A Book To Read in Shoreditch

Posted By Daisy

 

LAST October, I spent a long weekend in Shoreditch with my friends. Below is a recent travel feature I wrote about it.

 

 

 

THERE ARE models everywhere.  Amazonian giants smoking in the covered porch beside the flower shop, and drinking plastic cups of green juice from the bar, skinny legs jutting out under the over-sized granny chic coats and checked blanket scarves thrown casually around their shoulders. At a cement block table, a couple feeds chocolate croissants to their toddler, middle-aged men in turned-up jeans and multi-coloured trainers stride past with clip-boards, and a twenty-something year old listens to music on oversized headphones, bending his head over a silver MacBook, customised with a Snow White sticker. In the background, the DJ plays chill out music against a backdrop of slanted Sunday newspapers hanging on the wall.

 

 

Recently opened on Shoreditch High Street (a formerly grim area of East London, until a renaissance began in 2000 with the establishment of the famous Les Trois Garcons restaurant in a converted Victorian pub), the Ace Hotel is buzzing. Having occupied the former Crowne Plaza building last year, the owner, Alex Calderwood, (who tragically died in one of the hotel rooms less than a month after opening) brought a host of cool-by-numbers accoutrements inspired by its sister hotel in New York – Bentwood chairs, dim library table reading lamps, vinyl records on display at reception, and a few snooty waiting staff. The bell boys wear baseball jackets and caps, there are vintage bicycles stuck to the walls, and the bill comes with a handwritten message ‘Thank you for sleeping with us, xxx.’

 

The hotel may not appeal to every taste. The bedrooms are prison chic minimalism, with props for sale throughout – impractical enamel mugs (too hot to hold when drinking tea), a hard-backed copy of Lolita or Wuthering Heights, a grey Ikea-like plastic box full of Pot Noodles, crisps and condoms, a wall-mounted pencil sharpener and grey sweat-shirt robes. The futon-like beds in our large triple room are very comfortable, but the Perspex windows don’t open and the air is slightly stale inside.

 

 

 

Outside, Shoreditch is a Richard Curtis film location checklist of what a trendy London location should look like. A stroll down the newly-gentrified Red Church Street displays graffiti as art on wooden hoardings below newly-renovated apartments, a converted warehouse sells designer clothes and tickets to its basement cinema, pumpkins tumble on a display outside a designer deli on one corner near another shop selling old-fashioned wire pot scrubbers and enamel ladles and a spray-painted grunge/thrift shop called ‘Sick’.

 

 

In the nearby The Breakfast Club (almost in the shadow of the Gherkin building), we eat brunch sitting on old metal bus seats in front of a Smeg Fridge, the unique portal to a secret speakeasy bar at night (if you know the password), and read the graffiti on the My Little Pony wallpaper in the toilets. A five-minute walk away is Spitalfields market, with beautiful handbags, art, cupcakes, and quirky, cheap jewellery, which the stall holder claims is sourced from Harrods suppliers. In the nearby Boxpark pop-up mall, (a shopping centre made of shipping containers), there is over-priced designer glassware, and a shop that sells neon Onesies.

 

 

 

At the other end of Red Church Street is Brick Lane. English and Bengali street names mark the bustling streets which host Eastenders-lookalike second-hand leather shops, BYOB curry houses, and 24-hour- bakeries selling freshly-made bagels for 60p. We attend an exhibition of erotic Japanese art in the Old Truman Brewery, and wander through the darkened rooms holding lanterns up to peer at paintings in glass cases while wearing 3D glasses. In a packed antiques shop (called ‘This Shop Rocks’) we read through a stack of old postcards. Remnants from the estate of a recently deceased woman, these vignettes of her private life are now on sale in wooden boxes between old typewriters and china Staffordshire dogs.

 

Later we join groups of platinum-haired girls in short skirts tripping down the cobbled streets of Brick Lane, and sharing fish bowl cocktails in Casa Blue bar, before having a few late drinks in the (slightly grubby) Vibe bar at the Old  Truman Brewery. There’s a different ambiance here at the other end of Red Church street – Brick Lane is more ten-straw fish bowls than custom-made cocktails, more platform-heels and short skirts than scuffed brogues and t-shirt sleeves rolled up a la Kevin Bacon in ‘Footloose’.

 

 

 

On Sunday morning, we meet people walking slowly back along Columbia Road, hugging armfuls of pink peonies and brown-paper-wrapped lemon trees. At the famous flower market, we push through crowds in the middle of a street flanked by stall holders selling huge bunches of willow, and green cabbage roses tinged with pink, before enjoying a leisurely tapas lunch in Laxeiro. Our flowers propped up on the windowsills, we drink Cava and watch the tourists outside taking photographs of the restaurant cat sitting on a car roof in the winter sun.

 

www.loungelover.uk.com

 

At night, we venture to Lounge Lover (located down a side alley off Red Church Street, and identified only by a neon pink flashing heart) for marshmallow cocktails in the shadow of a huge glass palm-tree chandelier and ten foot oriental vases, and afterwards join the hungry queues in the dimly-lit, nightclub-like Pizza East, where waiting times can total 90 minutes.

 

Love it or loathe its too-cool-for-school attitude, Shoreditch is a perfect spot to spend a weekend in London. With a host of bars and restaurants both on and near the high street, there’s no need to worry about catching the last tube back to the hotel, or to wonder where the action is. It’s here. And located less than a ten minute walk from Liverpool Street station, it’s also an easy trip to the more obvious London tourist attractions.

 

Although, you better get there fast. According to my cool colleague Dani, Shoreditch is so over now. Dalston is the place to be.

 

As an antidote to all that coolness, we also tried on soldiers' hats at the Tower of London, watched a gorgeous guy breakdance in Leicester Square and browsed the (inexplicable) M&M store

Don’t miss in Shoreditch:

·         Have the run of a three-story Georgian house in the beautifully-decorated The Commercial Tavern, complete with tiled bars, multiple chandeliers and antlers on the walls.
·         Whoosh up to the 38^th floor of the Heron Tower in a glass elevator, and have a drink at a bar built around an orange tree or on one of the outdoor terraces in Sushi Samba
·         Eat gourmet pork scratchings with a view in the more affordable Duck and Waffle on the 40^th floor of the Heron Tower
·         Say the password and walk through a fridge in The Breakfast Club to the secret speakeasy bar ‘The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town’.
·         Book your two hour slot online, and stare down the haughty front-of-house staff at Lounge Lover to try some of the best cocktails in London
·         Visit a plethora of bars in Hoxton Square
·         Stay local and have a gingerbread cocktail in Barrio East on Shoreditch High Street
·         Enjoy the roof gardens in Boundary
·         Book a night in a tiny hotel room in Shoreditch House and enjoy the (members only) club for 24 hours – we spotted Russell Brand walking his dog down the street recently
·         Visit M Goldstein antiques for a quirky seaside barometer, industrial neon alphabet letters, or an 8 foot robot.

 

TWO of my friends had mental health difficulties. One had a psychotic break while we were away on holidays. So Nathan Filer’s debut novel, ‘The Shock of the Fall’, resonated loudly with me. It disturbed and scared me. Filer previously worked as a mental health nurse and the main character's (Matthew) fall into deep schizophrenia seemed very real – his constant writing in notebooks, his filthy flat full of a structure he spent weeks building, his belief that his brother is still here, his dismissal by all of his friends after becoming sick, and his constant smoking on the psychiatric ward, were all very believable plot lines.

And there was also the double whammy of Matthew's brother who has special educational needs.

It was interesting that when I googled ‘The Shock of the Fall’, that Graeme Simpsion’s ‘The Rosie Project’ appeared under ‘related searches’. Two totally different books, but both about non-typically developing people, one with Downs Syndrome and the others with Asperger-like tendencies. One is uplifting (The Rosie Project), and the other, although it ends on a somewhat hopeful note, depresses me long after closing it.

Full of suspense and a foggy story-line that is slowly revealed over the course of the book, I was hooked. I understand why Filer won the 'Costa Book of the Year 2013' award. It's a complicated, clever book.

However, I'm not sure if I’ll recommend this book to anyone who has come into contact with any of the themes – it may simply cut too close to the bone.

A Book to Read in a French Restaurant in London while eating Creme Brulee and Macarons

Posted By Daisy

'East End Faces', Sunday Times Magazine 1968; Bailey's Stardust

LAST WEEK, I did lots of lovely London things.

On Thursday, I went to Bailey’s ‘Stardust’ in the National Portrait Gallery. It was so relaxing wandering around looking at the photographs with lovely music playing in the background.

Afterwards, I met my friends for drinks at ‘Lateshift’ in the lobby. It felt very ‘Sex and The City’ wandering around the gallery, glass of cava in hand. Especially when a friend of a friend introduced herself with a limp handshake, elevator-eyed my leopard print dress and brogues (I thought I looked the part anyway!) and said smoothly ‘What do you do?’ Blunt as you like. What I really wanted to say was ‘Oh, is that question back in vogue again, haven’t heard it since 1985’, but of course I was so taken aback, I ended up sounding like a spluttering fool.

www.nhm.ac.uk

My brother in law told me that when he had an important decision to make recently, he climbed the stairs in the Great Hall of the Natural History Museum, and thought ‘How could one not strive for greatness in a place as beautiful this?’

It was even better with less crowds last weekend. Myself and a friend attended the ‘Beautiful tour there on Valentine’s night. We had drinks and snacks, and did a mini tour of the museum.

A geologist showed us the beauty of the solar system, and rocks.

The Blaschka Collection

 

Another scientist showed us tiny glass sculptures of sea creatures from the Blaschka collection. She passed one around to the audience in a box, and as we heard the soft thwunk of a glass ornament hitting the carpet, we all turned around to hear muffled apologies and a girl hiding her head in her boyfriend's jumper.

A very entertaining zoologist showed us lots of photographs of hideous-looking fish. He talked about the sea horses mating dance (where the female woos the male), and about fish whose bodies light up deep in the ocean.

www.theritzlondon.com

On Saturday night, we drank cocktails and ate olives and salted almonds in the gorgeous Rivoli bar at the Ritz, where we people-watched with the rest of the tourists sampling a piece of the high-life. There was a middle-aged woman in a risqué red sequinned dress, a man in a jacket holding a chair for a beautiful woman wearing a full length fur coat over her little black dress, and a friendly, fresh-faced waiter from Dublin.

www.lartistemuscle.com

Afterwards, we went to one of my favourite, totally un-ritzy restaurants, across the road in Shepherd’s Market, L’Artiste Muscle, to eat boeuf bourguignon and crème brulee. On a recent weeknight trip there, I heard a posh businessman thanking the waiter for ‘the best snails I’ve eaten in my life.’ 

This week however, I've spent lots of time babysitting. And learned something about the simple pleasures of life.

‘I’m so happy’, my 3-year-old nephew told me.

‘Why’, I asked.

‘Because I found my red digger book,’ he exclaimed, as if it was the most obvious reason in the world.

'TransAtlantic' by Colum McCann

Elevator Pitch: Two men cross the Atlantic in a tiny plane, a former American slave tours Ireland as famine begins, an Irish maid takes a ship to New York and builds a new life, a senator brokers a historic agreement, there’s death in an ice house, and an ancient letter is finally opened – there are so many fictional and historical stories intermingled in ‘TransAtlantic’, it’s difficult to remember them all.

And although I really enjoyed reading this, I just don’t think I’ll remember it in the same way as I remember ‘Dancer’ or ‘Let the Great World Spin’.

 

 

Lovely London Things #5

Café opposite Pentonville Prison called 'The Breakout', Islington

A Book to Read When it's February (Hallellujah)

Posted By Daisy



 

JANUARY is over. Hallelujah. I had two fabulous weeks on Christmas holidays in Ireland.

By numbers, it went something like this:

Cigarettes smoked: Too many (I fell off the wagon and had a cigarette in my mouth before my suitcase hit the hall floor on arrival in my mum’s house)

Nights out: 10 (out of 14)

Fake fur, elbow length sleeved, opera coats acquired: 1 (Thanks mum)

People who kissed me on the mouth: 1 (a red lipsticked work-friend was delighted I was home and landed a platonic smacker on me)

Resolutions made: 3 (Get one short story published anywhere this year; Be brave and remember, nothing is serious really; Approach men I like instead of waiting and being overly delighted by the eejits who approach me)

Bedroom bins puked into after a night out: 1

Future events during which I’ll drink Dark and Stormy’s all night long: 0

People I insulted: 1 (Sorry, BR)

Pounds lost: Half a stone (with all the smoking and drinking, I didn’t feel much like eating)

Friends I met who were having a rough time of it in the run-up to Christmas: 3

Bar counters sat at on Christmas Eve listening to a lovely friend discussing something sad: 1

Bracing walks by the sea: 2

Men whose girlfriends were 3000 miles away on holidays who came up behind me and tweaked my waist inappropriately in the pub smoking area, before asking me was I still single:1

Minutes spend talking to that guy after the tweaking: 0 (I got out of there fast, realising that if anyone else saw any hint of flirting, it would be me, the single girl, who would be blamed)

Men I greeted as I walked past them on a crowded dance floor who held up their ring fingers in a panic and shouted ‘I’m married’ before whipping out photos of their twins on their iPhone: 1

Previous moments I had ever thought of that man in a romantic way: 0

Cosy bus journeys up the west coast of Ireland at night: 1

Number of men kissed: 0 (disappointment)

Number of men chatted to/ego boosted by: A fair few – yippee for Irish friendly men.

Then I came back to London. I felt shivery and exhausted the first week and thought ‘Feck London, it’s the same here as anywhere else, what am I doing with my life…..’ and other such cheery thoughts.

 

I was also slapped lightly with London unfriendliness on the day I arrived home. Standing outside my apartment block, smoking a cigarette, wearing my new leather cross-shoulder bag, I said ‘Hiya’ to a couple who exited via the door beside me. They both looked at me strangely, said nothing and walked on. As they walked down the road, I heard the girl mutter something and the guy saying loudly ‘I swear, I never saw her before in my life, I promise, I don’t know who she is, honest, I never saw her before, I thought she was a courier….’ I may have caused a fight between a couple by simply saying hi. Seriously.

The second week was spent hovering, washing, ironing, spraying and moth balling every piece of clothing I own, after finding little brown moths burrowing in my favourite fake fur coat (Both Google and my mum told me to put it in a plastic bag in the freezer to kill the critters, but I considered it a fairly major house-share faux pas – imagine, one of my flatmates arriving home from work, whistling as they open the freezer to get out their frozen pizza, and boom, a moth-eaten fur coat squashed in the meat section – so, with regret, I threw it out).

On the third week, I felt better, and on the fourth week, our 17-year-old dog, Benny, died and I cried on the tube while looking at photos of him, and wished I was at home in Ireland. I wanted to get his bowl bronzed but my mum refused, and then had a great laugh with the rest of the family, embellishing the story to become ‘Daisy wants to store Benny’s ashes in his open bronzed drinking bowl on the mantelpiece.’ Despite the fact that the whole family has bite mark scars from him, we’ll still really miss him.

Mainly minor issues, I know. But still. Roll on February.

 

Things I’ve learned over the past month:

• You don’t have to be the life and soul of the party. Sometimes, people appreciate you just showing up. Be brave and show up – you never know what might happen.
• Life can turn on a sixpence. Enjoy it.
• Men in their thirties can be strange sometimes.

'Play it As it Lays' by Joan Didion

My brother in law is working his way through this list of books that promises to ‘change your life’.

Elevator Pitch: Even though the book is set in LA in the late 1960’s, it still feels modern and relevant. Two-bit actress Maria struggles with her failing marriage to a film producer, her relationship with the vapid women around her, her constant visits to her disabled daughter in a care home, and her languid days spent lying by the pool or driving aimlessly down the freeway.

It’s a bleak, almost catatonic book where nothing really happens, but it definitely portrays the languid life of a not-so-successful Hollywood starlet.

(all above drawings by the amazing www.marcjohns.com)

 

 

 

 

About gingerbread men and balls

Posted by Jenny

  

 “Mahmah! The gingerbread man does poos!”

I blinked a few times at the perky blond head with big blue eyes. In my defence, I was about to have the first sip of my first coffee of the day and have only been dragged out of bed minutes before that.
“What babe?”
“The gingerbread man does poos.”
“No he doesn’t.”
“Yes he does.”
“No he doesn’t.” One sip of coffee doesn’t have much of an impact on me.
“Yes he does. I saw him!” Clearly confident she won that argument, my youngest prances off undoubtedly gloating in my defeat. I have another sip of my coffee while Shrek continues to try and save Fiona on the telly. At least it clarifies my daughter’s reflections on the gingerbread man’s toileting abilities. I can’t remember there being a scene on bowel motions though.

A second cup of coffee later I simply have to ask her “Why do you think that the gingerbread man does poos?”

She looks at me as if I’m being very silly. “Because he talks.”
Oh.
“He does poos because he talks?”
“Yes. And they’re pink.”
“Pink?”
“Yes, the gingerbread man does pink poos.” She all but rolls her eyes.

I suppose there is no reason why the gingerbread man can’t do pink poos, but I definitely don’t remember a scene in Shrek on pink bowel motions. I know better than to start a discussion on this. I have learned to pick my battles.

Another example of my parenting abilities… well, let me wow you.

“Mahmah! I want a sweetie!”
“What’s the magic word?”
“Please…..”
“Please what?”
“Can I have a sweetie please?”
“No.” – see what I mean?
“WHHAAAAHHH!!!” noise. More to the point, preventable noise.
“It’s nearly dinner time, you have to wait until after dinner time.” As if the voice of reason would work now. At least I tried…. Too little too late.
“WHAAAAAHH!!!” more noise. Then… “Mahmah! I’m going to kick you in the balls!”
My mouth literally fell open as I turned around to my youngest. And now for my reaction…..
“I’m going to kick you in the balls!”

Prime parenting! Perhaps I was having an off day…..  whatever. She started giggling. The noise stopped. Peace returned. Sort of.   

Ah well. Two of them are now sitting under the table as I try to write this while zipping my boots open and making jungle sounds! If you can’t beat them, join them, I suppose. Let me just sign off by saying that I’m very interested in reading publications by new fantasy writers and review them in this blog (smiley face). Excuse me, I have a few monkeys to chase!

A Book to Read When You've Got Your Mojo Back

Posted By Daisy

LAST WEEKEND, I put on a red dress, stuffed a Santa suit into my bag and headed into town to meet my friends for Santacon. Initially, I couldn’t understand what it was all about. I asked them if we needed tickets, or was there an official start time? 'All in good time, my friend, all in good time,' they said.

We fought the Oxford St crowds and found Santacon in full flow near the tube station. Where I discovered that Santacon is a few thousand people dressed up as Santa all gathering to drink and smoke on the street.

Everyone on this wall was singing a call-and-response -  ‘What do we want?’ ‘CHRISTMAS!’
‘When do we want it?’ ‘NOW!’

We weren't ready to join the melee. So we decided to have a quick drink across the street in the Langham Hotel. But the doorman spotted us as we walked fast past him, and told us (with the slightest twinkle) about his ‘No Santa Suits’ dress code.

If you can’t beat them, join them, we said. And promptly bought drinks and mixers in a nearby shop.

It was so much fun. We were hugged by random Santa’s as they ran past. If a lone elf passed, everyone shouted ‘Elf, Elf, Elf’ and threw Brussels sprouts at them. The ground was littered with them.

 

And later on, lots of non-Santas wanted to take their picture with us.  And I may have kissed an Asian Santa in a Soho pub.

On the last tube home, people sang and made eye contact, and the station master put on a funny voice for his announcements in Leicester Square.

London is great at Christmas, but I can’t wait to go home to Cork tomorrow for the first time in four months.

 

 

Elevator Pitch: A middle-aged man with high aspirations, a long-suffering wife and some strange friends, writes every mundane and hilarious detail of his life in his diary.  His n'er-do-well son returns to live at home for a while and turns their quiet life upside down.

Definitely not a book that attracts with it's dull, brown cover, it's actually very funny and I found myself stifling a fair few smiles on the early-morning tube.

 

 

Lovely London Things #4

ISN’T it lovely when someone has the imagination to preserve an old shop sign?

Anglo Persian Carpet Co, South Kensington tube station

Especially when the current function of the shop is completely at odds with the old sign.

Palmers exotic pet shop, which sold Talking Parrots and Monkeys; Parkway, Camden
In operation since 1918, they once sold a cat to Winston Churchill, and two Abyssinian kittens to Charlie Chaplin.
It's now a coffee shop.



Schram and Scheddle, Upper St, Islington

 

I OFTEN pass these two vintage shops during my working week in Islington, and always admired the old ‘Schram and Scheddle’ sign.

Gift shop owner, Stan Westwood, unearthed the painted-over shop sign in 1978 when he established his shop, Preposterous Presents, which remained at the 262 Upper Street location for over 30 years.

It took Westwood, some time to think of the name ‘Preposterous Presents’, an homage to the fact that the first 3 letters of ‘Schram’ were the same as the first 3 letters of ‘Scheddle’.

Intriguingly, Westwood also found a strange package hidden in a loft at the rear of the shop. Addressed to the man of the house, the package contained a letter from Middlesex Lunatic Asylum, informing him that his wife was being detained in the asylum, along with a card with visiting times written on it. And hidden in another bag was a cut throat razor.

He reveals the rest of the story here, if you'd like to read it.

I was delighted to discover that Michael Rosen has recorded a short poem called ‘Schram and Scheddle' - how utterly random!