Westminster, Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve found me in an orderly queue outside of Westminster Abbey, waiting for the Christmas Eve service to begin.

The whole experience was beautiful from start to finish. Where else could you apply for free tickets to a service in one of the most famous churches in the world, with carols lead by an exquisite choir of voices, and readings given by local actors and dignities.

Once again, London spoils us with her history, beauty, and elegance.

Northern Line, today.

Christmas Eve rush hour made going to work today almost bearable.

Brixton, yesterday.

Yesterday I had to go on a sprout hunt. Looking for sprouts the day before Christmas Eve can sometimes lead to blows.

Fortunately for me, the nice lady at M&S pointed me in the direction of a huge bin of the tasty wee guys.

Crisis averted.

The future, today.

Dear Next Week,

It would be great if you could please be better than This Week.

Kind regards,
Emma

Food, yesterday.

London's pool of dining establishments is bottomless. Culinary problems here revolve around trying to decide where to go, rather than trying to find a place to go. New establishments open daily, and just as soon as you cross a place off, another goes on the list.

This does throw up the problem of 'repeat visit guilt' however. Surely I really shouldn't be going back to a great place, when there are so many other potentially great places I'm yet to try.

But sometimes you just swallow the guilt and go back anyway. That was me at Mishkin's yesterday.

My current favourite London-based, New York style, kind-of Jewish Deli, with cocktails.

Sequins, last week.

I try not to make a habit to putting party photos up here (after all, isn't that why Facebook exists?) but seeing as it was requested, Susie, here's a pic of the sequined dress being paired up with a bouffant wig and some fairy lights. Just for you.

Together we were the Alien Supremes. Individually, we just looked royally ridiculous.

Christmas, today.

Mulled wine at book club last night ushered in the festive season as far as I'm concerned. Now the talk is of Christmas jumpers (the worse, the better) and work parties (who, when, and where to after).

This morning found the Franconia ladies tree shopping on the high street avec coffee and roast chicken sandwiches from the market.

This evening Christmas really gets going with this dress having what will probably be its one and only outing in the outside world.

Regent Street, this morning.

On my way to a morning seminar today, I took a sneaky peek down a remarkably empty, but quite festive, Regent Street.

Proud, Sunday.

On Sunday, if you opened The Observer to the arts section, you would have been greeted by a large image of a painting by our very talented Franconia lady, Freya.

A whole lot of people out there dream about having that kind of headline written for their work. Very, very few actually get to live it.

Freya is so ridiculously humble, the first we heard of it was when she flippantly said, whilst loading the washing machine, "Oh. I got reviewed". After we heard about it, we made her do the 'something really awesome just happened which I should celebrate' dance. Then we joined in.

Five years on

The last time I spent five years in one place was my childhood at the Bramwell ranch.

Ever since, I've been galivanting about the globe in a footloose and fancy-free way (in keeping with the title of this blog). Until now.

This week signals my five year anniversary of arriving in London town.

I own a bed, wardrobe, pension, a small mountain of clothes, several large kitchen appliances, and quarter of a sofa. That to me is the height of being 'settled'.

And of this country I now call home?

England, I now understand your jokes. I know what a Blue Peter badge is, and I've seen a BBC radio programme being recorded.

I know the best way to get back from Standsted Airport (definitely the Victoria Line), and I can nod sympathetically when someone complains about not getting into Polpo on a Tuesday evening. I roll my eyes when I have to wait more than three minutes for the next tube, and get pedestrian rage anytime I'm forced to spend a moment on Oxford Street. I know how to pronounce vitamins, data, and yoghurt, and have traded pants for trousers.

But despite the great feeling of being able to calculate your tube journey across the city in your head; or laughing knowingly at another Jimmy Savile joke; it's the people I've met over the past five years that keep me and my heart here.

And as much as I'm nomadic at heart, the longer I'm in London, the happier I am to just dig my toes in. Right here.

Christmas, Robyn style.

Franconia was taken over on Saturday by the culinary whirlwind that is Robyn.

Four courses matched with four wines, separated by four sorbets, all with the flavours of Christmas throughout. it was the Come Dine with Me menu that was too good for the real thing. But we got the pleasure of it, even if the nation missed out.

The food hangover was so bad the next day, Freya and I could barely even look at Bex's breakfast. Although by 7pm we could of course manage the leftovers.