that its heroine, Sadie, is a wannabe writer whose day job is to make up the names for make-up.  How awesome is that?  She also falls in love with a graffiti artist called Marley, in a very sweet and funny and touching story.

But back to the ‘naming make up’ bit.  Like, how your favourite lipstick is called ‘Black Death’ or that cool nail varnish is called ‘Shimmering Petrol On Hot Tarmac’ or whatever – it’s delicious.

Um, so after that tenuous introduction, here are the products I’m currently, and some long-termedly, obsessed with.  Whatever their names.

Chanel Coco Rouge lipstick in Egerie – even though you don’t even look particularly as though you’re wearing any lipstick, it makes your face look better.  It makes me feel like La Paradis, if not look exactly like her.  Obviously I hesitate to say “I can’t live without it”.  But that doesn’t mean I want to (live without it).

Other than this one, if you are going to wear any lipstick, it needs to be any sort of kick-arse red whatsoever, of any kind.

Rimmel black kohl pencil.  Because it’s great when the cheap one is also the best one.

Batiste dry shampoo.  I’m basically glued together with this stuff and neurosis.  The brown one has changed my life.

MAC Strobe cream and Clinique Total Turnaround – on their own, each is great; combined, it’s the hangover mask from heaven.

American Apparel nail varnishes.  Any colour at all, but my current favourites are grey, yellow and turquoise.  They are all matte and lovely and MAKE YOUR NAILS LIKE A T-SHIRT.  Always red, for the toes, though.

Disclaimer – I’m not saying that any of these make me look especially awesome-o.  They just make my life nicer, and I like talking about them.

What are yours?  Please tell me.

lundi 25 juillet 2011


I am a great believer in hard work over inspiration.  Sitting all day waiting for divine intervention won't get anything done, no matter how worthy and artistic the notion may seem.  I want to be like Nick Cave, who gets up every morning, puts on his suit, goes to his office and puts in a full day at his desk.

I dream of the day when I can work at home.  I will have a beautiful office and be very productive, writing all day with a small dog beside me, after a nice morning run.

Until I have an office that looks like this, and so am inspired all day long:

* Emily Schuman's office, whose amazine style can be seen at - I'm obsessed; picture nicked from

In the meantime, I have to find my inspiration elsewhere.

Here's where I go for an instant hit:
  • Watch PJ Harvey's 'Please Leave Quietly' on DVD - especially the interview segment, although the live performances are obviously extraordinary.  Hearing her talk about her work wants me to do things that are truly great.  As Courtney Love said: 'PJ Harvey is the one person who makes me realise I'm shit'.  It's true - in a good way.
  • Read 'Bonjour Tristesse' by Francoise Sagan - the 'charming little monster' published this gorgeous book when she was 19.  If that doesn't make you want to get a move on, nothing will.
  • Dip into Sylvia Plath's Journals.  I generally keep this out and can just flip it open to any page to feel inspired - for a little while, she got the balance just right.

dimanche 24 juillet 2011

Chocolate Guinness

I am a huge fan of cake making.  Mostly because I find that (usually, unless you're making something super-fancy that would be totally beyond me) the effect totally outweighs the effort.  If you make a cake for someone, whether for their birthday or because they're coming to visit or just because, they are always delighted; especially lovely since all it really requires is mixing a few things in  bowl and then whacking it in the oven.

As you may know, I am also a huge fan of The Sainted Nigella.  I love her and her finger-licking, innuendo-spouting ways, but mostly I love her because her recipes are always amazing and they always really work.  I am yet to make one that hasn't been even better than expected; she never lets me down.

The recipe of hers that I have made the most times by far, is her Chocolate Guinness Cake and it's an absolute crowd-pleaser of a marvel.  I recently made this for a family birthday, and then took the remains to work the next day, and it went down a storm so I wanted to share.

Photo from Saint Nigella; but mine did look nearly this good!

vendredi 22 juillet 2011

Perfect Pop (part 2)

My obsession with the perfect pop song continues - this one has got to come pretty bloody close...

jeudi 21 juillet 2011

New Stuff

So, I have new shoes and a new haircut.

I would like to have found a proper picture of the shoes, but they don't seem to exist (at least not on the New Look website).  It probably covers it to say that they are brown, chunkily wooden-heeled, 10.5 centimetres high (the height of champions!), and most importantly fulfill my criteria of 'really high but not slutty'.

Plus, new hair.  Well, not that new as I am still valiantly trying to grow it and revert to my natural colour, but the best possible version of this while I make the transition.  I took photographs of Francoise Hardy, Jane Birkin, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Lucy Gordon and, um, Claudia Winkleman.

Also, my mum sent me some amazing flowers for our new flat - something that always makes life a little cheerier.

As such, here is what my desk* looks like today:

*Lest 'desk' sounds a little bit professional, I should probably add that this also doubles up as my dining table and has to be pushed back to the wall if you want to be able to open the sitting room door to get out.

Now all I need for the perfect life is:

Dream House.

Nissan Figaro.

Small dog.

mercredi 20 juillet 2011

Snoopers Paradise

If you should ever find yourself in Brighton, you should really pay this place a visit.

Because where else (on Saturday) could you go in search of an art deco drinks trolley, and instead come out with a 1930s nightdress monogrammed with your very own initials?  Exactly.

While we're on the subject of my current/adopted home city, perhaps you could follow this up with a trip to the Rock-Ola, as I did, for pancakes and a go on the free jukebox.

In fact, if you're in Brighton and you're hungry, here is an article I wrote about where you might want to go, with a few other random ideas chucked in as well.

mardi 19 juillet 2011

The Best Version of Us.

Do you have ‘favourite’ celebrities – not of the kind that you put poster s of on your bedroom wall, but rather look to for what they are wearing or take pictures of to your hairdresser to show how you want yours?  The ones who you would like to be in your ‘fictional celebrity gang’, who you’d be BFFs with if only you actually met?

Well, a friend and I were discussing the other day, how we’d noticed that those people are always a bit like us.  As in: the same type.  It’s true!  By this, I basically mean that all of mine have brown hair and at least slightly scruffy.  My friend Lou, who is very glamorous and busty, goes for Liz Hurley, whereas I go for Charlotte Gainsbourg; my cousin, who’s all voluptuous and boho, loves Sophie Dahl.  In my youth, I was all about Winona Ryder rather than SJP or Alicia Silverstone.

For me, the most-Google-image-searched favourites that spring to mind are: La Gainsbourg (see above), Sofia Coppola, Chan Marshall, Natalie Portman, Claudia Winkleman, Tina Fey.  Varied, but essentially the same.  You will notice, not a blonde among them (see, Courtney, Gwen and Debbie are a different class altogether for me – the ones I idolise rather than emulate).  I am never going to resemble, in any way whatsoever, Courtney Love or Sophie Dahl or Liz Hurley.  But if I wear skinny jeans and messy hair I feel a bit Charlotte Gainsbourg; with a good blow-dry and enough eyeliner, a bit Claudia Winkleman; underdressed for evening in an oh-so insouciant way, I can kid myself I’m Sofia Coppola.  You see?  More to the point, I can picture having a glass of wine with Tina Fey, tea and biscuits round the kitchen table with Claudia, a walk around Paris with Charlotte or Sofia, going to a gig with Chan or discussing books with Natalie.

So, our theory is that, rather than aiming for something entirely different and unobtainable, we are subconsciously picking the best versions of ourselves.  In the same way that some people pick a football team and see the players as their representatives in a parallel fantasy life, I do the same with famous women because I like their fringe or the way they wear a Cuban heel and a Breton stripe.

Now that we’ve recognised this, I find it rather comforting.  It’s all about being completely over trying to be something that you’re not.

lundi 18 juillet 2011

It would be so nice...

Just to remind me that I'm not always a complete miseryguts - I could just do with a holiday:

vendredi 15 juillet 2011

My Perfect Weekend*

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.

jeudi 14 juillet 2011

Hey, Glasses Girl!

I did not need glasses until the age of 28.  Now I need them, only for driving and cinema really, but I wear them way more than I should.

Until that heady Spec Savers day came, you see, I always wanted to wear glasses.  As pretty much the only non-glasses wearer in my entire extended family (which is vast), I longed for spectacles.

I like to think they make me look more like Tina Fey.  I also like to think that they make me approximately 9% cleverer.  As The Divine Ms Fey herself said: “Put glasses on Woody Harrelson and he’s an architect!  Put glasses on Denise Richards and she’s a palaeontologist!”.  It’s funny because it’s true, nerds!

My favourite times for glasses-wearing generally involve a ponytail and a Breton stripe, an occasional red lip, or alternatively bare feet and pyjamas, in an oh-so intellectual approximation of a Calvin Klein advert from the mid-1990s.

I would avoid them whilst wearing large earrings (Tootsie) or anything at all hippie-ish (less flower child and more Mad Art Teacher).  But generally that means I avoid earrings and billows, most of the time, rather than my glasses.

I really did go to Spec Savers.  Mine are called Granville (from the men’s range as I have quite a large head and enjoy the Woody Allen look).  My old ones were called Henry and I loved them but lost them; although now I think I like Granville better.  I love my glasses.

lundi 11 juillet 2011

Margrave of the Marshes

So, last night it struck me.  In that little list of non-fiction books that I wrote recently, I’d forgotten one of my absolute favourites – Margrave of the Marshes by John Peel and Sheila Ravenscroft.  Probably all sorts of others, too, as these things are pretty much just a random snapshot of my brain at any given time rather than an exhaustive encyclopaedia of knowledge.  Still, this was a huge oversight as it truly is wonderful.

However, this is really no bad thing, as the legendary and brilliant John Peel deserves a love-missive all of his own.

So, obviously John Peel (real name John Ravenscroft) was a legend.  When I was at university I used to stay up on a Monday night to listen to his show on Radio One, after Steve Lamacq – like everyone else who ever listened to him, I felt that he was talking directly to me, like a cool family friend personally introducing me to great music.  I still really cannot grasp the fact that he’s dead.  There’s an enormous mural of him on the side of a gig venue down the road from my flat; I pass it most days and mentally salute it every time.  There is simply no-one like him today, and he was so groundbreaking and important and cool, while simultaneously being really normal and lovely.  As you may well know by now, that’s the sort of thing that I find really inspiring.

Tales of him going to important gigs, breaking seminal bands and hanging out with seriously amazing rockstars are interspersed with tales of him and his wife running the local youth club in their village and hiring a minibus to take them to London for gigs, working in the garden and cooking disastrous dinners.  Sometimes the two were seamlessly combined – like the fact that he ended up being pen-pals with PJ Harvey’s mum after she wrote to him to say thanks for being the first person to play a young Polly’s music on the radio, or his theory (with which I wholeheartedly agree) that he believed he could have saved Kurt Cobain if only Kurt had taken John up his invitation to come and live with him and his family for a month.  A month of driving the kids to school and helping cook dinner and dig up vegetables in the country would have sorted him right out – sadly Kurt declined and we all know the rest of that story.  I particularly loved the anecdotes of when John and Sheila would hang out with Marc Bolan and his wife: on a Saturday night, they would take it in turns to cook a dinner based around whatever the Saturday TV movie was – like kebabs served on swords for The Three Musketeers.  My stepbrother Simon is still delighted by the fact that John wouldn’t let a Manchester United supporter into his house – unless they could prove that at least two generations of their family before them had supported Manchester United as well; that plus the fact he themed his wedding around the Liverpool colours, and Simon has vowed to adopt both traditions.

It’s a book of enormous pathos before you’ve even started – as John started it as an autobiography but died sadly and suddenly before he had finished the manuscript.  So, his wife Sheila Ravenscroft (who has spent much of her life being bemused at being called ‘Sheila Peel – who is this Sheila Peel?’) took over and finished for him.  She deserves medals for managing to do so in such brilliant style, unsentimental but truly loving, managing to communicate exactly what he would have wanted but in a voice that is all her own and completely fitting, all at once.

They are both an inspiration.

Anyway, how can you not love an autobiography that begins: “I was born at the age of five…”?

ADDENDUM: Since writing this, I have re-read this book and realised I got nearly all of the finer details wrong; still, the spirit was all right, so I shall leave it as it is - please be kind.

jeudi 7 juillet 2011

Real Life.

Usually I’m a straightforward fiction kinda gal.  I’m not generally big on real life.  However, in recent months/years/whatever, I’ve read some great non-fiction books, and also have a few perennial favourites.  These are mostly related to musicians or writers that I particularly love, in the most part, rather than any highbrow textbook-type tomes.  Still, thought I’d share…

Must You Go? by Antonia Fraser
Lady Antonia is a marvel all-round when it comes to non-fiction – l loved her Marie Antoinette, obvs – but it’s this one that I have read (and reread) most recently and has probably made the most impact on me.  It’s not a memoir in the usual sense, as it’s not so much about her but about the life that she shared with Harold Pinter (who, I had never quite realised until I saw the photos included in this book, was incredibly sexy – the two of them just looked so cool together).  It’s utterly fascinating, as well as heart-wrenching and just as elegant as you would expect, especially the portion that concerns the scandal that ensued when they first got together – it seems amazing now to think that two forty-something ‘serious’ writers could be at the centre of such a tabloid storm, that made them pretty much the Jordan and Peter of the day.  I went to see Lady Antonia doing a talk on this last year and I basically want to be her when I grow up.

An Education by Lynn Barber
Lynn Barber features highly on my long list of heroines – I reread her newspaper interviews quite a lot.  An Education is that intriguing mix of a story that feels like it could be about you, whilst at the same time being absolutely extraordinary.  If you’ve seen the film (which I really enjoyed, especially for Carey Mulligan) then you’ll know that it mostly centred around Lynn’s (or ‘Jenny’s’) schoolgirl affair with an older man.  The book spans a much longer period and, in my opinion, is all the better for it – the later chapters are my favourites.

The Hacienda by Lisa St Aubin de Teran
Another one about an ill-advised affair, this one spiraling into something far worse that makes Lynn’s look like a lucky escape.  Lisa St Aubin Teran is an amazing woman and all of her writing is sublime.  This one is especially gripping, and pretty inspirational.

Blow by Blow by Detmar Blow
We all know how I feel about Issy Blow.  This is how her husband felt about her.  If you don’t know all about her extraordinary life, or if you have even a passing interest in fashion, it is well worth a read.  Being by her husband of nearly twenty years, this of course contains many facts and anecdotes that were not previously in the public domain.  It is sometimes subjective enough to be absolutely infuriating – I for one was slightly appalled by the kicking that Detmar gave McQueen here, as it was no secret that the two of them just didn’t get on, and obviously Lee is not around to give his side.  Still, a bit of a must for any fans.  Martina Rink’s coffee table book of memories and photographs is also fantastic, but by definition a bit more of a visual skate through Isabella’s fabulous life and hats.

All That Glitters by Pearl Lowe
For some reason – it’s not exactly high art – I find this book utterly gripping and reread it often.  Although Pearl Lowe was only a pretty minor player in the 90s, and you kind of had to be there, I’ve always been a bit of a fan and she’s had an interesting ride, as much for all of the personal details as the public ones.  It’s that classic tale of the girl desperate for fame and excitement, who goes spectacularly off the tracks in the process.  It’s an archetype that I love in all its forms, and in this one there is something so charming about Pearl that you find yourself hoping for her happy ending.

Courtney Love: The Real Story by Poppy Z. Brite
So crazy it just might work – get a pulpy vampire novelist to write a novel-style biography of our most interesting rock star.  It’s just the sort of rock biography that I like best – it perpetuates all the myths and legends, and makes no effort to debunk any of the hyperbole.  Also, worth it alone for the gorgeous snatches of Courtney’s own writings and diary extracts, which are unfailingly beautiful.

See also…

Heavier than Heaven by Charles Cross (the ultimate Nirvana book; see also Come As You Are by Michael Azzerad – the only two worth reading).

Faithfull by Marianne Faithfull (I first read this on holiday when I was thirteen, and it made me want to be her – reread it as an adult and appreciated how sad and interesting a life she has led).

Dear Boy: The Life of Keith Moon by Tony Fletcher (I like a good rock bio on holiday, it would seem – I read this one in Cyprus a good few years ago, thoroughly enjoyed the tales of Moon and Oliver Reed best of all, and wished I could skip the sad end.  Made me want to get a tortoise and call it Ashtray).

A Lover of Unreason: Assia Wevill, Sylvia Plath’s Rival and Ted Hughes’ Doomed Love by Yehuda Koren and Eilat Negav (It’s no secret that I am a Plath/Hughes obsessive, and while this book didn’t change my views on Assia Wevill, it was fascinating to have some light thrown on this hitherto shadowy character) .

Your Voice in My Head by Emma Forrest (A beautifully written memoir that drove me mad because I could relate to it way too much, but as such equally vindicated itself with its sensible, triumphant and quite inspiring ending).

The Silent Twins by Marjorie Wallace (I love a good mystery – this one, about twins who had a secret language and ended up in Broadmoor, is a great one).

And I Don’t Want to Live This Life by Deborah Spungen (Originally due to my obsessions with all things Chelsea Hotel-related, I became fascinated by Nancy, while at the same time astounded and appalled that she could have been treated the way she was by the world at large, even after she was dead – this incredibly interesting book by her mother settles the score a bit).

Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell (It’s been said that Malcolm Gladwell is great because when you finish one of his books, you’re left feeling not that he’s really clever, but that you’re really clever – which is fun, as is this book that examines why people are really good at stuff).

mercredi 6 juillet 2011


So, in the last fortnight, I have become obsessed with the film ‘Bridesmaids’ and attended my oldest friend Rachael’s beautiful wedding.  I have known Rachael since I was nine, and can scarcely believe that she is now a married lady.

First of all – Bridesmaids!  I have long been a fan of Kristen Wiig’s – mostly due to my geek-girl Tina Fey/SNL crush – and extremely excited about this film.  And I loved it.  Especially the inclusion of Wilson Phillips.  Especially the fact that it was effing hilarious and also made me cry numerous times.  Especially the bits in which I could almost have been watching myself, having donned a bridesmaid dress more times than I care to remember – the jolt of recognition I had when Annie was in a dress shop with all her much-richer-than-her friends, going ‘no, that $800 dress isn’t that great – look at this one, it’s got pockets, anyone can wear it, it’s $200!’ only to be roundly ignored, was almost painful.  Go and see it right now, is my only advice.

So, while I find them pretty/potentially hilarious, I love a good wedding.  Rachael’s was one of the loveliest.  It was in a fancy hotel, on the river Thames, in glorious sunshine, with peacocks roaming the grounds – yes, real life peacocks!  There was a photo-booth at the reception!  I got to see old friends I hadn’t seen in ages!  The bride seriously looked like something out of a magazine!

However, what I can’t explain is why I don’t want one of those for myself.  Weddings, increasingly, seem to make people think it’s OK to ask me when I am getting married.  Around half a dozen last Saturday, in fact – including one lady who actually grabbed my left hand quite forcibly in order to inspect it for rings!  Worse was the friend I hadn’t seen in ages, who got pissed later in the evening and said: ‘OK, I’m going to make you feel awkward now – you’ve been living with your boyfriend for seven years, why aren’t you getting married?’.

I’m afraid my answer is: dunno.  I like other people’s weddings; I’m not opposed to the institution of marriage.  I have no burning desire to do so, but I can’t think of a good reason not to.  Which to me means I probably shouldn’t – I applied pretty much the same logic to losing my virginity, actually, which is why it took me so long (that and the fact I couldn’t seem to give it away, obvs).

I’ve taken to saying ‘I’m not really the marrying type’ in haughty, trying-to-be-mysterious tones, or making jokes about being a commitment-phobe.  But that’s not really it, either.

It’s so hard to articulate, but I had better figure out a way to do so – and quick – if I’m planning on going to any more weddings soon.  Which - let’s face it, I'm 30! - I probably will.

mardi 5 juillet 2011


I spend a lot of time thinking about food.  When I was at school, my friend Rachael and I would ring each other every night to discuss what we'd had for dinner.  These days we have a rule in my household that I’m banned from saying ‘I’m hungry’ – because it’s usually safe to assume that I am always hungry.

As I love making lists of, well, anything really, I took the recent question ‘what’s your favourite dinner?’ very seriously.

Breakfast is easy.  My dream (very greedy) breakfast is a breakfast burrito and a glass of apple juice (clear not cloudy, ideally that fancy brand that comes with ginger or rhubarb built in), followed by a breakfast pudding of really good hot chocolate and pain au chocolat.

My favourite lunch is definitely a pizza and a bottle of wine, accessorised with best girlfriends, preferably outside.  If it could include an oyster or two first, then all the better.

But dinner could be either:
·         Spaghetti bolognese.
·         Shepherds pie (with peas).
·         Sausages and mash (with excellent gravy).
·         Tuna and pasta bake.
·         Chicken curry.

What’s yours?