Little Sis Gets Hitched

Megan & Nick's Wedding from Rowan Stanfield on Vimeo
Original photoset by Rowstar on Flickr

Last weekend, my little sister got married. The same little sister with whom I spent hours and days playing epic games of Sindys and doll-dressing-dolls (as we called them); darling cute Megan got all growed up and tied the knot. Somehow this seemed more grown up even than her buying a house or having a baby (which she did in 2008). Why? Because, I suppose, it's a conscious choice one makes to get married, you have to make arrangements and send invites, whereas a baby can come along and be a complete surprise (not that this was the case with hers, I should emphasise). The decision to get married is a public statement of settling down that somehow propells you into adulthood like nothing else.

And for a big sister, watching her youngest sibling walk down the aisle and being her Matron of Honour (yes, I think I am too old to be called a bridesmaid) is an emotional business. But also a wonderful one. Megan and Nick's wedding was an utterly joyful occasion, filled with smiles, laughter, music, friendship and love. My own contribution to the day, apart from aforementioned duties, was to sing them through their register-signing with a rendition of 'Now I've Seen You' from the musical Honk. I also threw in a spontaneous chorus of '(I've Had) the Time of My Life' at the end of the night, aided and abetted by Natalie (well, if someone would leave a live mic switched on in the room with us two there, what do they expect?). It was a day (and night) to remember in so many ways and I am so very happy for both bride and groom.

Some of the highlights, including both my rehearsed and impromptu performances, are captured in this video/slideshow. The embarrassing bit is right at the end, so I'm counting on noone having the patience to watch it all the way through.

Doing Our Bit: A Haiti Fundraiser Event

Last Thursday I dusted off the camera kit for my first photography gig of 2010, a charity fundraising night organised by a gang of Brighton music promoters and community groups in aid of the Haiti earthquake emergency appeal. 

Despite the torrential weather, hoardes of revellers showed up to support this great cause and dance the night away to some of Brighton's grooviest bands. The performers, who all donated their time for free, included Manouchska, The Fat 45, Pollito Boogaloo, Kalakuta Millionaires, Fanfara and Nhasitafara.

There was a real festival atmosphere in the air as the packed venue buzzed with frantic dancing and feelgood factor from 8pm til 2am (and on a school night, too).  When bands weren't playing, there were DJs in every room, spinning everything from the Star Wars cantina theme to swinging Rock n Roll. I was in my element, capturing the action both on stage and on the dancefloor and throwing a few moves of my own at the same time. You can see the results of my efforts here in this slideshow, which is also available on Flickr.

As well as snapping away all night, I was also playing the part of intrepid reporter, interviewing unsuspecting punters, promoters and artists for the official video of the night (currently being edited together by filmmaker, Scott Lawson). All in all it was a super night, which raised nearly £3,000 for the Disasters Emergency Committee Haiti Appeal. A big slap on the back to all the performers and organisers who made it happen, not to mention the punters who dug deep and partied hard to make it go off with a bang.

If you couldn't make it along last Thursday, but would like to do your bit for Haiti, you can donate online here.

Jesca Hoop at the Latest Music Bar (and Other Adventures)

After the cultural and social wilderness that was January, it was a pleasant shock to the system to kick-start February with not one but four nights out in a row. This tetralogy of delights began on Wednesday evening with a few pints at the Barley Mow in Kemp Town, followed by a ride in Jen's girl-racer vintage sports car and coffee back at ours accompanied by the excellent new Charlotte Gainsbourg album, Irm, which I'd just bought that day.

On Thursday Ant and I made a last minute decision to go and see Jesca Hoop at the Latest Music Bar, our first gig of the year - and what a show. I'd heard and liked Jesca Hoop on 6Music and via Last.fm, which is why she'd popped up on my recommended gigs feed. In the flesh she was spirited, accomplished and utterly transporting, affecting me in the way that only a select few (mostly female) artists have ever done before. I'm thinking particularly of such memorable gigs as My Brightest Diamond, Camille and Carina Round, who all possessed, and indeed still posses, a certain sensual je ne se quoi that oozes out through their performance.

With its gorgeous three-part harmonies, foot-tapping rhythms and perfectly enunciated lyrics, Jesca Hoop's music is infused with all manner of influences - from folk to blues, gypsy to bluegrass - but her style is very much her own. It felt like a real privilege to see her in an intimate venue at what feels like a tipping point in her career. I was far too swept away to remember to get my camera out during the gig, so the above video is from Jesca Hoop's acoustic set at Resident Records earlier that day. Gigs in Bristol, Leeds, Middlesbrough, Glasgow, Aberdeen, Edinburgh, Manchester, Dublin, Galway and Belfast are coming up in the next couple of weeks - I strongly recommend you get yourself along. For more details of the tour, visit Jesca Hoop's MySpace page.

I've learned to expect the unexpected on a night out with Angell, but If you'd told me in advance that I'd be peeing behind a curtain in the basement of a disused fabric shop in Dalston during his birthday celebrations on Friday, I may have raised an eyebrow. It all felt a bit Hernando's Hideaway tapping on the door, uttering a password and having 'c**t' stamped on our hands before being allowed into what was clearly not the most legitimate of club nights. Despite the basic facilities and smoky conditions (people smoking inside, how retro), it was a good night. We drank copious amounts of rum and danced to all manner of cheese, including the classic You Got the Love (the Candi Staton/Source version) to which I have a vague embarrassing memory of throwing shapes. Oh dear.

Saturday's jollifications were a little more sedate but no less entertaining. Damien's birthday drinks in the Park Crescent rolled on into the early hours back at his and Olly's place, where we were treated to Olly's magnificent Squidgy Chocolate Log. I can't think of many better ways to round off a Saturday night, can you?

The Giant Jaffa Cake: Recipe and Philosophy

Inspired by my friend Madame Jo Grey's impressively accurate giant French Fancy (baked for her daughter's 2nd birthday last year), I decided to attempt a similar feat with the humble jaffa cake. Like most sweet-toothed Brits, my other half Ant is a big fan of the jaffa cake and I loved the idea of presenting him with a home-baked giant version for his birthday. After much pondering and a little online research, I settled upon the method below - a mixture of existing recipes, intuition and my own invention. I was rather pleased with the result, which you can see pictured here (next to a standard jaffa cake to demonstrate scale).

The Giant Jaffa Cake was served at Ant's birthday party last night and became the subject of much admiration and discussion as it sat waiting to be eaten all evening. But the proof is in the pudding as they say, and I am happy to report that there was a big thumbs up all round from our guests, who scoffed the lot enthusiastically within minutes of it being cut.

Giant Jaffa Cake Recipe

Equipment & Ingredients

• Wok or large curved frying pan (make sure this will fit in the oven), lined with greaseproof paper
• Curved breakfast plate or shallow dish
• Note: the wok/frying pan is to make the base and the plate will be the mold for the jelly, so make sure the two are the right proportions in relation to each other to create a convincing jaffa cake.

For the jaffa cake base:
225g unsalted butter
225g caster sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 large eggs
200g self raising flour
25g cornflour

For the jaffa cake topping:
Jar of shredless marmalade
Packet of orange or tropical fruit flavoured vegetarian jelly crystals (available from any good healthfood store)
150ml double cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon unsalted butter
150g dark chocolate, broken into small chunks

Method

Preheat the oven to 180〬c/gas mark 4

Cream the butter and sugar together, by hand or in a mixer, until light and fluffy. Add the vanilla and then the eggs, one at a time. As spoonful of flour between eggs will stop the mixture from curdling. When well combined, add the rest of the flour and the cornflour and finally a little milk to bring the mixture to a sticky batter consistency.

Pour the mixture into the lined frying pan or wok and check after 25 minutes. Use a cocktail stick to see if it is cooked through - if it comes out with cake mix on it you'll know it's still raw in the middle and will need to give it a bit longer. When's it's done it should look golden brown and feel springy to the touch. At this point, remove from the oven and leave in the wok on a rack for 10 minutes or so before carefully turning out the cake to cool completely.

Meanwhile, make the jelly using half the amount of recommended liquid. Because I could only find tropical flavour vegetarian jelly, I made it up with a mixture of orange juice and water (boiled together). Add a dollop of orange marmalade to get that extra tanginess and mix with a fork until everything has dissolved. Pour into the plate or shallow dish, leave to cool then put in the fridge to set.

When both bits of the giant jaffa cake are cool, carefully slice the top off the cake to make a flat surface for the jelly. Mix a tablespoon of marmalade with a little freshly boiled water to make a paste. Brush this onto the centre of the cake where the jelly will go and leave to go sticky. Now comes the tricky bit. Carefully lift the cake and turn it upside down, lowering onto the plate of jelly. Holding both bits together firmly, turn the cake back over and hopefully the jelly will come loose. You may need to do a little adjusting to get it to sit centrally on the cake.

And now for the chocolate topping. Rather than using unadulterated melted chocolate - which is difficult to spread neatly and may melt the jelly - I prefer to use a ganache icing, which goes on cool and is much easier to spread. Pour the cream into a heavy bottomed saucepan and add the vanilla, butter and chocolate. Bring to the boil, agitating as you go to stop the chocolate pieces clumping. As soon as the chocolate has melted, remove from the heat and whisk until thick and glossy.

Allow the icing to cool for 10 minutes or so, whisking occasionally to keep it smooth and making sure it doesn't start to set. Using a spatula or palette knife (I use the scraper that came with my Kenwood Chef), dollop the icing onto the cake, starting at the top of the jelly and spreading around evenly, working your way down in stages and making sure not to let it drip onto the underneath of the cake. Smooth everything over as much as possible, then use the side of your spreader to mark lines across the top in a criss-cross pattern. Go in opposite directions for each line to get the best effect.

Pop the cake in the fridge to set, then serve with pride.

Thanks and credit are due to my culinary guru Nigella Lawson whose baking bible How to Be a Domestic Goddess proved an invaluable resource in the development of the Giant Jaffa Cake.

I Am a Shooting Star: a Spaced Out Sci Fi Party

Ever since the Green Man Festival 2007 I've been trying to track down a song called 'I am an Astronaut', played in the dance tent there by Pete Fowler of Monsterism fame as the final track of his stormingly groovy DJ set (to which I can be seen dancing here).

All I could ever find, though, was a downbeat version by Snow Patrol which you'd never want to play at a party (unless you wanted people to leave). I managed to determine that the original was by Ricki Wilde (younger brother of Kim) and was originally recorded in the 70s - but never actually found anywhere to download or buy it.

When we decided to throw a space themed party for my birthday this year, I knew I had to include the song in my DJ set, and renewed my quest in earnest. With a little more online know-how and some purposeful determination, I eventually found it.

The 'Spaced Out' theme inspired some of the best costume efforts I've ever seen amongst my friends, and with the addition of a robot dancing competition, a superb Clangers cake (made by my talented sister), a screening of the legendary Turkish Star Wars and some out of this world live music from St Anthony's Fire, it truly was a night to remember.

Finally spinning the tune I've been dreaming about for the last two years, I watched affectionately from behind the decks as my drunken amigos stumbled around in a cloud of glitter, hugging each other in that end of the night "you're brilliant, no you're brilliant" way. I like birthdays.

A Fond Farewell: Hettie Miller, RIP

Growing up is something I've mostly been trying to defer, but sometimes life just catches you by surprise and suddenly it can't be helped. Last week was one of those times, when we said goodbye to Ant's beloved Grandmother Hettie, aka Gaggy, who passed away peacefully at the ripe old age of 95. Having lost the last of my own grandparents some years ago, I'd adopted Ant's Gran (the last of his) as my own and had grown to love her as such over the last decade. The presence of grandparents always made childhood feel somehow more accessible, and the acceptance of adulthood now seems increasingly inevitable without them.

Final farewells are never easy, but unlike so many of the funerals I've been to - which mourned young lives cut short - Hettie's was a celebration of a full life well-lived. Of course it was still a sad occasion, but our tears were purely selfish; we felt sad because we'll miss her, not because her death was unfair. In this case, death came as a welcome relief from a life that had quite simply run out of steam. A mercifully short decline had given way to the kind of dignified departure to which most of us would aspire: surrounded by loved ones at home, ready and willing to go.

I'll always remember Gaggy as a gentle and inspiringly stoical lady, holding court at family occasions and never missing an opportunity to offer a wry opinion or crack a witty quip. Truly the grand matriarch, she was eternally proud and supportive of her three kids, eight grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. I was touched to witness two of my contemporary in-laws, both expecting in June, comparing bumps at the wake afterwards. Soon there will be another two little lives added to Hettie's generous legacy: one generation making way for the next as the circle of life continues. Dauntingly, this also means that our parents are now the oldest generation and we have moved up one branch on the family tree ourselves. It certainly feels like the end of an era, but quite what the new one holds in store, I have yet to determine.

Last Post (of 2008)

This week we're looking after our little four year old nephew, who is (occasional wilful tantrums notwithstanding) a joy to entertain, but leaves little time or energy for such frivolities as blogging. So for my final post of 2008, I offer quite simply a list of all my favourite happenings, cultural, sentimental and culinary, from this past year. This comes with an invitation for you to reply with your own 'Best of 2008' and warmest wishes for a very happy and peaceful 2009 to you all.

Books
1. Dusty Answer by Rosamond Lehmann
2. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver
3. The Rain Before It Falls by Jonathan Coe

Films
1. Juno
2. In Bruges
3. No Country for Old Men

Gigs
1. Camille at Den Atelier, Luxembourg
2. Scott Matthew at Bush Hall, London
3. Sigur Ros at Latitude Festival, Suffolk

Albums
1. Camille - Music Hole
2. Lykke Li - Youth Novels
3. Foals - Antidotes

Theatre
1. Avenue Q, Noel Coward Theatre, London
2. Power Lunch, Open House, Brighton
3. Bonnie in Brighton, Three and Ten, Brighton

Restaurants
1. Bom Bane's, Brighton
2. Cyrano, Budapest
3. Carnevale, Moorgate, London

Clubs
1. The Magic Theatre at Bloomsbury Ballroom
2. Vive La Fip at Komedia
3. Carnivalesque at Barfly

Moments
1. Nathaniel Aldous Carn (my new nephew) born
2. Getting my teeth fixed
3. Singing on stage for the first time in 15 years

Vegetarian Christmas Lunch, My Way

There are few things I enjoy more than cooking up a feast for friends and family, so it was a great privilege to be the designated chef for this year's Christmas lunch round at my Mum's on Thursday. Usually I hide in the lounge watching old films with my sister while big bro and Mum do all the food, but with both siblings away this year, I was only too pleased to offer my culinary services, and Mum was delighted to be able to put her feet up for once. I do a roast most weekends anyway, so it wasn't a massive challenge, but I did go a little bit crazy since it was a special occasion. Ant helped me do most of the preparation the night before, so there wasn't actually much to do on the day, giving us all more time to knock back a glass or two of delicious pink Prosecco. The above picture may look like a disgustingly greedy portion, but in my defence, they were unusually petite plates (Mum's not mine). It was also the first year in ages that there has been absolutely no meat or fish on the table, and although not everyone present was a vegetarian (most apart from me are pescetarians), it was so tasty that nobody minded in the least. I always try to make a plate of food as colourful as possible, so the following assortment was conceived with aesthetic as well as gustatory variety in mind.

Chestnut & spinach loaf
This was adapted from a recipe in Leiths Vegetable Bible. I replaced half the nut quantity with a tin of chestnut puree (making for a more moist end result), and added some cheese (Lancashire) to the middle layer with the spinach.

Roast potatoes
My mum is a bit of a traditionalist, so I am never normally allowed roasties with their skins on. To me the crunchy nutty jacket is by far the best bit, and thankfully noone complained when they were served my preferred version of this Christmas dinner staple, complete with skins.

Mashed swede & squash
We'd had a rather large squash (I'm not certain what variety) delivered in our Abel & Cole veg box, so it seemed a shame not to include it. I steamed this together with some swede and mashed them up with lots of butter and black pepper, and a little rock salt.

Oven roasted ratatouille
Not normally something associated with Christmas dinner, but the sharpness of the tomatoes and fresh basil, combined with slowly roasted courgettes, leeks and peppers provided a welcome contrast to the other stodgier flavours and textures on the plate.

Spiced red cabbage
Stewed down with red wine, stock and spices for over an hour, this added a fantastic splash of purple to the plate.

Oven roasted coriander carrots
According to Delia, winter carrots are blander than the summer variety, so she suggests roasting rather than boiling them in order to preserve maximum flavour. The addition of ground coriander seeds and black pepper is also her suggestion, as found on p.198 of Delia's Vegetarian Collection.

Parmesan-coated roast parsnips
A special request from Ant, these were based on another Delia recipe that I'd made once before a few years ago and he had never forgotten.

Peas & broccoli
Unadulterated greens, simply steamed for the best flavour.

Gravy
Made to my own special secret recipe.

Condiments
I am afraid I didn't stretch to making these myself, but we did have a good selection - including cranberry sauce, red onion chutney (my favourite) and mango chutney.

According to plan, there was plenty of everything left to make a substantial bubble & squeak on Boxing Day. We just warmed it all through in a big vat on the stove, whizzed in some extra herbs and spices, then grated over a generous helping of Applewood cheese and finished it off under the grill. Since that second gut-busting blow-out I've been living on a more moderate diet of cheese and crackers, which is honestly my favourite bit of the Christmas culinary indulgences.

Twas the Night Before the Night Before Christmas

Last night as I returned from a semi-successful mission to the supermarket for Christmas food supplies, I was reminiscing to myself about an occasion, eight years ago, when the 23rd December became a ceremony in its own right.

Ant and I were living in Streatham at the time and couldn't wait to escape London for the seaside. We arrived in Eastbourne and spent the evening with my sister (pictured here with me on Christmas day 2006) and her boyfriend, all of us reverting to child-like giddiness about the imminent festivities. Somehow a video camera got into the mix, and before we knew it, our now legendary production of 'The Night Before The Night Before Christmas' was born.

As far as I know, the recording has yet to make it onto YouTube, so I cannot share with you the glories of this bonkers performance. But just remembering it got me thinking about how the anticipation of Christmas is really the best bit, and how rubbish it is when that build-up is eclipsed by annoying preparation traumas (e.g. not being able to get any parsnips in Sainsbury's).

So tonight I am going to stop caring whether on not I have everything I need for the family feast tomorrow. I know that I have two bottles of pink fizz and a good supply of red wine, cheese and biscuits and various chutneys - and as far as I am concerned, that is all the good stuff covered.

My little sis has gone to France with her beau and their new baby this year, to spend It with the in-laws, so sadly there'll be no chance of a sequel to 'The Night Before the Night Before Christmas'. Maybe next year.

Merry Christmas from the Golden Goat

Either I'm getting snobbier, or Christmas cards are getting tackier by the year. For most of the people to whom I send them (local friends and family are given verbal greetings only), Christmas cards are a once-a-year reminder of my existence, and I want them to say something about me. I don't want them to be particularly religious, overly sentimental, or in any way reminiscent of ironic wallpaper. Also, I prefer them to be recycled and in a good cause - because I always tut disappointedly when opening other people's non-charity cards (why wouldn't you?) and it would be hypocritical not to ride my own high-horse.

Having been uninspired by the cards on sale in recent times, this year I used an online service (moo.com) to get some printed using my own photographs. A little narcissistic perhaps, but much more personal and much more 'me'. My favourite of the four pictures I chose is this rather splendid golden goat (pictured above), who we discovered in a funky little bar in Cologne last December. He says much more about my perception of Christmas than any dusty crib scene or cutesy fluffy baby seals rolling in the snow (much as I adore fluffy baby seals). You can see the other designs I picked on Flickr.

For the reasons stated above, I hadn't intended to send out very many cards, so only had 25 printed. These have already run out (if you got one, especially a goat, you are one of the lucky few!) and so I was forced to scour Lewes at lunchtime today looking for a supply of extras (it's too late to get more printed). Even Oxfam, who can usually be relied upon to offer something vaguely tasteful, left me swaying in wide-eyed horror at the crap vileness of their selection. In the end I had to swallow my pride and pick the least offensive. So, apologies in advance to anyone who receives one of these sub-standard variations - please consider this blog post as your official Christmas card instead.

Santa's Skeletons

Admit it, there's something you've been dying to tell. It wouldn't take much encouragement, just someone to ask the right questions, for it all to come gushing out. Right? As I discovered last night, the annual company bash is the most likely, if least appropriate, forum for confessions to be aired. Cruising the tables between courses, equipped with trusty notebook and a candid agenda, it took very little persuasion on my part to get discretion flying out of the window and skeletons tumbling out of the closet.

It should be noted that I was sat opposite the drunkest and most goadable person (let's call him colleague 'X') there, who actually insisted that I transcribe and publish every shameful detail of his sordid tales, emphatically forbidding me to change the names or places. Any work mates reading this will already know full well who I am talking about, so I reserve the right to keep things anonymous in the cold light of day.

A couple of years ago, I shared a colleague's witty morning after 'whodunnit' quiz , written following various dubious antics at that year's company bash. In a similar spirit, I offer some of the more amusing confessions and allegations told to me or overheard at last night's do.

Before entirely losing the power of speech (this happened later, after the Benylin-snorting incident), colleague 'X' recalled the time when, walking back from a party late one night, he was apprehended, groped and propositioned in no uncertain terms by a frisky Welsh man in tight jeans and silly pointy shoes. Surprisingly, he declined the offer, but would not be drawn on the subject of whether it had maybe excited him just a little bit.

A rumour about someone having a fetish for being whipped with stinging nettles was claimed to have been started by several different tables, until I finally traced it back to my own. Knowing the dry sense of humour of the alleged originator, I somehow suspect that this particular offering may have been in jest. Or was it...?

Clearly there was an S&M vibe in the air (how original), as one colleague admitted to having fantasised about being dominated by a certain other senior member of staff. The object of these hankerings, who was sitting right next to him at the time, seemed flattered by this confession, and actually started to suggest possible scenarios - at which point the rest of the table tried desperately to change the subject.

As is customary on these occasions, plenty of lame and ridiculous stories were doing the rounds - like the suggestion that our Financial Director is a secret smack dealer (he took it in good part), and claims of inappropriate fondling between two (straight) male colleagues. But the most entertaining revelation of the night came from a senior staff member in the pub afterwards, who rewarded my request for a confession with a brilliantly animated tale of the time he was arrested for being Drunk and Disorderly ("but I was only drunk", he professed) after a boozy business lunch in London. This somewhat surprising admission concluded with the person in question sheepishly calling the police station the next day to apologise for his loutish behaviour, much to the bemusement (and presumably amusement) of the officers involved.

Who needs counselling when you can get it all off your chest at the office Christmas party?

Photographs courtesy of Al Wares.

Christmas is Boring

I'm not intending to rant endlessly in a 'Bah Humbug' fashion for the entire run up to Christmas, but I do need to get this particular gripe off my chest... Sitting in a festively adorned bar in Mayfair last night, surrounded by rowdy booksellers and publishing people - all enthusiastically exploiting the free bar (nice to know some things never change), I realised with a certain amount of sadness that Christmas just does not excite me any more. The colleague with whom I was chatting at the time agreed that, unless you are a child, or have children in your life, the whole exercise seems depressingly futile.

Naturally, I enjoy getting the extra time off work, doing the seasonal party circuit and spending time with friends and family - but as someone who parties all year round and sees most of my relatives on a regular basis anyway, it's not that special. This year looks set to be the quietest Christmas on record for me; with both my siblings and their offspring being elsewhere it will be just me, Ant and Mum at the familial abode for the day itself. I'm sure we'll have a lovely day, as we always do when we get together, but it won't feel very Christmassy without any littlies running about.

My main problem with the whole set up is that it is the same every year. In all other aspects of life I actively try to keep things as varied and interesting as possible; as I said in my previous post, holidays are all about new experiences and doing something different, so it seems totally incongruous to me to have to sit and perform the same old rituals year after year. But there are traditions to uphold - sprouts (ugh), crackers (woo), the Queen's speech (thanks but no thanks) etc. - and I understand that these mean a lot to some people, so I go along with it. I'd really love to use the holiday time to go on an adventure instead of sitting around in a haze of excess and forced jollity for days on end and am envious of my friend Mat, who has escaped to India this year for the duration. Apparently Christmas is quite big over there, but at least he'll be seeing a new (hopefully sprout free) side to it, and no doubt having a whale of a time in the process (lucky b*****d).

I'm not sure exactly when I got bored of Christmas; I suspect it was a gradual process that happened between me growing up and leaving home, my little sister growing up leaving home and when I stopped working on Pantomime (which leaves you no time to get bored). The last few years have been improved by the presence of my nephew Isaac, whose ecstatic gift-opening expression is enough to put a spark of magic back into even the most jaded of souls. Sadly he'll be spending Christmas with his other grandma this year, so there will be no Lego fire engines to build (unless I buy one for Ant) or new storybooks to read aloud.

I do feel a little bit bad about being such a curmudgeon (especially if any of my nearest and dearest are reading), so I am going to conclude this outpouring on a positive note. One thing that does excite me about this year's shindig is that I shall be doing the cooking for only the second time ever. The previous occasion was under quite stressful circumstances, when mother went and broke both her wrists (I know!) right before Christmas, and I was left holding the fort. I seem to remember a rather disastrous soggy nut roast, though everyone was very kind about it. My culinary skills have come on no end in the eleven years since then, and I am looking forward to letting mum put her feet up while I whizz up one of my fabled nonconformist roasts. You will have to watch this space to find out exactly what this entails (I haven't entirely decided yet), but rest assured, whatever happens, there will be plenty of gravy. And I will never ever get bored of gravy.

Festive Monsters

It is the first day of December and suddenly the usually modest lunchtime queue at the Lewes Post Office has started snaking out of the door and around the corner. It will be like this now every (working) day until Christmas Eve. The looming deadlines for posting parcels abroad in time for Christmas are no doubt partly responsible, but I can't help thinking that today's date itself is also to blame. Turning the kitchen calendar over to December this morning, I felt a surge of anxiety about the impending festivities - the growing 'to do' list for which I have largely been ignoring for the last few weeks. Not that you could forget about Christmas if you tried, what with it being shoved in your face no sooner than the 'Back to School' retail promotions have finished in September. But now that we're actually in the same month as the Big Day, it's like being penned in a cage with a snarling monster - you know if you don't start feeding it soon that you're going to get eaten! So off they all march to the Post Office, joining hordes of other stony-faced shoppers despatching the usual pointless paraphernalia to out-of-town relatives; ticking the boxes and pacifying the monster. Personally, I only have a couple of packages to send this year, to friends in other countries; thanks to the wonders of online shopping, I shall be delegating the majority of that irksome task to Amazon. And I have absolutely no problem with other people doing the same - I would rather get stuff that I actually want off my wish list than a basket of cosmetics or a gimmicky gadget that will end up Out the Back with the Rest. Birthdays are for thoughtful and original gifts - Christmas is just about getting through it with minimum damage to both sanity and wallet. Bah, Humbug.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

I didn't sleep at all well last night. Anxious to keep abreast of election progress across The Pond, I woke at one, two and four am, switching on the bathroom radio to check the latest incoming results. In my drowsy state, I vaguely recall coming back to bed at one point and mumbling "Ohio, Virginia, Pennsylvania" to the unresponsive comatose body next to me. I'd set my alarm for six, an hour earlier than usual, so that I could find out the final result as soon as possible, and watch the news reports for posterity before heading off to work. When I flicked on the TV at one minute past I was confronted with a smiling waving Obama, flanked by his wife and kids; cheers, balloons and streamers filling the air all around them. It was clear from this cheesy snapshot alone that I was looking at a Democrat victory; and the butterflies that had been bothering me all night immediately turned to prickly goosebumps.

The moving montages of overwhelmed revellers that followed - particularly of Obama's Kenyan relatives singing and dancing in the streets (see above) - reinforced my own feeling of sheer elation at this momentous happening. I haven't stopped smiling since (an unusual state of affairs for this usually scowling lady). It's impossible to sum up the weight of hopes, dreams and expectations now resting on America's first black president, but he has already changed so much just by being elected. Let's hope that those who put him in power remain as enthused and inspired throughout his tenure as they are today; he will certainly need their continued commitment and support in order to make a decent job of it. The last thing I heard on the radio before leaving the house was Obama promising to buy his little girls a puppy to take to the White House with them - slightly vomit-inducing, but then I guess he's entitled to a bit of schmultz, for today at least. If you are reading this Mr Obama (ha ha), please do the right thing and get a rescue dog!

It does seem felicitous that tonight's Guy Fawkes celebrations should coincide with the day's exciting news, and though I won't be sticking around in Lewes to partake of its excessive bonfire antics this evening (I don't like loud bangs or big crowds), I shall certainly be raising a toast from afar. After all, the only thing missing from this thrilling day so far is the pop of a champagne cork. Bring it on.

A Candlelit Dinner for Two

Yesterday was the 15th anniversary of my 18th birthday, and as a special treat I'd asked Ant to take me out to dinner, just the two of us, at a surprise venue. I genuinely didn't have a clue as to where we were going until he lead the way off the pavement of Marine Parade into the Drakes hotel driveway. A very subtle little sign revealed that we were headed for The Gingerman restaurant, which resides in the basement of the hotel. Gingerman is a local chain of four that started with one restaurant on Norfolk Square and now includes two gastro pubs - The Ginger Pig in Hove and The Ginger Fox in Albourne, as well as this branch in one of Brighton's swishest boutique hotels. I hadn't been expecting anything so posh, so was glad I'd worn a frock rather that jeans (I'd been told 'smart casual', so it could have gone either way).

When we arrived it was fairly quiet in the elegant-yet-cosy basement - the staff were friendly and attentive, and remained so even when the restaurant filled up later on. From an extensive wine list I picked a white Rioja - described as being 'toasty on the nose with citrus undertones' - which went down very well. We were brought a bowl of juicy green olives to keep us going, as well as appetisers in the form of a little fried cheeseball and shot glass of chive-flavoured froth (just don't think about cats and grass when you're eating it) delivered on a slate coaster. I chose wild mushroom ravioli with mushroom broth to start, followed by spinach and crotin pithivier with white onion puree, spinach and a cep veloute. I didn't know what a pithivier was, and was expecting something fancy, but it turned out to be basically a little pie filled with goats cheese. The combination of pungent Crotin cheese and crumbly puff pastry was lovely, but I craved something clean-tasting to cut through the tanginess of the cheese - green beans or fresh salad leaves might have worked better than wilted spinach. But aside from these minor gripes, it was a delightful meal.

Ant seemed more than happy with his choices (venison, followed by fish), and the modest portions meant that we both had plenty of room for dessert. Soufflé is something I have so far failed to conquer in my own kitchen (they either collapse or go inedibly solid), so I decided to try someone else's to get an idea of how it should turn out. I'm not sure if I've ever actually eaten one before, and imagined it to be something light and fluffy - somewhere between a mousse and a sponge perhaps. What arrived was more like a soggy yorkshire pudding, with a faint taste of blackberry. I wasn't keen, so after a few mouthfuls, salvaged the remaining ice cream from the middle (where it had been placed by the very enthusiastic waitress), and let Ant finish it for me. It's not that it was a bad soufflé (apparently), I have just decided that I don't actually like soufflé after all - the perfect excuse to abandon any further attempts to conjour one myself. Phew.

As you can see from the above picture, my dessert plate was inscribed with 'Happy BIRTHDAY' (aw, shucks) in chocolate. Since my special day was drawing to a close, I thought it only appropriate to devour the 'BIRTHDAY' bit, leaving only 'Happy' on the empty plate. Which is exactly how I felt after a lovely indulgent meal out with my husband. After dinner we wandered across the road to the pier, where Ant had promised to serenade me with the karaoke song of my choice at the notorious Horatio's bar. Sadly (for me anyway), the pier was shut already, so I had to make do with a round or two of Singstar back at the flat instead. My work colleagues had bought me the 'Anthems' edition for my birthday, so I finished off my celebrations belting out 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' (neighbours be damned!) - the perfect end to a delightful evening.

Frocks, Freaks and Fabulous Friends

The last time I got dolled up to go dancing was probably for Born Bad vs Gypsy Hotel at Komedia back in July, which actually turned out to be a bit of a let down, so I was really looking forward to celebrating my birthday at The Magic Theatre at the weekend. I'd chosen this event specifically because it was in London, and I fancied a change from the usual Brighton party circuit. I discovered that it is quite difficult to persuade other people out of their seaside comfort zone though, so it turned out to be a small (but perfectly formed) gathering of a few game Brightonians and some London-based friends - all of whom looked fabulous in an eclectic assortment of costumes. I went for a Bugsy Malone-inspired vintage ensemble, including a dress purchased from eBay especially for the occasion, accessorised with bits and pieces from the dressing up trunk.

We knew as soon as we walked up to the Bloomsbury Ballroom that we were in for an interesting night - a motley assemblage of smokers loitering at the door gave a hint as to the type of punters we'd find inside: weird and wonderful, bold and theatrical, wantonly disturbing and sexually ambiguous - suddenly the outfits in which we had felt so self-conscious on the bus from Hackney appeared positively pedestrian in comparison. Inside we discovered an elegant Art Deco ballroom, perhaps a little too polished and corporate-feeling for this type of debauched event, but pleasantly light and airy, with plenty of places to perch. Oh, and the toilets were immaculate, which is always a bonus.

Photos from The Magic Theatre by Jaded Lady

People were friendly and talkative, and each of us found ourselves making new friends and coming back together with stories to tell. The music ranged from show-tunes to rock 'n roll to jazz standards, and when I wasn't dancing I was merrily singing along to everything from 'Bad Guys' to 'Mein Herr'. Entertainment was laid on in the form of a couple of (frankly baffling) cabaret acts and a live band - The Voodoo Trombone Quartet - who got everyone dancing with their infectious funky brass rhythms. The night went by in a flash of sequins and salacious gossip, and suddenly I was wafting about to Edith Piaf, saying appropriately theatrical goodbyes to friends old and new. I wish more of my Brighton cronies had been there to enjoy what turned out to be a super special night, and well worth the trek up to Town - but big love to those who did make the effort, and thank you all for giving me a birthday bash to remember.

More photos at the Magic Theatre Flickr page.

Morbid Preoccupation

For someone of my age (32) , I've been to a lot of funerals. Going on twenty at the last count in fact. Of course a couple of these were for elderly relatives, who had lived full and happy lives to a ripe old age; but an upsetting proportion were for friends whose time was cut short prematurely. Some were close contemporaries who I still think about a lot - what they might be up to now if the big 'C' hadn't raised its ugly head. When I remember their funerals though, I think how blessed they were to have been so well-loved and respected during their lives, and what a shame it was that they couldn't have been there to witness the standing-room-only theatrical affairs in which they were despatched from this world.

There's nothing more depressing than a quiet funeral, and I have been to a couple of those too. We'd all like to hope, I'm sure, for a full-house, a rousing chorus or two (it helps to be part of the am-dram community to ensure this), and a passionately delivered eulogy with a few affectionately humorous anecdotes. I'll never forget the shocked faces of some of the more respectable attendees at my own grandmother's funeral, when the vicar (also a family friend) recounted the time he shared a spliff with her in my mum's back garden. I'm sure Granny would have been amused, though. And of course, everyone knows the famously scathing memorial speech in which John Cleese proclaimed "Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard! I hope he fries" of his friend and fellow Python, Graham Chapman. This level of sarcasm wouldn't be welcome or appropriate for everyone, but personally I would be more than happy to think of someone getting a laugh at my expense as part of the proceedings.

Being both a consummate party-thrower and self-confessed control freak, I struggle with the idea of someone else organising my funeral, and actually give a worrying amount of thought to what instructions I will leave to ensure a suitably dramatic send-off. My friend Neel (incidentally listed in the Brighton Cheeky Guide as a local eccentric) was so concerned about missing his own funeral, that he decided to throw one while he was still alive to arrange and appreciate it. Some might think this a rather sick idea, but I can understand where he was coming from. I'm obviously hoping that own my plans won't be needed for some years to come, but I do already know exactly what music will be played at which parts of the ceremony, and what pictures will be shown on the tear-jerking slideshow, to be played during the cremation. I even made a friend promise recently (sorry Tim) that he will lead a chorus of 'Ding Dong the Witch is Dead' should I die before him. But this is the only detail I'm giving away, as the rest, of course, should be a surprise.

Top left: Craig Rees (with me, in The Pajama Game), RIP 2005
Bottom right: Paula Dollar, RIP 1999

Also fondly remembered: Angie Whimpenny, Michael Carpenter, Barbara Woodcock, Hilda Stanfield, Pauline Sands, Ron & Gill Wickins, Marc Meader, Geoff Fuggle, David & Pam Williams, Paul Shingler, Jean Coleman, David Harmer, and not forgetting all the creatures.

Mummy Knows Best

I'm all for giving mums the thumbs up on their own special day, but each year I find it increasingly difficult to track down a card that says 'Happy Mothering Sunday' rather than 'Happy Mother's Day' - the latter description of the event being of immense annoyance to my own Mummy Dearest. I had always presumed that her preference was simply an extension of a general attachment to all things traditional, which also applies to hymns, wedding vows and grammar. But having heard her sentiment echoed on Radio Four yesterday, I discovered that 'Mother's Day' is in fact an entirely separate festival created by the Americans, and nothing to do with the British equivalent. The practise of 'Mothering Sunday' actually began in the 16th century, not as a celebration of motherhood, but for people to return to their 'mother church' to be reunited with their families on the fourth Sunday of Lent. It later evolved into a day when domestic servants were given a day off to visit their mother and other family members, and eventually into a general celebration of motherhood in which children take their mums out for lunch and show their appreciation with chocolates, cards and flowers. American social activist Julia Ward Howe invented 'Mother's Day' in 1870 after the American Civil War, originally as a feminist protest against war, although it has now betrayed its socialist roots by becoming one of the most commercially successful occasions in the US.

So I have to hand it to my mother (pictured above, during her Mothering Sunday lunch yesterday at the Plough and Harrow in Litlington) for being not only admirably fastidious, but in this case (and most others, it has to be said), ultimately right. Her immense intelligence, grace and wit never cease to inspire me, and I hope that I manage to show my appreciation all year round, and not just on Mothering Sunday. Thanks Mum, you're the best.

Sham and James Get Hitched

Closet Romantic

I always cry at weddings. In spite of my sometimes cynical attitude towards the marriage institution, I find the sentiment behind two people making a heartfelt public commitment to each other deeply moving, and that little sparkle of romance left in my soul invariably swells up via my eyes, even more so since I tied the knot myself. I've reached that stage in life where every summer brings another two or three weddings, more excuses to buy new frocks and hats, and a chance for me to have a little cathartic weep as yet another pair say "I do". This weekend I shall be attending my first ever gay wedding. I refrain from using the term 'Civil Partnership', as to me it sounds rather formal and boring, and if I know Sham and James, their bash will be anything but dull. I am excited for lots of reasons - not least because they have asked me to sing at the ceremony, something I haven't done for a few years. From the ages of about 10 to 15 I sang in the choir of St Philip's Church Eastbourne, and was even Head Chorister for the latter years (I know, I can hardly picture it now, either!). As well as our usual Sunday duties, the junior choir would make a bit of extra cash by singing at weddings on Saturdays, for people who presumably didn't happen to know any good singers to ask. I've sung a couple of times at family weddings too, most recently at the reception of my cousin's big do in the Lake District last summer. But the last time I actually performed during the ceremony must have been for my Godmother Jood's marriage blessing, back in the early nineties. I remember it was on New Year's Day, so everyone was hungover, and it was freezing cold in church - not the ideal circumstances for singing - but I gave it my best, and it meant a lot to contribute to their special day in such a personal way. When Sham asked me to sing at his wedding to James, I had a feeling they would want something less traditional than I would normally choose for my voice (classical/sacred music is my forté), and so I had fun putting together a list of potential songs, mostly jazz standards, for them to pick from. These included 'Making Whoopee', 'Someone to Watch Over Me', 'Can't Help Lovin Dat Man' and for kitsch value, 'Nobody Does It Better'. Unsurprisingly, they went straight for this, clearly the campest option, which, although not really in my range, will be fun to perform. The lovely Brian will be accompanying me on piano, which makes me feel a lot more confident about the whole thing, and of course the fabulous full-length frock I've bought for the occasion will really help me feel the part. I'm also hugely excited because I've never been to a same-sex ceremony before, and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling that British law has finally granted gay couples comparable rights, and the opportunity to express their love more openly than ever before. We've come a long way, and the added significance of this will be sure to make these particular nuptials even more poignant than usual. Let's just hope I can get the singing out of the way before I start to blub.

(Picture courtesy of Gino Ginelli on Flickr)