Extra indulgence; hold the guilt

Easter Licks

Well, Spring has certainly not sprung in London. My ass cheeks have been quivering in tandem with my chattering teeth and I can only pray that the biting wind eventually stops. Despite being a total pig, this TL does not particularly care for chocolate, so the Easter Weekend is a bit of a non-event pour moi. That said, I have 4 days off work, so, thank you, Jesus. I toyed with the idea of having a hedonistic duvet weekend in, if I may so opine, a rather nifty penthouse which has The Bestest views of the Shard and BT Tower, but I though better of my soon-to-be 26 year old carcass. Salmon sashimi, Private Eye and a jacuzzi is, in Peter Griffin’s words, schweet, but it’s time to start living! I Tivo’d EastEnders, don’t worry.

Having recently implemented a whole new toning regime into my life, what better than a spontaneous weekend away doing something active? I’m more of a Ski Penguin and do après-ski like a frigging pro. Slopes that are more or less perfectly horizontal are safely within my comfort zone. Having cleared the shelves in Heathrow Boots of SPF 50, it was GI Penguin time. Bear Grylls, eat your heart out (although, actually, you probably wouldn’t wince at that, would you?). I packed a decent amount of reading material: I’m previewing ‘Mahler’s Concerts’ by Knud Martner (it is intended as a gift for a lovely man who helped me out last week, but he knows his sheez, so don’t want to give him something akin to paint by numbers) and, for my own personal consumption, some Brian Sewell – both texts for a future post.

I brushed off my A Level French and rudimentary German, did some verb conjugations and tried to hide my passport photo…

Bonjour Gstaad!




And, as a potential next post, the Bern Historical Musuem has a Terracotta Warrior exhibition (until November)!!!


Every Dog Has Its Day

The littlest TastyLick had his very first birthday a few days ago. Being the princess that he is, he demanded a cake all to himself (clearly, he truly is my son). Now, we’re not talking just any old garishly coloured buttercream number. We’re talking the Thomas Keller of all birthday cakes.

Ladies and Gentlespoons, I present…the Pumpkin and Sausage Paws-itively Perfect Cake! Yummers.IMG-20130216-00068

Grab a can of pumpkin puree (I used Libby’s), 200g sausage meat, a glug of olive oil (extra virg for the pampered pooch in your life), some parsley, some sage and a heaped tablespoon or two of flour (white is fine if your canine isn’t doing Atkins or some such).

Cook the sausage meat whilst holding on to as much juice and fat as possible.
Mix all the ingredients together.
Bung in a cake tin.
Whack in oven at 180 celsius for about 30 mins or until a knife comes out clean.
Decorate as required.

Now, let the hound at it!


Wham, Bam, Thank You, Ma’am!

I don’t know if anyone else remembers the Absolut vodka adverts? With Victoria Silvstedt? In the fur bikini?
Because I do and it’s what sprang to mind on Saturday evening when I was eagerly chucking a martini down my throat in an effort to restore my body to non-critical temperature. I was bundled up, feeling like a be-furred Swede with an igloo in the background.1

For the second year running, the Queen of Hoxton has staged its WigWamBam: a wigwam on its roof terrace complete with suspended barbecues, fallen logs for seating and marshmallow toasting. Having been to the roof only once before at the height of the English ‘summer’, I can safely say that, had I not known better, I could easily have been fooled into thinking this venue wholly new to me. It wasn’t packed out, which may have diminished the atmosphere. Also, and this royally pees me off: they weren’t taking plastic.wing-wam-bam02

The wigwam bar had a non-existent menu: hot buttered rum, cider or margaritas (in plastic cup). The main bar was as varied and as playful as ever: I had a fabulous strawberry martini in the coldest glass known to man. Then again, it’s like that Christmas morning feeling: by God, today WILL be great and I WILL love everything and I WILL have ZERO regrets. Then, inevitably, something hits the fan and no amount of denial will lead to success and you have to fake joy to yourself and present company?IMG_0905

Yup. That is the exec summary of the wigwam. The surroundings were certainly different and unusual – great for a first date: open fire, snuggling, making smores. However, when you’re out on a cocktail night, cocktails are kind of a pre-requisite. Unfortunately, no amount of attempts at persuading myself that plastic drinking vessels were ironic and deftly parodying our current economic climate (snooze) could hold me firmly to my seat. With the beverage disappointment growing thicker than Julia Roberts’ armpit hair, we had to GTFO and go further east.

Speak-Eary "Secret" Entrance

Speak-Easy “Secret” Entrance

The Breakfast Club in Spitalfields is old news. I love Americana kitsch and retro throwbacks…but not to the point where the retro means the computer system has crashed, they’re doing handwritten orders/bills and, consequently, the staff are so pissed off that they’re getting rude with the customers. We stood in line for 15 minutes, despite there being 3 open booths. They were seating solo diners on tables for 4!City of London-20130209-00605

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The food was as you would expect. Not at all complicated and designed solely with alcohol-absorption in mind. Minimal risk of horsemeat, so two thumbs up from me. I don’t really understand why they slapped a spit-ball of cheese on my room temp pulled pork bun, but, by this time, being a hundred sheets to the skin-annihilating wind (thank Christ for aesop’s camellia nut cream), I was happy to chow down. We only really sat to eat in order to get to the speak-easy downstairs: the Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town. The cocktails in the restaurant weren’t cutting it (the espresso martini I ordered came in a half-empty glass. No, literally)City of London-20130209-00615

The not-so-secret bar downstairs is lots of fun. 5

We mainly plumped for a Posh Paddington cocktail: marmalade, Grand Marnier, lemon, egg white, champagne, absinthe and angostura served in a lidded jar. Consequently, the name will also lead you to a host of brunette escorts in the west of London. Awk. City of London-20130209-00619

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The interior is kitsch and ‘look at how zany I am’, but it’s all part of the fun. Deliriously camp and OTT. The music was a great mix of 1990s dance, old school and contemporary sheez that I am far too square to identify. In essence, it was ‘bust a groove’ stuff…and, crucially, at the perfect volume. Light petting seemingly permitted: the-mayor-of-scaredy-cat-town_s345x230

My alcohol tolerance must have sky-rocketed, because, at this point, we were 4 hours into the night and I was becoming increasingly sober…and not happy about it. We hot-footed to the Heron for a night-cap at Duck and Waffle. Alas, it was rammed with eurotrash and men with facial hair that looked as if it had been drawn on with my 13 year old self’s eye liner. Had there been a Mizz magazine and Nokia 3310 near the bar, I wouldn’t have been surprised. From the floor above, we spied free tables at SushiSamba and so convinced ourselves we needed dessert. A cunning plan to snare a seat whilst we sipped!sushisambalondon-570x379

Having been to SushiSamba (nearly abbreviated that to SS…not that wise given the South American war criminal fugitives link) for business lunches, I was glad to be back again without the restraint of a) having to remain sober or b) deferring to someone else’s tastes. The mochi (ice cream-filled) were gorgeous. The perfect refreshing end to the night. The sake salmon sashimi was artfully presented. City of London-20130210-00628

I don’t know why they didn’t serve their usual Fiji still water, but I was far more concerned with trying to pick out where in the city I’ve previously lived, had a great night, had an horrendous night or done something to tell the grandchildren about.IMG-20130210-006226

I’ve got the same irk with this resturant: the light fixtures make me feel like I’m in B&Q c. 1991. This is probably of benefit to the multitude of serious and serial poseurs…but again, in-keeping with that night’s theme, it was a welcome part-and-parcel. There’s no better evening than one camper than a row of pink tents.

Beach Blanket Babylon: Shoreditch

Don’t you love an impromptu night out?

After a spontaneous meet-up and natter with a girlfriend of mine, we decided that, actually, we were a little peckish and, screw it. It’s 9.45pm on a Thursday, somewhere in this city will still be serving food. The kitchen of Les Trois Garcons was closing just as we arrived, but a bit of sweet-talk next door at Beach Blanket Babylon sealed the deal. What’s more, we got the best seat in the house and sat in the circular booth feeling a little Scarface.

First up: the BBB location in Notting Hill is far more visually appealing and is an absolute hoot. The cocktail menu at BBB Shoreditch is also not as extensive, but still offers the infamous house cocktail: the Porn Star martini:

D H Lawrence's Fig-cum-Passion Fruit Image

D H Lawrence’s Fig-cum-Passion Fruit Image

Secondly, the menu is thankfully small enough, but adequately varied, to keep your decision-making simple. We went for the seared king scallops, pan-fried foie gras, beef fillet and medallion of venison…all sloshed down with a bottle of house red.


Those scallops tasted of happy, puppies and rainbows. The table was utterly silent as we all savoured the texture, light saltiness and divine taste. They were only topped by a serving of Georges Bank scallops I had more than 2 years ago. We were seriously impressed.

The foie gras was heavenly and cooked to perfection. A delicate flavour rounded off with a delightul tart apple garnish.

No indulgent impromptu Thursday night out is complete without dessert. We thought we’d be restrained and have something light and savoury…a cheeseboard for 2.IMG-20130207-00042

Although they forgot to provide the grapes, the quince was delightful and the brie super creamy. The goat’s cheese was just a little bit…off and one cracker I had was most definitely going stale. Still, this place isn’t about substance. It’s about having a delightfully camp scream and not taking anything too seriously. It’s dark, it’s loud: the perfect place to let your hair down. Go there, knock back some drinks, slam your shot glass down on the table and laugh with your girlfriends.

It’s people-watching central. The food was reasonably priced and delicious, but a more extensive cocktail list for such a stunning central bar wouldn’t have gone amiss.

Roses are Red, but I’m a Shrew

I’ve never really been a ‘bouquet of flowers’ kinda gal. When it came to my wedding, I rolled up, on the morning of the ceremony, at Flowers on Chestnut in Nantucket, MA and said, ‘err, yeah. Well, we’re getting married…on a boat so probably green and blue flowers would be best, I thhhhhink. I don’t care what you do, as long as there’s basil in the veil comb piece.’

I’m horrifically and yet comically ashamed to recall telling a teenage boyfriend that, actually, this Valentine’s, I’d rather just have the money he would have wasted on a bouquet. I mean, really, what’s the cruel point? I’m hopeless with flowers and I certainly don’t consider making me care for a couple of stems for about a week, whilst I watch them wither anyway, an act of love! I could get on board with the programme if people sent potted plants because then a lifetime greater than one of Katie Price’s marriages is still feasible.

Scratch that. I once got so incensed by a boyfriend getting me flowers that I offered them to my male flatmate to re-gift to his girlfriend. THEY CAME WITH A FOIL HEART-SHAPED HELIUM BALLOON. If that wasn’t the neon sign saying ‘break up NOW’, then I don’t know what was.

Safe to say, Mr TL had never made that mistake…until last week. Why the man can’t send some shoes, I don’t know. Nevertheless, McQueen’s of Old Street set a new bar.mcqueens

Their flowers are so far removed from same-old same-old Interflora garbage. What’s more, their service is impeccable. The first bunch arrived (at my office, cue much hemming and hawing by the ladies and a few ‘what’s he done wrong then?’ from the men) and a few of the petals looked a little haggard. My trusty PA, outraged on my behalf (the little pitbull) made a well-mannered complaint and, with zilch hesitation or fuss, McQueen’s offered to send another hand-tied bouquet the following day. Apologies for the heinous photo quality, but I can’t whip out anything larger than a BlackBerry at work [don’t be dirty]. 45516_953016650202_1121279075_n


It would come as no surprise if you were wondering about the name. I was sure there must be a connection to Alexander McQueen, especially given the font McQueen’s uses. The premises florist-McQueen’s occupies, and has done since 1991, used to be owned by Alexander McQueen’s mother or aunt. Besides, it’s a great name, so who’s fussed?

I’ll admit that had the flowers not come from McQueen’s, I would not have been as pleased. Not only has Alexander McQueen had a presence throughout the TL relationship, but I do think it best to support independent places wherever possible.

In a tenuous link (but really just an excuse for a good image), here’s a beautiful flowered (literally) McQueen dress from SS 07. A heart-stopping display of McQueen’s beautifully morbid conceptualisation of the frailty of life and romance.

“Remember Sam Taylor-Wood’s dying fruit? Things rot. . . . I used flowers because they die. My mood was darkly romantic at the time.”Gentlemen, should you want to gift some flowers, you could do a lot worse than McQueen. Puns and monikers aside, this florist has some amazing credentials and style: from Vanity Fair parties to Claridge’s Christmas and a Mulberry tree:

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Lights, Camera, Action!

‘Cinema Night’ has been a stalwart date night for Mr TL and me since time immemorial. In fact, our second ever rendezvous and first proper organised date when we were dating was a DVD and a bottle of red. It was on our third Cinema Night when I knew I would marry him.

What does this all mean?

We like movies.

Now, when I was little and growing up in the arse-end of Somerset (I jest, I love the county), the only cinemas were chain ones…and until the glorious Odeon opened in Taunton, a film meant a 40 minute car ride to Bridgewater: Home of the Cellophane Factory. Unfortunately, to this day, the poor choice hasn’t improved. For some rip-off price you get to sit in a popcorn-encrusted hard-backed chair, strain to hear the film over the chatter/phones/slurping of others. Also, what’s with all that junk food? I’ve seen babies get lost in those popcorn buckets. That said, the refreshments are genius: a true example of the theory of evolution in motion. Drink 64oz of coke during a 2 hour movie and, yes, yes, children, you will need the bathroom.
The Aubin Cinema is delightful. Unlike its sister venue, The Electric (Portobello Road), it’s cosy. The Electric’s leather seats will have your buns chattering away to one another. Also, the Electric has a far larger seating capacity and so doesn’t feel as personal. The Aubin honestly feels like someone’s living room. They have cute little tartan blankets for you to snuggle up in (no funny business, please!) and plump squishy cushions for you to spoon. The nibbles and drinks on offer aren’t as various at that of The Electric, but, hey, a good slug of wine and some white chocolate-covered raspberries still make me a happy girl. You can get at-seat cocktails served and nibble on lemon-salted almonds, olives and cookies.aubin3

The seating is far more luxurious, I think, than any other cinema I’ve been to. Luxurious in the sense that you can do what Frankie says and rrrrrrelax. Everyone gets a footstool (even if they don’t have a husband, ba-dum-chhh!) and a little illuminated table, so no more knocking your drink over as you fumble in the dark.

If you can, I would spring for one of the settees (£28) in the back. ‘Well colour me happy! There’s a sofa in here for two!’ *le sigh* 032410-pretty-woman-623

Mr TL and I did when we saw Flight (I love you, John Goodman) and it was fantastic! No annoying arm rest to get in your way. You could totally kick back and slob out. It honestly felt like you were in your own living room and nobody else existed. I felt like Bear Grylls was giving me a man-hug, protecting me from the wilds of Saturday night East London. And, yeah, I hugged his hairy man-chest back…and angels sang. thbncnm

Ahem, I digress, as per. In short, although the Aubin looks like a 1970s community sports centre from the outside, then a contemporary radical Berlin art space in the foyer, it makes for a great first date, 10th date or old gimmer outing. I’ll certainly be going back – look out for their ‘Edible Cinema’ nights wherein foods linked to certain points in the movie are served e.g. you’d get a gourmet gobstopper during the appropriate time in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

The other patrons were quiet and respectful – there were no mobiles or nattering during the film. As I said, it was like your own living room and some of your less-known friends showed up for the fun too. And this is why I love East London – there are less pretentious gits around to ruin things. At 25, I’m through tolerating the uppity types who are just sooooo important and who, instead of chilling the F out as children, sought to dress up as Nancy Reagan and ball-break everyone for life.

Bukowski on My FACE

Never one to be restrained by social decorum or the concept of taste, I was elbow-deep in meat on Saturday afternoon and just knew I had to do a Tasty Lick post.

Box Park in Shoreditch is a cross between an awkward collocation of ‘Things In Which To Smuggle People’ and ‘Hello Claustrophobia!’ It’s a pop-up mall made up of shipping containers. Yeah, I know, it sounds horrible, but if it keeps rent down and is easily recognisable, everyone’s a winner. It houses various food joints (burrito/Vietnamese/Chop’d) and a variety of hideous clothing stores (Irregular Choice, anyone?), but perched above ground level is the pinnacle of the complex: Bukowski.

Quite a stripped down menu and location (both positively so) results in frankly, fucking mind-blowing eats. I was a-moaning and a-groaning the whole time we were sat and/or beached at the table. It was fabulous. Meg Ryan isn’t the only broad to give a show in a diner, I’ll have you know. Mr TL is a carnivore of the most Jurassic Park proportions. We went through a stage of eating steak tartare for about a month solid. Cholesterol and heart issues aside, it was, hands down, the best month of my life. London this weekend has been absolutely Arctic – like we’ve been living in Judge Judy’s underwear – and what better than some meat sweats to warm you up?

We live a stone’s throw from Box Park and after tantalizing fantasises about meat and melted cheese at my desk all week, Saturday afternoon seemed like the threshold of my sanity and the latest possible time for me to hold off getting my face filled with awwwl kinds’a nasty hot matter. We quick-marched to Box Park, giddy with excitement and already knowing what we’d order. Being housed in a shipping container, Bukowski is small and narrow, but in a completely affirming way. It was a big old warm meaty hug from the elements (and undesirables) of Bethnal Green Road. There are 3 booths and one half a booth – if going alone or with one other person, I would try to get this half a booth as since nobody can sit opposite you, you are afforded the cover to fully get your face in your burger and not worry about looking like Britney Spears around a blended Starbucks beverage.

Lots of reclaimed wood and low lighting (again, a big plus when it comes to messy eating) made for a great winter-like atmosphere. There’s also al fresco seating for the summer months or for you smokers out there. They home-make their ketchup, garlic-mustard-mayo and hot sauce and provide hippie-dippie wooden cutlery and recycled napkins. The latter feel like sandpaper, but are good at mopping up the juices and grease from the inevitable train wreck you’ll create whilst munching on down.IMG-20130202-00583


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They have a range of craft beers, that are niftily served in cold-as-a-polar-bear’s paw tankards. I sampled the homemade lemonade (very refreshing and not too sweet). The menu is littered with other condiments: Chipotle salsa, smoky bourbon BBQ sauce, red onion chutney, cheeses etc. They had a guest burger: The Wise Guy, containing a beef patty, smoked mozzarella and what have you. However, I had my greedy eyes set on The Mother – two beef burgers with double Gloucester cheese, maple bacon, red onion chutney, lettuce and tomato (they’ll happily put mayo on the side for you). Thankfully, they don’t butter their buns [insert juvenile joke]. Mr TL got the same and also a pulled pork (6 hour cooked) bun on the side. Get your eyes around these babies:Tower Hamlets-20130202-00591

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The last picture is the third burger Mr TL indulged in: The Purist with added Chipotle. It packed a punch (yours truly always takes a nibble. I justify it as ‘The TastyLick Tax’), but was no match for my double-whammy Mother Fucker Burger. Hot dayum. That was an immense feast. It was like Denzel Washington was baby oiled up and sliding around in my mouth. I had juice dripping down to my mid forearm, people! The texture and colour of the meat was superb (twas grass-fed Hereford sirloin, dontchaknow). There would be more photos had I been able to operate my phone’s camera without drenching it in cow juice. My only quibble is that they should have let the meat rest, for the sheer amount of juice that was leaking out of the bun made the bottom of the burger soggy and hard to hold. I’ll admit, classy lady that I am, it was hard to get my mouth around the burger – some mouse nibbles were needed until one had gained enough ground that the full-on ‘Shove In Mouth’ manoeuvres could begin. I was all about the meat and melted cheese. The cheese didn’t slide off the burger as is often a problem. In fact, the whole burger kept its form throughout the desecration.

The Purist

The Purist

The bun was well done too – warm and a bit of a shell on the exterior, but not overly toasted nor anaemic. Whilst Mr TL was T-Rexing through his Purist, I ordered some triple cooked chips. Initially, when I read the menu, these sounded absolutely foul. They are triple-cooked in beef dripping…and ‘dripping’ ain’t ever a word I want to hear. It reminds me of Steptoe and Son. However, my name is Sandra, and I am a greedy pig. I lack restraint at the best of times and could fit a little bit more in my belly. Thus, the inevitable happened:Tower Hamlets-20130202-00597

A bit of a let-down – the dripping did leave a film in the mouth. However, I’m not really a chips sort of person and had these been salted (something else I avoid at all costs) and had a splash of Heinz ketchup, they most likely would have been orgasmic.

There’s no dessert menu at this place, but if you go a few shipping containers down, Hard Candy will sort you out. It stocks most of the American and retro favourites (only mainstream Pez dispensers. Damn ye gods!) and other motley crew members. A sweet sweet shop, but I was so full that making it home without Mr TL having to roll me was looking like a distant dream.Tower Hamlets-20130202-00599

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If you’ve got a Pop Tart addiction, this is the best dealer in London.

How Not to Stage an Exhibition; or, a guerilla public service announcement

Dear V&A,

Figuring you’re quite into your textiles and super-cool design students, I thought I could count on you for a decent couture exhibition.

Words, however, fail me.

But they don’t utterly fail me.

Is it so very hard to design an exhibition wherein patrons FLOW? It’s a bit of a bugger when you have to navigate an exhibit and wonder ‘have we been to that section yet?’ or ‘FFS, there are three streams of traffic going on here’.

Also, for £10 a ticket, you have a nerve. Most of the dresses were Bland Central Station. The only style-interesting pieces were those of Erdem, Atsuko Kudo (an amazing piece, but not enough to redeem yourself) and the McQueens. However, after the Met staged Savage Beauty, you lot didn’t have a chance in hell. For once the American ‘bigger and better’ proved advantageous – Christ, they got a hologram of Kate Moss. WTF did you produce? Some piss-poor home projector unit and some After School Special footage. I cringed *for* you.

Also, a quick sentence on semantics. Most of your dresses were merely ‘evening’, not ‘ballgowns’.

The Norman Hartnell you had was okkkkk. I’ve seen better at the Kerry Taylor auctions. Admit it, you drafted in Princess Di’s Catherine Walker dress in a deliberate low punch, didn’t you? That combined with the Elizabeth Emanuel…jeez, give me a break. How predictable a piece. The abundance of Hardy Amies…bbbbbbboring!

All you did was project to thosuands of visitors that all the British Isles has to show for itself is…oh, the Royal Family. Wheeling out the same old done-to-death crap.

Please have a word with your designers and curators. What the HELL was going on with the mezzanine floor? Static displays with one or two, oooh, revolving, mannequins? The ones revered enough to be mobile had no reason to be mobile! The pathetic twirling debased the couture – giving the fabric no movement and rendering the design into stuff of dressing up boxes, not goddamn couture. Perhaps this is why you attract the uncaring masses, who show such respect with their velour tracksuits (no, I’m not joking). Why not put the latex Kudo on a revolving mannequin – that, at least, would have been ironic.

Safe to say, I’m glad the exhibition is over. The embarrassment can now end.

Representative for the innocent victims

P.S. What a half-arsed effort on your part. For shame!
P.P.S. THAT Lulu Guinness bag? Oh, come on. There’s a limit to hackneyed garbage.

Visionaire Trinkets

Coffee table books.

Twee. Dust-collecting. Obnoxious. Bombastic.

Or, a must-have?

When it comes to Visionaire’s offerings, the latter rings true. Whilst adding to my Amazon wishlist, I stumbled upon this gem (massively overpriced on Net-a-Porter at £400), ’27 Movement’: 352600_in_xl

Although touting the obsequious doyenne of our generation, La Moss, I think it’s an absolute delight. Perhaps ‘delight’ is too ephemeral…yet, on the other hand, that’s precisely what the publication is to me. Such numbskulls on the Internets have dubbed it a ‘fashion book’…Humpfh. The concept of ‘movement’ is ephemeral and beyond ethereal. The front cover features a hologram of Moss on a swing: tilt the book, she swings. Ta-da! Swings, motifs of our childhoods, are synecdochial of the ephemeral. Is Moss herself a fleeting presence? No, she is unfortunately stubbornly stalwart. The vellum the publication is made from is far more enduring that mere paper. A hologram: fleeting.

But, excuse my poncey English degree and dalliances with art history: Moss featured in the most breath-taking 3D hologram in McQueen: Savage Beauty (see earlier posts), and here she features again. Roland Barthes and author deaths aside, has the hologram been made more concrete and lasting?

Further, the Savage Beauty book also features a hologram of McQueen – interlaced with the image of a skull. Cue: liberalist Birkenstock discussion of death, life and uncaptured breaths. 323680_e1_xl

Taking interpretation perhaps one step too far: an all-time fave, Hussein Chalayan, features. Now, if Visionaire want to make a point about movement, they pulled a great trick out of the bag. Chalayan’s 2000 show was *genius*. Tables as dresses are surely the archetype of ‘movement’ and metamorphosis? Chalayan’s personal history is synonymous with change, movement and chameleonic progress.

Such brief offshoots lead me to condemn ‘fashion book’ labels and instead insert ‘borderline conceptual art’ into the fold.

Meh, perhaps too much thought for a NYE at work, but interesting all the same, I feel.

Tasty Paleo Lick?

Thanks to the ridiculous excess of Christmas and the ensuing sales (Net-a-Porter: what a let-down this year. For shame!), I feel like a big ol’ bloater. Thank Captain Caveman for the paleo lifestyle! caveman

As of about 10 days ago, I embraced the Tibetan Buddhist ponce-o-rama that is paleolithic eating (or, for those in Whole Foods for whom 5 syllables was a little too much, “Caveman”). It actually makes a lot of sense – no carbs, no processed foods and eat only what a caveman could have eaten. I’ve been convinced for years that I am lactose intolerant, so the ‘no dairy’ rule suits me down to the ground.

Alright, so technically coffee is a big fat no-no, but there’s only so far I can be pushed. Besides, I got Mr TL a Gaggia for Christmas, so, fuck it. Needs must. There’s no other way I can make it to lunchtime.

When you work as a trainee solicitor and average 12-14 hour days, there comes a time when you need to step away from the crap that keeps you awake at that 4pm slump and get with the programme…repulse that monkey…rejoice in the Purkiss system…feel nature’n’stuff. Getting beasted on the job, with your most common form of exercise being either running to the printer or running to give a document to someone means drastic measures must be taken. I’ve spent too much money in the sales, so I need to combat the repulsing and overwhelming sense of splurge. So, I trotted off to Whole Foods and bought a load of almond flour, nut butters, almond/hazelnut/coconut milks and waters, a trolley load of kale and set to it. heavyweights

Does this spell the end for The Tasty Lick?

Not on your ass.

There are thousands of sites and blogs detailing alternative dessert recipes – and you really can’t tell the difference. Saccharine-detesting Mr TL can now nibble on ‘sweets’ with me.

Essentially, this was just a post to make up for my 6 month absence. Thus, to salvage something from this hollow diatribe: apple cider vinegar – a miracle worker when it comes to stabilising sugar cravings, of which I had many at first.

Christ. Just read this post back. Apologies for the vanilla.

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