Yuletide Cheer

Now that the festive season is upon us, I feel I should spread a little Yuletide cheer for those still scroogin' about this snowy mid-December (you know who you are). I have travelled back to the Shire for a few weeks, where in just 70 hours I have reverted back to awkward-teenagerdom. I pile my washing high for the chore-fairy to sort, I cook nothing, I leave my room in a mess, and I sit by the fire all evening, nice and toasty. In a word, it is wonderful. There is something delicious about being next to a roaring log fire, while sleet pounds against the windows. Christmastime is a season which I enter into with gusto. I love the songs, the cheesy television, the chestnuts, the general food excess, the last-minute shopping (although I am usually finished by November), and of course, the lovely little family 'disagreements'. When I have fed my Grandad too much rum, and there are no more noisette triangles left, merriness quickly dissipates in murderous stares and pointed silences. However, should this event occur this year, I have been squirreling rations away into my room, where I can happily while away a good few hours snaffling orange cremes. Although I won't get to spend Christmas Day with my lovely boyfriend, I can selfishly spend hours on the telephone to him, and having stepfamilies unequivocally means at least two huuuugggeeeee meals. Indeed, this year, December 27th is the day for the great big family barbecue, to commemorate the new 'pond' at my Dad's house. Instead of the traditional sprouts and turkey, we are all going to slowly freeze while my Dad flips burgers. I think this may be a new Christmas diet, losing pounds through hypothermia. We have a trampoline too, which I may edge towards in an attempt to get the blood flowing. Nevertheless, even if the kebabs burn and the salad wilts, and on the big day itself, if I miss the noisette triangles altogether, I will smile all day and sing to the rooftops. Merry Christmas!

Sky Apple Cafe Review

The long and winding stretch of Heaton Road houses a secret. I don’t mean the singular ATM, nor am I referring to the New-Age Church. Nestled in between two of the more generic eateries, the vegetarian Sky Apple Cafe reigns supreme. Painted in a royal blue and striking purple, this cafe/restaurant is the siren-call of the food industry. You would be forgiven for maiming your car as you drive past, transfixed by the giant blue apple covering the window. This cafe is all about the first impressions; what it lacks in size it makes up for in image, style and finesse. And of course, absolutely scrumptious food.

With a bi-monthly menu makeover, the cafe draws in people from near and far without fail. With only eight tables (of varying sizes), if you don’t book you are likely to be disappointed. However, if you are super-organised and get your name down early, you can enjoy yummy veggie food in quirky surroundings. The front of house staff are so friendly they make me want to weep, and are unfailingly beautiful. Never before have I wanted so badly to be ‘one of them’, almost like my (previous) adoration of B*Witched. A jug of water is standard, with lemon and tiny tumblers – there is no alcohol license, but the off-license down the road sell cheap wine, and the cafe owners are happy for you to bring a bottle (for a small corkage charge). Soft drinks come in the form of good ol’ Fentimans, exotic juices and a selection of posh teas, to name but a few. The window-sill is laden down with magazines, books and leaflets, and daily specials are chalked up on the wall (painted to look like a sunny sky = genius).

The food is simply amazing. I could fill this review with adjectives, and not even skim the surface of my appreciation of the resident chef. Such is my love of the menu; I would gladly use my entire student loan to hire them to cook for me every night. What they achieve with mushrooms is beyond me. If the menu wasn’t laminated, my saliva would smudge the ink. They bandy about gems like ‘toasted pine nuts’, ‘blue cheese dressing’ and ‘slow roasted aubergine’ with true gusto.

To make your visit even more exciting, there are different daytime and evening menus. Paying a visit between 12pm and 4.30pm gives you the opportunity to feast on their ‘proper chips’. Sit them next to any of their fresh-made Paninis and you’re onto a winner. Although the evening menu is regularly changing, I would personally recommend any of the starters; just the other day I polished off the delectable ‘Pumpkin and Blue Cheese Smushi’. Reasonably priced too, considering they’re jam-packed full of exciting ingredients (fried sage and saffron, anyone?) For the main course, there’s usually a choice of five dishes, using local and seasonal produce. The attention to detail is fantastic – my green beans were all cut to the same size and bow-tied in a piece of lemongrass!

To finish off your evening (by now you will feel pretty full of wholesome goodness), why not sample one of their delicious puddings? No fancy pants nonsense here, this month you can experience Heaton Mess, apple and lavender brulee tart, or mango truffle cake. All are guaranteed to leave that lovely tingly feeling in your stomach, and I only wish there were beanbags so I could curl up for a nap.

So head down to Heaton, and support your local veggie feast-house. If you can drag yourself out of bed on a Sunday, they do a mean fry-up, guaranteed to set you on the road to recovery. A life-affirming experience, with enough change to get the bus back to town!

Up-To-Date

My lips are blue. Not, as one may imagine, some bizarre twenty-first century make-up choice, but the result of sleeping inside an igloo. You see, I have recently (ish) moved out of my mushroom-growing, mould-spreading, damp little flat into a glorious and beautiful house with my three girlfriends. Despite the obvious perks (no more spores growing on my lungs), it transpires that our house is possibly the coldest in the British North-East. And that is rather cold. Last night, I shivered myself to sleep in pyjamas, socks, six blankets and a duvet, sandwiching my head between two pillows. These precautions, however, were futile, as I jolted awake at some ungodly hour with my lips swollen and purplish-blue. This facial disfiguration, although painful and horrendous at 3am, does not stop me adoring my new abode. I have spread my belongings as far and wide as the hallway, living-room, upstairs cupboard and shed-in-the-yard. I have bought new pans. I even have plants, which are flourishing (well, not dying). In a word, I am loving it. Ok, that is two words, but my joy is such that I feel compelled to break the rules. Because of this, I can handle a restricted facial blood-flow.

Autumn has officially embraced the North-East. Piles of leaves litter the floor, there is condensation on my window, I favour woolly tights and scarves, and I am drinking lots of hot milk. Summer is a distant memory; more so than a couple of months, actually, seeing as we didn't actually have a decent summer this year. I spent my time scuttling around the country, slaving away to earn a few pennies, and promptly spending them all on a brand new laptop. This excites me, even though I don't actually know how to use the laptop yet. I also won a lovely place on an Arvon course in Shropshire, which took many hours to get to, but was absolutely fantastic. I also volunteered at Latitude festival with Holly, which was fun (apart from the blisteringly cold and miserable eight-hour shift running from midnight to 8am). None of these, however, can compare to our VERY VERY EXCITING trip to Neeewwwwww Yoooorrrrrkkkkk.

Yes! I traversed the land to stay with Anthony and his family, accompanied once more by Holly. We shamelessly did all the touristy things, spend inordinate amounts of money, ate all the American food (a lot) and learnt the lingo. The nine-hour flight was a small mark on the trip, but a week swimming in Anthony's pool, playing baseball and hanging at the mall (oh yes, I know how these things go) was fantastic. I would definitely recommend America, if you can ignore the Americanness of it.

Shortish post, but this is more of an info-filler than a hoot. I have work to do (Hollyoaks, Sky Apple Cafe, Cluny Craft Market, town shopping)

Green Tea and Sympathy

I have just dropped my biscuit into my tea. Normally, this would only be a minor crisis, alleviated by a scooping action with my finger, but today it is a global disaster. You see, my goldfish died yesterday. At the risk of sounding five-years-old, I really loved him (and yes, he was a him, not an 'it') - I bought him lots of treats, I cleaned him out religiously, I played with him to stop boredom (on both our parts). Now that he has passed onto the goldfishy heaven, there is a gaping hole in my heart, which I am filling with green tea and sympathy. Saying that, I am only drinking green tea because I have no milk to make 'proper' tea - consequently I have a funny taste in my mouth all day, but my body gets 'flushed of toxins and impurities from the inside out'. A fair trade, I would say.

I'm moving house this Tuesday, and the pile of boxes in my room now almost reach the window-sill (which is pretty high) - my bedroom has become an obstacle course, where you are likely to be bludgeoned on any number of the beautiful things littering my floor. I have shopped like no other these past few weeks, draining my overdraft like a heroin addict with his last hit. In retrospect, perhaps I did have no need for the oil and vinegar drizzlers, but they look so pretty and the girl in the shop was lovely. This is how it works for me - be nice, and I will just throw my money at you. Good job I'm not into prostitutes.

Anyhow, heartfelt sympathy from friends has travelled my way, and I am pulling myself together today. Going to bed at half past 4 in the morning hasn't done a great deal for my complexion, or sense of wakefulness, but I'm hoping this green tea will counterbalance that. Failing that, I'm sure I hid half a bottle of wine somewhere...

Pensioners into Poetry

Lack of inspiration drives me crazy. People who think writing poetry is a simple flourish of the wrist can go gallivant in a faraway field, for all the use they are to me. For weeks now, I have been desperately tugging at the creative cords wiring my brain, willing myself to unleash a flow of energy which Wordsworth himself could be proud of. (Note to self: you are not, will not, and could not ever compare)...

So, hunched over my notebook at my semi-job in the art gallery back in Lincolnshire, I bristle at a man who wrinkles his nose when I tell him I study English Literature. He sniffs as if I am leprous, taking a step back, although it could be my ghost-pale skin - I have been trying a write-by-night technique, which attempts to force my brain into submission by depriving myself sleep until I write something bearable. If we actually rewind the past five minutes he has been making conversation, whilst eyeing my electric-blue tights, you will understand why I was not his biggest fan. After casually sauntering over, watching me scribble for a few seconds, and then asking disdainfully 'you're not one of those university types, are you?', I knew our conversation was going to be 'interesting'. When I had said, as sweetly as I could with my teeth bared, that yes, in fact I was one of those 'university types', he then nodded knowledgeably, and announced 'ah, well you'll be doing medicine then'. Medicine. Is that the only degree that people 70+ think is on offer? When I corrected him, AND gave the double whammy of my study location of good ol' Newcastle, he positively flinched and walked into the next exhibition. There I could see him taking peeps at me while he recounted his wife, who seemed to be telling him off.

So, back to the drawing board. I decided that the morning's writing was a waste, as I was clearly going to be attacked on all sides by irritating members of the general public (I was accosted by a child about to urinate on the floor, a pensioner who had forgotten who she was travelling with, somebody who wanted a wall-hanging different to every single one we had in stock, and a lady asking if she could take a cutting of our decorative rope for her washing-line). It was only a few days later, when I sat down (again) at my cluttered desk, with a cup of tea and some blackberries, that I realised I had casually been sketching my accosters into my notebook. And so, I decided to work them into my writing somehow - watch this space. Suffering for your art is one thing, but turning pensioners into poetry is entirely another.

Drumming Up Interest

These past few days, I have been co-ordinating children's summer events in and around my hometown. I bridge the gap between the long, boring days of bad-weather summer, and the excitement of twenty pre-pubescents drumming on bongos in one room with no sound-proofing. In my efforts to make sure all children get to the right workshop, all registers are filled, all money is exchanged, all consent forms are provided, and all mums are satisfied...I am shattered. Bone-achingly, mind-numbingly knackered. Now I know a fair few single mums who struggle, but after a day of caring for thirty-two 8-12 year olds, I would have gladly wedged a screaming, teething baby to my hip and sung 'twinkle twinkle' until the small hours.

The thing is, children today seem so dissatisfied with life. I am not animated (apart from in the first hour, when the headache hasn't fully-formed), I do not flash different colours, I do not have an interesting name, and if you push the X button, I will not kung-fu kick my opponent. The caretaker was lovely, and I have no desire to harm him in any way.

Yes, we live in the age of the video-gaming console. Without tarring all children with the same brush, many young people speak solely the language of X-box, PSP and DS, and I am not fluent. Indeed, I am only a beginner, due my enjoyment of taking lead guitar in Rock Band. So, presenting twenty kids with large drums, which do not require a remote control or handset of any form, was bound to be interesting.

The result, I have to say, was fantastic. All of the drummers attacked with gusto, and came up with a pretty impressive sound, which could be heard on the street. I spent the first hour stationed outside the room, expecting tantrums from some of the younger participants. However, I waited in vain...even when the children emerged sweating and faint from their exertions, there was not a whimper of discontent.

Forgive the short post, but my experience this past week has been that if you take a child away from the computer, amazing things really can happen.

What a swine this flu is..

A long time without writing means I have forgotten how to entertain. This is coupled with the delights of being mothered in my native -shire, and the onset of swine flu. Consequently, I am not at my literate best, but I shall try my hardest not to fall asleep.
This has been the month of great adventures! A trip to New York to stay with our token American, Anthony (me and Holly braved the looonnnggggg flights). Needless to say, we had the best time ever, acting like true tourists doing all the sights of the city (Anthony was only slightly nervous at the top of the Empire State Building). I got terrorised in Jekyll and Hydes - an amazing gothic-themed restaurant - and was feet away from Robert Pattinson at one point (unbeknownst to me, alas!)
Upon our return, we had to wait only a few hours for our bags, which had decided to stay in London for a bit, then home to recover from the nasty jetlag which forced me to stay awake long into the night.
Next stop, Latitude Festival in Suffolk, which was lovely apart from the occasional torrential downpour and horrid night shifts. However, the saviour came in the form of ladies in vintage aprons, serving us tea with honey and home made cakes, which were d-i-v-i-n-e. Myself and Holly found further salvation in cheap wine, disco dancing and the Pretenders...a good weekend overall. We even managed to wangle a wee in the backstage toilets, which had MIRRORS and SEATS and REAL FLUSHES. Oh, how the other half live.

Now I'm home for a few weeks, stocking up on food, paracetamol and cash in the form of part-time work in kids clubs and art galleries. I am keeping this post short and sweet, assuming anybody is reading, as I feel the uncontrollable urge to be sick. Not from how rubbish I am at writing, but the effects of swine flu without Tamiflu.

Until next time...(if there is one - I really am not feeling fantastic)