Brick Lane BBQ

I went to my first English BBQ the other week. It was at a friend of a friend's place and they were raising charitable funds for a madcap cycling journey from London to Paris...to be completed within 24 hours. The party was in a tiny slip of a street off of the infamous Brick Lane. The street may have been narrow, but their lodgings was a warehouse of whopping proportions. The courtyard alone was bigger than the flat I'm staying in. It's surprising what lies behind closed doors.

The temperature dipped into single digits, so with one hand warming over hot coals and the other chilling with a pint of cider, we chatted as the cycling team churned out training miles on a fixed bike stand. Laziness never felt so relaxing.

Wandering back onto Brick Lane, revealed more unexpected delights. The borough of Tower Hamlets is home to London's Bangladeshi-Sylheti community, so the lane is infused with the heady aroma of spices from stewing curries. The brick walls are canvases for street art, the shops are a mixture of grandma vintage chic, thrift shops, independent cafes, heaving asian supermarkets, tiny bars, obscured doors leading to indie nightclubs and of course hot beigels. Hot salted beef in a mustarded beigel is so simple, yet so utterly delicious and moreish.

Fi

Bummer

Wet tiles + stairs + rush hour + gravity defying manoeuvre = one sore sister and another stressed sister

[Valentino Vamp]

Two nights ago I was planning to meet up with Mish for dinner. The roads were slick with rain and the air achingly frigid (yet bewildering still a smidgen warmer than an English summer) - the perfect night for heavy eastern European fare and lip smacking cider.

I rang Mish to check how far away she was from the restaurant. Sounding extremely blasé, she replied, “I hurt my back. I’m in an ambulance my way to hospital.”

I had visions of the worst possible injuries. Mish’s nonplussed attitude and vague answers didn’t help my now madcap state of mind.

By the time I reached the hospital she was as high as a kite from morphine – heckling the footy players on telly, chatting about Hawaii – and I was stroppy.

I am my Mother’s daughter, I discovered. I don’t lend well to hospital situations, even though I’ve worked in many. I kept thinking about all the possible outcomes and getting more and more short tempered and narkier by the minute.

After an x-ray it was discovered that she fractured her coccyx. She busted her butt. She cracked her arse.

Hopefully she is coming home today. Fingers crossed! I want to drink wine and watch ‘A Fish Called Wanda’ with her, as tonight is my last night in Sydney.