Summer notes

Forgive me, Fat Ponies.

It has been a month since my last confession. In my youth, this, the very prime of summer, the blessed month between the fireworks of the 14th of July and the  holiday klaxon of the 15th of August, would have been spent in a fug of carambars, Picsou Magazine, and Fort Boyard, stewing gently on the old leather sofa of our summer house in a slick of sweat. Instead I have been stewing, in the rolling heat, in an animation studio. Since news of the production ran in a few papers today I might as well link to it. The Snowman and the Snowdog! It’s the Snowman! Again! But with a dog. Made of snow. A snow dog.

What can I tell you about summer in London? Yes, there has been the small business of feats of athleticism, buoyant mayors and surreal ceremonies, but apart from a fairly entertaining opening night I took very little notice of the whole thing.

Which leaves me wondering… what exactly have I been doing with my time? I turn to foggy, fuzzy mobile phone pictures to jog my memory, a thing leaky and  broken by long hours of pressing computer keys in the manner of a Chinese virtual gold digging monkey.

Spying on the fox family

They are skinny, belligerent, and have taken up residence in the construction site next to my old flat. I love this picture. If they  ever released an album, this would be their cover.

Drinking cocktails from mason jars

Plus ça change etc.

Again at the damp cocktail bar.

Falling asleep at the theatre

Yes. I am officially 105 years old. I can no longer make it through a civilised evening without nodding off in that jerky commuter fashion, like an overworked Japanese mid level manager. I had to run away during the intermission, my cheeks burning with shame. SHAME, I TELL YOU. Mildly incontinent granny shame.

Eating Afghan food

Fried pastry triangles filled with pumpkin and leek and spiced lamb with lentils and dumpling things smothered in a sauce made of crushed halos topped with unicorn dust. YUM.

A bargainous treat at Ariana 2 in Kilburn, named after Ariana 1, in… Manhattan.

Getting a pho fix

… at this hole in the wall on Upper St.

Their banh mi has the works: roast pork, pâté, and pork floss, but at £5.50 it is exactly 18 times the price of the Phnom Penh version. OUCH.

Next up: flat hunting, something about polo ponies, and the joys of Hackney.

But not now. Granny needs her beauty sleep.



There’s an old cherry tree in the Jardin des Plantes, stubby and gnarly like an old woman with its branches reaching all the way down to the ground. For a few weeks it blooms in the Spring. If I were 16 again I would skip class to go there and kiss boys and have not a care in the world.