London at dusk and the perfect sag aloo

I rolled home last night after three glasses of wine (my limit is now two and half) with work colleagues. My walk back to the soon-to-be-ex flat took much longer than usual, as I stopped to take lots of pictures of the sky, random buildings, the Shard, and, um, hanging baskets, and will post a few of the best ones when I find the cable thingy which attaches the camera to the computer. The few which aren’t blurred and wonky are actually quite striking, and show London as I love it but so rarely see it these days - dark, quiet and industrial, and set against technicolor sunset skies.

When I finally got home, bearing a bag of fragrant Indian food as a peace offering, M accused me of not taking the move seriously. He’s probably right. I’m dealing this in the way I deal with everything which I don’t like (which, for the record, includes change of any description) - by sticking my head in the sand and hoping it will all happen around me.

But I did say that I would review places I eat at, and I feel I should mention the lovely folk at Cafe Nawaz on Snowfields, SE1, which provided me with the aforementioned olive branch yesterday evening.

I have honestly (in all my travels, including around India) never had a more perfect sag aloo than the chaps at this establishment reliably rustle up: it’s buttery, delicately spiced, and somehow light, the saltiness of the spinach softly balanced against the velvety potatoes. The curries are also beautiful - without fail, each dish I've tried has been fresh and surprising, rich and fiery when required but, if not, subtle and light and oh so tender on the palate. And what’s more, the owners are absolutely charming, which counts for a lot in a city which is regularly voted as one of the rudest and most unwelcoming places in the world. Also, it’s a BYO, which knocks a good £10 per head off the bill at the end of the night.

Anyway, all this talk of food is making me feel hungry, so I’m off to get something to eat. I’ll post the photos later.

Basil.

(Incidentally, it’s just been pointed out to me that as each of glass of wine last night was 250ml, I actually drank almost a bottle in under two hours. I feel slightly mollified, but still pine for the days in which I could sink close to two bottles with no obvious ill effect. Apart from to my liver , obviously.)

All change

We got our house. It's in Battersea, south London. Two bed, roof terrace (balcony would be a more apt description) dish washer, not ground floor. All of my boxes are ticked.

I want to be excited. We can move next weekend, so no commuting from M's parents/living with friends and family. Why am I not more excited? Why do I feel dread, tearful, terrified?

P, my brother, sighed loudly when I asked him these same questions. He was with J, and kept breaking off mid-sentence to give an update ("no, no she's just crazy, won't be long, yes, it's about the house...") and summarised quite accurately that I had chosen to make the move and what, exactly, was I complaining about. In a nutshell, and in no means in order of precedence, I'm fretting about...how will I get to work, how will I get to bikram, will I be safe in the flat, and will M and I love each other in this new place?

Will we?

Nothing more to add on this tonight. I'll hopefully be more positive tomorrow.

Basil.

Hunting for a home

The month of June has been a medley of awfulness so far. It started going downhill on May 20, when I had to work until 3 in the morning before getting up at 9 to drive to Suffolk for my boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s wedding (I looked terrible and compensated by drinking all the champagne, which then ran out, so not an ideal occasion). I then made the presentation from hell on the Monday morning after that, and have pretty much not left the office since. To make matters worse, this period of 80 hour weeks has coincided with having to move out of our lovely flat.

As I write this I feel abject panic rising (the same panic that’s stopping me sleeping night after night). We now, as of today, have twelve days to find ourselves an abode before we’re forced into (i) living with M’s parents on a sofa bed, or (ii) camping with kindly friends.

Both of these options are less than ideal, as I fear that M and I have become so used to living with each other that we’ve developed heinous habits which would horrify and revolt family and friends in equal measures. I, for example, have taken to coming home after work in the early hours of the morning, making myself a round of peanut butter and honey toast x4, and playing the video of Marina and the Diamonds ‘I am Not a Robot’ on repeat and, erm, quite loud. M is tolerating this for the time being (he has the patience of a saint) but I’m not sure what others would think. Anyway, you get my drift. We need to find somewhere to rest our heads, of our own, ASAP.

My desperation means that I’m having quite a few conversations a day with estate agents, most of whom are lovely (I’m being polite, over half are terrible, pushy and selectively deaf). However, one in particular sticks out. I’ll call him Roger. Roger calls me ten times a day, leaves messages sounding like a lost little boy (“Basil, where are you?”) and takes it personally when we don’t like a flat he recommends. We have had lots of conversations, Roger and I, each of which end up with me hanging up on the verge of tears (of frustration and rage) which go along the lines of:

Roger: I have a perfect, absolutely perfect, flat for you. The living room is unusually large, there’s an unusually large bathroom, bedroom one is unusually large. Etc.

Me: [Foolishly, I believe him and my hopes start to rise] Oh Roger that sounds lovely. Is it within our price range/within walking distance of Clapham Junction station?

Roger: Yes, absolutely. It’s absolutely perfect. The living room is unusually large….etc etc.

Me: [So happy, just picturing how well my basil pot will thrive on the sheltered, west facing balcony) Roger, it sounds amazing. Can we book a viewing for the weekend?

Roger: Yes, just wait while I find my pen…

Between five and ten minutes pass. We book the viewing.

Me: Perfect. Thanks Roger. We’re really so grateful for your help. Could you remind me how much this property is a week, and where it is, so I can tell M?

Roger: Here’s the thing - it’s £495 a week and in a wonderful new development south of Vauxhall. But I’m sure the landlord will accept less. A bit less, anyway.

Me: [And here’s where I wish I could tell you that I lose my temper/shout/curse/scream at the man who seems hell bent on crushing me, but instead I clench my teeth and say…] Thank you Roger, but that’s significantly over our budget and I have told you quite a few times that we must be within walking distance of Clapham Junction. Please cancel the viewing. Goodbye.

I then waste more time calling M in frustration, who’s in the first two weeks of a brand new job and really has better things to do than listen to me huffing and puffing about stereotypes and whatnot.

But anyway. Enough of my moaning - I’m about to slink out of work to do another viewing. Maybe, just maybe, this one will be “the one”…

Basil

Remember dream

I found a notebook I used to write in a few years ago while I was at law school and living in Clapham.

It is filled with food diaries and long lists of books and poems I wanted to read but, on the very first page, is a list of New Year's resolutions for 2006. I've since given up making New Year's resolutions as, being honest, I find January a profoundly depressing month in which I'm in no frame of mind to tackle all those things I know I should do more of (exercise, eating fruit/veg etc) and everything I should probably do less of (drinking, spending whole days in the flat in my pjs etc) is exactly what keeps me going until things get slightly better in Feb.

I'm also the kind of ridiculous person who hates being told what to do (even by myself) and I have an almost pathological fear of failure. So, for all of the reasons above, the whole process of New Year's resolutions is overly fraught and I gave it up for the sake of my sanity.

My (final) goals in 2006 were fairly underwhelming - make it to the gym three times a week, but only for the rest of January, eat two pieces of fruit or veg a day - but I had as resolution number 5, following 3. 'Keep reading poetry - carry it on person always' and 4. 'WRITE - anything and everything:' 'Remember dream.' Although I hesitate before I type this, but if I'm not going to be honest here then where else: my dream is to write and be published.

While I haven't forgotten the dream exactly, I had hoped to be further along the line with it by now. And so this is why I'm writing now, in this blog, because I need to start thinking and putting the equivalent of pen to paper to help me on my way. I'm extremely out of practice so, to anyone reading, please bear with me while I get back into the habit.

Off now to a picnic in Battersea Park but, as the sun is refusing to come out, I leave you with a perfect image of a summer afternoon: the view from my favourite bar on my favourite Greek island, Hydra.

Until next time.

Basil