23/02/14: A few favourites

I'm home alone for a few days &, rather than mope around & feel blue about it, I figured that I would take a quiet moment on this blustry Sunday, in between meeting potential flatmates for a vacant room across the corridor, to instead share a few of my current favourite things. These are all things that are helping to keep a smile on my face & I hope that they help to do the same with you too.

1. Finding an outfit that's just right, first time.

I've never been one to plan my outfits & often end up rotating the same garb week after week - usually a midi skirt with a thick jumper & lots of layers beneath it...! - but today I woke up in the mood for this outfit that doesn't find itself so frequently pulled from the depths of my wardrobe. Kindly altered by my grandmother, I decided on this navy sweetheart dress from ASOS (six pounds from my local 'Oxfam') with an H&M striped turtleneck (just under four from a Camden 'Marie Curie') underneath , the sleeves long enough to pull down over my wrists. I've already spilt tea down the skirt, I don't own an iron so it's creased & I'm yet to organise the long-awaited reunion of one of its puff sleeves with a bereft button but it is one of which I am fond all the same.

2. Revisiting old favourites.

I must (slightly guiltily) admit that I wasn't altogether disappointed to wake up to grey skies this morning as I didn't feel up to doing much other than reading recipes & watching old films all afternoon. Discovering 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' alongside a host of classic films on Netflix (praise be) was a highlight of yesterday evening & one that also reminded me of my intention to watch the first two seasons of 'Mad Men' again. I have the first three on DVD but I'm sorry to say that viewing rather fell by the wayside mid-S2 as my boyfriend & I started 'Breaking Bad'. Better late than never & I'm more than happy to be falling in love with the vintage fashion & wonderfully candid portrait of 1960s New York all over again. That collar! Swoon.

3. Starting new books.

Having finished a more contemporary novel than many I've read over the last few years, namely 'Taipei', a disconcertingly original & frequently brilliant novel by en vogue Brooklyn-ite Tao Lin, I've felt a yearning to return to my trusted favourites of late. While trying not to lapse into an extended lieu of magazines & newspaper supplements while in between books, I think that this early novel of Virginia Woolf's, 'Jacob's Room', might just sweep me up into one of those absorbing, literary stupors that I have missed so much.

4. Leftovers for lunch.

One of the many reasons I love weekends is the opportunity to break from my routine of eating the same sandwiches on the same park bench every other day of the week. This afternoon I enjoyed a bowl of savoury rice that I had left over from a quick dinner earlier this week - onion, garlic, quorn, mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes, mangetout, peas & plenty of curry powder - alongside a couple of hunks of organic, lightly toasted rye. This dense, tangy, almost spongy bread is already a new favourite & one that I discovered as an accompaniment to a recipe from one of my favourite food blogs, Green Kitchen Stories, for shakshuka that I whipped up last night - super simple, wholesome & filling, let me know if you give it a go too.

Time for a brew & a scroll through Pinterest (you can find me here) ahead of making Thai green curry (I like Kim's recipe including sweet potato the best) this evening, yum.

What's helping you to keep a smile on your face this afternoon?

Speak soon - O.

23/02/14

While I'm aware, & perhaps a little weary, of writing about the same thoughts & themes on this little ol' blog, & potentially boring its (albeit miniature) readership, it also means that its quite representative of my head from day to day. While we, as a species, often like to think of ourselves as occupying a myriad range of thoughts & feelings of an afternoon, the reality is such that a handful of the same concerns will repetitively circle for hours, sometimes days, occasionally weeks on end. There are a few things that have taken up residence in my head for what feels like a long time now - looking ahead of starting another degree (eased slightly by my Masters place being confirmed at Goldsmiths from September, hooray!), my increasing sense of wanderlust & desire to travel (only increased by the occupational hazard of being surrounded by travel guides daily) & more wide-ranging thoughts on how it is that I can find fulfilment & keep a hold of it long term.

Working on an article on the topic most lunchtimes, I realise increasingly the importance I place on food & the process of preparing a meal at the end of the day, rhythmically chopping vegetables & contentedly allowing a sauce to simmer, my constant curiosity for new books to read & places to see is also contributing to my happiness. My most concrete & consistent source of fulfilment is, however, the relationship that I have had with my boyfriend of over two years now, one of total devotion, reliance & comfort. While I regularly remind myself of how lucky I am to be the recipient of such love, sometimes, amongst long working hours, feeling under the weather & the stresses of family life, all of which the two of us have confronted in various forms over the last two weeks, it is surprisingly easy to neglect one another. This year Valentine's Day was particularly well timed as it represented a chance, the rituals of gift giving & card writing aside, to spend some treasured time together & remember some of our favourite things to share - namely burgers, art & a double duvet.

Anticipating the afternoon I had had planned a week or so in advance, the grey skies & smattering of rain on my bedroom window did nothing to dampen (sorry!) my good mood on Valentines morning, pulling on slippers & a sweatshirt in readiness for preparing breakfast, waiting for the oven to warm while I poured glasses of cold orange juice, mugs of steaming hot tea (for me, one sugar, plenty of milk) & coffee for him (strong, no sugar), chopped handfuls of blueberries, strawberries & banana for fruit salad & climbed the stairs to balance bowls precariously amongst pillows. Finally I pulled the all-butter croissants from out of the oven & onto a plate alongside pots of raspberry jam & crunchy peanut butter, soon filling the bed with flaky crumbs & full tummies.

Keen to avoid the rain that prevailed, the two of us dressed in layers, both, incidentally, bedecked in Battersea bargains, me soon remembering that I don't own anything with a hood & settling for a trusty bobble hat instead, & planned our route into the centre of town to Leicester Square & the branch of 'Byron' that awaited us. Something of a tradition for the two of us, often frequenting the Islington branch, partly for their brioche buns & eclectic interiors, mostly for their unrivalled fresh mayonnaise, we hadn't visited 'Byron' for a long time & figured we were overdue a visit to our regular order of a couple of orders of fries, a 'Byron' burger for me, a veggie burger for Andrew (extra gherkins please!) with a couple of glasses of fresh lemonade to wash it down. This particular branch, less shabby chic & more American diner than its northern-ly counterpart, did not disappoint & we were soon reduced to communicating exclusively in 'mmm's & 'aaah's as soon as lunch was served. I also figure that absolutely noone harnesses the ability to look anything other than monstrous while eating a burger so the meal also doubled as the ultimate test of our love. I think we held up alright.

Swiping the sides of our plate with fingertips & the edges of our lips with tongues, it was across the rain soaked road that we were headed &, as I belated revealed to the boy, to collect our tickets for David Bailey's 'Stardust' at the 'National Portrait Gallery'. Walking hand in hand between canvases of an afternoon is doubtless one of our favourite things to do together but we hadn't been to the 'Portrait Gallery' since the day that I, at long last, handed in my undergraduate portfolio & we came to see Man Ray's 'Portraits' followed by a pint at 'The Chandos' opposite. 

This Bailey exhibit had been much anticipated, a huge & varied retrospective, personally curated by the photographer who has shot just about every star & most especially those of my favourite era, The Swinging Sixties. Andrew & I spent almost two hours taking in nearly two hundred of Bailey's best, from The Rolling Stones to Vivienne Westwood, Johnny Depp to Salvador Dali, his predominantly black & white prints deeply pigmented, capturing that furrowed brow or chiselled cheekbone perfectly. It was also, however, fascinating to experience the sheer, & hitherto unknown, breadth of Bailey's studies from supermodels to indigenous Australians, the old fashioned social clubs of the East End to a whole room full of portraits of his wife Catherine. 

My only criticism would be, English student as I am, that I could have done with more words to contextualise the photographs, perhaps a comment from the subject on Bailey's technique or even a biographical note on some of the more obscure artists & fashionistas captured on those walls. Aside from this niggle, I was very contented leaving the gallery having spent the day in such good company & it was through the soggy, surreal streets of Soho & Chinatown that we weaved towards the tube & home for chocolate fondue, cava & 'Midnight in Paris' with my Valentine. 

Organising this day trip made me feel more determined to do dates more often, even if it's just a drink at our local boozer of an evening - some kind of escape from the every day once in a while & maybe even inspiration for a blog post or two...!

I hope that you were left with similarly warm feelings from your February fourteenth, here's to more of them.

Speak soon - O.

15/02/14

I think that, however indistinct they may seem, that life is chock full of little miracles if you look hard enough. One of them is my finding a single moment of peace or quiet in which to write this blog post considering the chaos by which I have been otherwise surrounded in the form of tracksuit-ed men loudly dismantling our boiler all afternoon, doors slamming, furniture shifted to the extent that the task of heating up some soup for lunch was soon transformed into an absurd assault course that involved my having to clamber across a sofa, saucepan in hand. Phew. 

Another of these miracles, or so it seemed at the time, was my surviving the last couple of weeks working in an unfamiliar shop in an unfamiliar part of town, namely Fulham Road. Of course, knowing my luck, it would be the week of the tube strike that I would be commuting from Hackney to Chelsea & alongside the distinct lack of a spirit of solidarity amongst my fellow nine to six-ers, I discovered myself to be an East London-er through & through. Doubtless beautiful in their uniformity, the grand, old terraces of West Brompton & Kensington are amongst my favourites to peer through the windows of on my weekend walks, but sitting in their shadows on my lunch break every day for two weeks, I began to think them quite monstrous, empty facades, reminiscent of their inhabitants who seek to detach themselves from any sense of neighbourhood. Aside from a soft spot for West Brompton Cemetery whose towering entrance reminds me of Paris' Pere Lachaise, I found myself yearning for the patchwork of colours & cultures, of council flats & Victorian semis that makes Hackney such a diverse & characterful place to live. 

So, it was at the end of this West London lieu sharing my afternoon coffee with the idle chatter of housewives bemoaning having to put their shoes in storage while their houses were refurbished that I felt so relieved & in need of a lovely day off, such as was promptly planned with Andrew in tow on Saturday afternoon when we headed towards the Thames.

Drawn by its many artistic manifestations from the Barbican to the National Theatre to its second-hand booksale, the Southbank is a patch of London I've always been attached to & enjoyed wandering the length of, come rain or shine. This particular quip was especially apt on that weekend since, within twenty minutes of emerging from the noisy smog of London Bridge station, we had already experienced both, the skies turning from blue to grey to black in a matter of moments, seemingly unable to decide on one & settling instead for soggy sunshine. Londoners are hardy & weather-weary creatures &, as such, Andrew & I were buttoned up in sheepskin coats & woollen hats, soon wringing out the latter in the muggy heat of the lunchtime crowds of Borough Market, beneath the railway bridge & among the clatter of huge paella pans, clouds of smoke from sizzling frankfurters on hot coals & the hum of tourists & locals alike jostling in line for mulled wine (none for me past New Year, puritan as I am) & wedges of cheesecake. Markets are always one of the first things that I seek out to draw a ring around in guidebooks of foreign cities, be it Berlin's Mauerpark or the Blumenmarkt of Amsterdam, the people & goods on offer represent a microcosm of the culture & character of the area & usually the chance to try something new. 

Alas, when you're lucky enough to call the capital your home, you easily develop habits & the two of us got our usual vegan burger & box of mixed salad from 'The Veggie Table', brimming with quinoa, pearl barley, beetroot, carrot, new potatoes & cauliflower, plenty to fuel our riverbank walk (we'll save the pad thai for next time..!)

In accordance with these habits of ours, it was to worship at the temple of all coffee lovers, 'Monmouth' that we wound our way having licked our lips, past impossible wheels of parmesan & mountains of mushrooms, to eagerly wait in a queue that snaked around the building's corner, the Shard looming above our heads.

Supplier to some of my favourite cafes & firm believers in the importance of an intimate relationship with the origins of our food & drink, 'Monmouth' roast their hand-picked range of coffee just down the road in Bermondsey & have been doing so since 1978, creating a reputation as a company whose cheerful staff successfully communicate their knowledge of & passion for their coffee. Other than the two deliciously frothy, rich cappuccinos that we were duly handed at the end of the line, the earthy aesthetic of 'Monmouth' has always appealed to me - communal wooden benches, low hanging enamel lamps above the counters, baristas in heavy duty aprons & jars of strawberry jam on offer alongside hunks of bread.

Tearing ourselves away from the shop's welcoming warmth, Andrew & I set our sights on the afternoon's central destination, that of the Tate Modern for my second (& Andrew's first) visit to the exhibit on Bauhaus artist Paul Klee. It was on the recommendation of a friend I met through Oxfam that originally brought me to the collection &, though confident in my attraction to the inter-war years & the art that came out of that period of intense change, I hadn't known what to expect. 

Of course, Tate never disappoints in their curation of artists' work but Klee's own minute cataloguing of his own work lent them a helping hand, enabling the gallery to accurately chart the artist's progress, be it personal, philosophical or aesthetic, through the course of the rooms & the German-Swiss' career. Reading of Klee's preference for watercolours & my association of the medium with the serene paintings of Turner, I hadn't anticipated being so struck by his bold command of colour & shape, combining unexpected shades & hues to striking effect & decisively dividing canvases with repetitive imagery of stars & moons & trees. Klee's production of small scale works running into the hundreds of thousands only increased their precision & ability to draw the viewer in with a single detail, canvases often etched with subtle patterns suggestive of something hidden, the replicated shape of a fish evoking its shimmering fin. 

Among my favourite pieces were those that were full of such playfulness & joy in spite of the often oppressive context in which they were produced, considering many members of the Bauhaus & Klee's own dealer were amongst those actively persecuted by the Nazis. In spite of Klee's own descent into illness in his fifties, his productivity & the clarity of his canvases only increased at this late stage, surely testament to his artistic genius & its resilience in times of adversity. Do go & see the collection before its packed away after Sunday, 9th March. it is the perfect respite from these cloudy afternoons of late.

It is looking increasingly unlikely that I'll be able to find any respite from today's building works with the butternut squash risotto I had planned but ho hum, perhaps a sneaky pizza & a film it is then. I'll be back soon, hopefully less headache-y, with a Valentines Day write up featuring Mr. Bailey & more pictures of my own mug. 

Speak soon - O.

08/02/14

Watching the sunshine's light flicker & jump its way across the page of my newspaper on Wednesday morning, propped up against the side of my train carriage, one that was averagely busy considering the planned tube strike that was inspiring a siege mentality in many fellow commuters, I had felt hopeful for the day ahead. Two hours later stood amongst tables of books batting their covers in the wind, a rectangle of relentless rain visible through the shop's open doorway, that brief moment of optimism seemed somewhat misguided. I was, and continue to be, however, grateful for memories of brighter days to sustain me beneath gloomy skies - in particular, it is thoughts of the beautiful crisp, sunny day that Andrew & I enjoyed on Sunday in Battersea, that kept me from losing feeling in my hands.

Vintage VW & old street signs on our way to the sale - Knick-knacks & prints in mismatched frames - Rows & rows of tempting angora & cashmere - Cakes & pasties aplenty

Honestly, casting a weary glance over the week's weather forecast, the two of us weren't hopeful that the rain would hold off for long enough for us to embark on our adventure, forty minutes down the overground line & (-gasp-) south of the river, but it was to clear skies & smiling faces that we awoke on Sunday morning. We made bowls of porridge & cups of tea to sup from while dressing in layers of knitwear & socks & scarves, bundling books for the journey & my fully charged camera into tote bags (empty ones for filling tucked in too - top tip!) & got comfortable in our seats on a train that would eventually wind its way into Clapham Junction. Once there, timing our arrival in accordance to the fifty pence entry come half past one, Andrew & I followed an increasingly familiar, if scenic, route from the station, past rows of pretty terraces that we mused we may well inhabit ourselves some day, under the rattling railway bridges & up onto the stretched length of Battersea Park Road & a surprisingly queue-less school playground where the boot sale is held. 

Andrew's cheese & onion delicacy - My vegetable samosa - Sunshine! (promise this striped turtleneck isn't the only top I own) - Andrew in his dream jacket

While many (bloggers particularly) may well impose strict rules of dress (my Doc Martens & vintage fur may well have unintentionally marked me out as the target market for the hoardes of antique brooches & scuffed vinyl sleeves) & conduct (systematic progress stall by stall, not betraying enthusiasm for particular items), Andrew & I have always had a rather more laissez faire approach - me allowing my magpie instincts to lead me towards chintzy costume jewellery & frayed denim on the ends of clothing rails, Andrew eyeing up heaps of woollen jumpers & precariously stacked piles of much-loved hardbacks. It wasn't long before my heart leapt at the sight of a green & blue checked sleeve in the midst of a heaving rack of clothes & I was not-so-subtly motioning for Andrew's attention with raised eyebrows & a few pointed jerks of the head. Even an initially crestfallen discovery of the printed 's' on the label could not distract me from ceaselessly twirling it on its hanger, admiring its deeply pigmented print, heavy cotton feel & simple smock fit. I was smitten & at just eight pounds, I gleefully bundled it into my bag, already imagining the myriad pairings it would suit, with a mustard yellow jumper & knee high socks, polka dot tights & grey knit cardigan.

Buoyed by my bargain, the two of us leisurely ambled from stall to stall, dreamily eyeing up retro casserole dishes & framed butterflies for future flats, thumbing at the cuffs of suede jackets & peering through the lenses of old-fashioned cameras. Our breakfast now far behind us, as is tradition, Andrew bought us a few homemade treats from a Battersea Boot Sale regular, a cheese & onion pasty for him & a couple of veggie samosas for me, taking note that we ought to try the carrot cake on our next visit. Adding to the increasing collection of knitwear we've acquired from SW11, Andrew found a beautiful cream jumper with black spots & heavily ribbed, striped cuffs for a tenner &, of course there is always 'The One That Got Away', is now on the hunt for a lightweight linen jacket like the one he tried on but, sadly, couldn't stretch to the £40 price tag.

- Too cold for anything more than this candid outfit shot in my new old coat - Battersea in the sun - 'Il Molino' - Lovely mosaic typography in the doorway of a local charity shop

Once certain that we had scoured every square inch of the sale, it was towards our favourite local cafe, recommended by Battersea bred blogger Jazmine of Jazzabelle's Diary - thanks Jaz!- 'I'l Molino' that we wandered. Perched on a corner of Battersea Park Road, 'Il Molino' was the perfect retreat from the cold, squeezing through the front door into the warmth of the Italian-run cafe, cluttered with chairs & tables, walls lined with tins of organic beans & produce that features in their sandwiches, smatterings of customers propped up under lampshades with Sunday supplements & steaming cups of fresh coffee. Bags, coats & jumpers piled onto the backs of pine chairs, the two of us, initially & inevitably struck by indecision with a plethora of paninis & lines of loaf cakes reflected in our pupils, plumped for a shared can of limonata, a halved, toasted baguette filled full of mozzerella pearls, baby tomatoes & creamy avocado & two indulgent slices of a moist, moreish banana & toffee cake. 

Shiny shoes waiting to cross the road - Open sign - Aforementioned cake - Bar of the cafe looking out onto Sunday strollers 

Reluctantly retreating from the warmth after a restorative lunch with a cup of coffee each, Andrew & I walked towards the river in the dusk, Battersea Park's pathways already illuminated by its Narnia-esque streetlamps, bare trees setting stark silouhettes against the darkening sky. According to our habit of almost directionless wandering, it took both of us by surprise to see the glow of Albert Bridge like the draw of a funfair looming ahead of us, radiant & golden, setting the Thames beneath it into almost Caribbean tones of peach pink & lilac. Directly across this unfamiliarly wide stretch of river, the row of buildings reflected in the water reminded me of Amsterdam's picturesque canalside houses, uniformly four or five storeys each with pretty ledges & plenty of windows looking out onto cyclists below. These moments of literal & philosophical reflection can be rare in a great metropolis such as London, so these opportunities to appreciate the ridiculousness of being able to live in such a wonderful place of such varied beauty should be treasured.

Andrew in his new jumper & full of cake - Lopsided lampshade in 'Il Molino' - Beautiful redbrick houses walking towards Battersea Park

All the same, with a return to work at seven o'clock the next morning ahead of me, we eventually & reluctantly wound our way through Sloane Square & to Victoria from where we got the train home to spaghetti & bed, satisfied after a long afternoon, full to the brim with fresh air & fond memories.

It's almost difficult to believe that that day was almost a week ago now but I've plenty to look ahead to both this weekend &, of course, celebrating St. Valentines which will be duly documented (spoiler: it may well include fondue!) this time next week so do check back.

Have you had any boot sale bargains of late?

Speak soon - O.

01/02/14

I suppose that it rather befits this blog post's theme that I should begin to hurriedly scribble its opening sentences in a moment snatched from the morning routine, waiting for my tea to cool & my cardigan to materialise , the rattle of the rubbish lorry & the rhythmical pattering of the rain doing little to lure me outside to partake in this rainy Wednesday, visible in the grey light that spills over the windowsill from a chink in the curtain, enough light in which to dress & navigate my spoon from bowl to mouth during breakfast. There is also a certain inevitability to my continuing to write it in the last ten minute of lunch hours behind fogged up windows of empty cafes on Fulham Road & tucked up in bedsocks when inspiration strikes & I should really be getting to sleep. 

Time is something that features consistently & dominantly in our lives, in our wearing of watches, the glazed gazing at the seven minutes until the next train, two until I'm likely to be late for work (again) Many of my favourite writers have taken up this society-wide, centuries-old fascination, distorting the hands of the clock to attempt to represent a more genuine experience of our consciousness, often of the brevity of joy, the agonising endlessness of unrequited love, the blink-&-you'll-miss-it extra five minutes in bed of a morning & that excruciating last half an hour of your shift before you can clock off for the evening (both of which have been particularly resonant of late) If you're feeling similarly exhausted by temporal tribulations, you'll be pleased to know that I don't intend to dwell on the existential implications of our experience of time, but rather the practical ones, as I continue to wonder about the ways in which I am able to balance work schedules, domestic obligations & creative commitments. Starting working full time was initially so daunting because I was so wrapped up in the amount of my own time I would be sacrificing, time that manifested & represented personal freedom, a routine dictated by little other than the time at which I would have to leave the house for more milk, & bedtimes were when  the film credits had started to roll. Forgetting my own feelings of safety & security within the cocoon of boarding school, a return to setting my alarm for the same time each morning, making sandwiches every night after dinner & before breakfast, has not been too difficult a transition (although occasionally that second alarm is required...!) 

It is the time outside of that which is divided up for me into the commute, opening the shop, shelving, closing, that I am wondering & deciding how to re-purpose. When occasionally overwhelmed with the sense of a lack of control in my day-to-day role as an employee, I can often find myself in obsessive moods in which I am determined to reassert my authority through the medium of housework - ruthlessly culling the fridge of old jars of curry paste or fruit conserve, exhaustively hanging up the tangle of skirts & tights that have accumulated over the course of the week & heavily heaving the hoover up three flights of stairs to prod down the far side of the wardrobe. These things are regular features on the weekend schedules of many readers, I'm sure, & there is a certain satisfaction to be gained from conquering that dusting to-do list. It is also inevitable, however, that the physical exertion & sheer amount of time that these tasks consume also make their fulfilment fairly shallow & short-lived. 

As a compulsive list maker & notebook filler, I also struggle to succumb to my need to make time for myself, often manifested physically & emotionally in becoming run down & burnt out, neglecting the benefits of a leisurely day doing nothing much besides reading my book & warming soup on the hob, mistaking relaxation for a lack of productivity. The importance of creative outlets such as aforementioned notebooks & this blog come into their own in this regard as a source of moments of solace & provider of a restorative energy that is quite unique to that final full stop or pressing of 'publish'. Even these opportunities I feel to be fragile however, as they become pressured by their representation of a self & ambitions far beyond those of work, the loud hailer through which I can declare to people that I am so much more than a girl behind a till & have so much more to offer than that which I can currently give. I must confess to having shrunk in the shadow of these expectations more than once of late, avoiding certain compositions for lack of confidence in my own abilities, something I am working to constantly improve upon.

I think that my conclusion from these (lengthy, sorry) musings is likely that a sense of balance & proportion is what is required, framing my weekend within the structure of easily sleeping until eleven, a lengthy breakfast & extended stint in pyjamas, a more savoured supper (my oven is -  tentatively - fixed, Sunday veggie toadstool-in-the-hole anyone?) & pick from my Netflix recommendations forming the closed bracket of my days off. Taking a more considered approach, I am thinking increasingly of the study of my motivations behind the use of my time, be it that I feel obligated or that I partake & invest in things that contribute to my personal happiness. In accordance to my renewed commitment to the latter of these & to the scarcity of these hours of my very own, I am resolved to be thoughtful in the allocation of this time, investing it in more hours in bed, more pages of my latest book, more shared with those closest to me &, ultimately, more wholesome enjoyment from every day. 

Inspired by Lyzi of Being Little's monthly goals, it is the considered use of my time that I will place an importance on this month, having waved a glad & soggy farewell to January, & I have already scheduled an afternoon wrapped up & rummaging through Battersea Boot Sale (where I have been particularly successful in the past!) tomorrow & yet another visit to Tate Modern's Paul Klee exhibit (a review, of sorts, of which may well crop up here imminently) next week. 

I hope that you have the time to breathe & appreciate a small pleasure this weekend. Oh & if that is gained from twenty-five minutes of scrubbing at the bathtub then that's okay too.

Speak soon - O.