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Everything is Copy
Summer of Love, iced coffee and antihistamine addiction
I find it quite amusing that when I tell people I’m a journalist the first question I get asked is “what do you write about?’’ when the only things I write these days as a TV journo in Westminster are passive aggressive emails to press officers from various government departments (No Patricia, I did NOT have a chance to read the above).
Writing is still my thing though, the other goal I work towards when I’m not chasing politicians with a microphone down Parliament Square or diving into bins to retrieve important documents that were discarded by mistake. Such is the glamorous life of the TV (Assistant) News Editor.
I don’t update my beloved blog as much as I’d like to. And that’s not because I have nothing to write about – quite the opposite. As most writers, I just happen to spend most of my time not writing. It’s called ✨ fundamental lack of discipline ✨, look it up.
This doesn’t change the fact that I am indeed a person who does things and meets people and every thing that happens - however insignificant- can be turned into a story or anecdote worth reading. When Nora Ephron said Everything is Copy, she meant it, and I tattooed it on my arm - lest I forget it.
Pfizer??? I hardly know her!
Thousands of people in their twenties rushed to book their covid jab this week. High take-up and low hesitancy? We love to see it.
This means that the summer of love has officially begun - and I got final confirmation of that yesterday when I walked into my local coffee shop and my trusted barista Dani greeted me with the beaming smile and unmistakable glow of the woman who just got laid.
She met one of her regular customers while walking in the park, they ended up having drinks and some form of intercourse. Thing is… he has his hair up in a bun, reads Erich Fromm and serenades her with his acoustic guitar. Something tells me that covid is not the worst thing you could catch from this guy.
Sneezing my way downtown
C’est le tempes du l’amour, sang François Hardy from Paris. It’s les temps de la hay fever, cries Valerio from Tower Hamlets. The Met Office is currently recording “very high” pollen forecasts in most of England, which means itchy throat, watering eyes and compulsive sneezing that prompts everyone in my vicinity to turn their head and look at me as if I’m case zero for the next pandemic (my money is on monkeypox).
Antihistamines are a great shout but my white-witch mamma says they mess up your liver (already inevitably compromised by the reopening of bars) so she suggested a herbal remedy that has proved mildly successful. It’s black elderberry extract - you can find it here. I wash it down with vodka, but gin works too.
Iced Coffee season
Move over triple shot flat caucasian, it’s iced coffee season! I happen to be a fan, but there’s something about drinking cold milk that makes me feel slightly uneasy, so I take mine black. My favourite is cold brew - not an Americano with ice, but literal ground coffee left to steep in cold water for hours.
I’ve taken it upon myself to try iced coffee from every experimental forward-thinking coffee shop in trendy East London and to my dismay it appears that the best cold brew is actually… Costa’s? It’s smooth and limpid and it’s got that kick that brings all the boys to the yard while also making your left eyelid twitch uncontrollably.
If you want to go independent, which helps small business owners and incidentally also looks better on your Instagram, then I suggest you try Vicky Park Pavilion’s overpriced and undersized cold brew. It’s a very nice.
What I read
This Times article about summer footwear for men. Always remember: just because you can wear it (loafers), doesn’t mean you should.
A lovely piece about the Friends Reunion and the side-effects of misplaced nostalgia.
A photo series about a summer we earned: This Is the Summer the Youth Own New York.
What I watched
Cruella. A villain origin story in which the villain is actually a heroine (Emma Stone) fighting another villain so fabulous (Emma Thompson) it makes you want to watch a film about her villain origin story.
First Wives Club. A much-needed throwback to happier times (when I didn’t exist). A masterpiece of campiness and 90s flair. Bette Midler, Goldie Hawn and Diane Keaton + guest appearances by Maggie Smith and Sarah Jessica Parker. You don’t even need to read about the plot to know it’s good.
What I listened to
Visa vid Midsommartid: New release from Skandi-sad queen Ane Brun. I have no idea what she’s saying but I’m weeping nevertheless.
Balance things out with Lorde’s summer single Solar Power. She’s done it again, folks.
Cook Sleep Repeat by Nigella Lawson, the audiobook version. I listen to it before I go to sleep because her voice/liberal use of pompous adjectives soothes me and reassures me, the prospect of cooking her recipes fills me with joy and I just want - need - her to be my best friend forever.
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