meemalee

I've just been in Japan for a fortnight and I really didn't want to leave. But when I was on the plane back to Blighty, I decided to count my blessings, one of which is a little Vietnamese cafe near my office called City Caphe . Open only at lunchtimes, I've got through many a long morning at my desk by day-dreaming about City Caphe's food. The day-dreaming continues as I wait in their queue which stretches out the door - it's a dratted constant, but it's worth standing there, even in the rain. Sometimes I press my nose against the window, Charlie Bucket-like, to stare at the gorgeous steaming dishes that others are already enjoying. The queue continues to wind inside, but rather charmingly, they have a selection of books for the hungry punters to pass the time. I'm not a bread person, but even I adore City Caphe's banh mi, and their summer rolls are the best I've had ( apart from my own ) - packed with prawns and herbs, though there's a tofu ve...

We get in to London Bridge at 8.12. I kiss him farewell as he travels on to Charing Cross, and join the crowd which oozes blearily onto the platform. At 8.14, as we stumble along, the train to Gravesend pulls in, and as usual it takes all of my (frankly waning) will-power not to climb on it and chug my way back home. The crowd bottlenecks, then shuffles to the top of escalators, and I grab a copy of Metro from halfway down the pile in a Jenga move. I note that their stands have changed from blue to silver, and I feel a small thrill of excitement and then realise I need to get out more. Everyone else shoves and rushes, but I'm happy to stand on the right as I rummage in my bag to work out what I've forgotten (there's always something). At the bottom, I cross Tooley Street and walk past the London Dungeon, gaudily unfrightening in the early morning light, and I stop at the fruit and veg stall and buy a punnet of flat peaches for a pound. "I don't need a bag, thanks...

We're standing in a line and she walks up and down. Her face is inscrutable, by which I mean it's on its default setting of pissed off, and we're wondering which of us is for the chop. I say which of us, but I know I'm safe, though some of the others are definitely not leaving on time tonight. "Kate Simpson, Hannah Jones, you two stay behind. You've not even made an attempt to hide the fact you're caked in blusher". She then gets a cotton wool pad, dips it in toner and begins wiping down our lashes - looking for that tell-tale black smear that denotes Rimmel's finest. Some girls are ahead of the game though - as well as the wondrous White Musk perfume, the Body Shop sells a clear gel mascara to foil such fascist tactics. Granted, its gluey formula makes them look like startled kittens with conjunctivitis, but it's guaranteed not to leave an inky trace. As we wait our turn, it doesn't seem to occur to any of us that this is, if not an infri...

"I need to go to the US again". My husband says this quietly, as he knows the reaction he will get. It used to be melodramatic - I'd mope and I'd wail that he'd forsaken me, and he'd fix me with a look and say, "I don't like it either. Do you want me to quit my job? I'd do it tomorrow if you asked me." And I'd sulk and say, no, I like having a house and money to go on holidays and all that kind of stuff. These days, I stick out my bottom lip a little and I say, "When?". And then we get out our Blackberries and we look at our work calendars and we try to be practical, to co-ordinate when would be best for him to be away, but inside I feel empty and sad, although I know it has to be done. The night before he goes away, I pass him a plug adaptor to put in his suitcase and I say to him, "I once read that Paul McCartney and Linda McCartney only spent one week apart during their whole life together". And he looks at me and h...

[ Housekeeping - I've decided to write a bit more about stuff other than food. I will still be writing about food though. Please do not be alarmed ] I walk home on autopilot, as I do every day, past the myriad shops that barely make a dent on my consciousness. The school outfitters where my parents are forced to buy every purple piece of uniform that makes us the laughing-stock of the other pupils in the area, the newsagents that sells huge bags of broken sweets for 50p but take an eternity to serve, the chippy surrounded by a stifling haze of rancid fat - all of these blur as I quicken my step. And as I walk, I slowly replay the day's events in my head. I think about my urge to stick my hand up, even as I feel everyone's eyes burn into the back of my neck. It doesn't matter how often they call me "bod", or "swot", or "teacher's pet" - it's like I have some kind of smart-alec Tourette's. And I sigh and I think at least the teach...

The clip show . When a TV series wants to indulge in some onanistic nostalgia, they will often churn out an episode of greatest hits. You start to watch, and you say to yourself, "God, have they completely run out of ideas? They're just dialling this in - I've seen this a million times", and you grab the remote to change the channel pronto. But then you find yourself sinking back onto the sofa, as you think, "I don't think I've seen this one", or "That was funnier than I remember", and you give in and let the past wash over you. This is a long-winded way of saying here's some stuff from my blog archives but for a very specific reason -I’ve been nominated by fellow blogger Gourmet Traveller to participate in Tripbase’s “My 7 Links" project . Her blog is beautiful by the way - go take a look. The stated goal of Tripbase’s project is "to unite bloggers in a joint endeavor to share lessons learned (yes, I know ) a...