My Delia Moment

I'm nesting again.

I decided to make homemade Christmas gifts for my office - because what do you buy the Finance Director and Managing Director? Exactly. I decided they could each have a jar of the previously blogged marmalade, and that I'd bake gingerbread biscuits to go with. I felt pretty smug just thinking about my cunning plan.

I made efforts to keep a Sunday free from engagements, and I holed up with my ingredients and festive spirit for a baking extravaganza. Miracle on 34th Street was on in the background, and I pottered around my kitchen in Christmassy contentment.... I tend to veer between the ages of 6 and 60 during December.

So it turned out the recipe was a bit complicated - separating eggs and creaming butter and sugar and all sorts of intimidating technical jargon which generally just means 'stir'. This is the bit where you add all the lovely Christmas spices and mix it all about a bit.

This is the bit where it nearly all went wrong and I broke my whisk. I was temporarily fooled by the technical jargon (creaming, incorporating, folding), and so resorted to the failsafe of stirring. Worked a treat. And yes. That is my Macbook dangerous close to a bowl full of sticky goo. Evidence of me living my life on the edge.

My dough! This had to sit in the fridge in clingfilm for an hour before the intensive manual labour of rolling it all out - enough time for me to see Santa Claus speaking sign language to the deaf girl. A Christmas tear was shed.

The fun bit! Rolling and cutting and baking.

The best bit. Sampling. Before applying Vogue treatment to the unashamedly un-Vogue cookies - wrapping them in chic black tissue and placing in overpriced boxes. The only way to smuggle this amount of festive cheer into the building. Sarah-1, Humbug-0.

A Seaside Saturday

I really do love a visit to the British seaside. Obviously it doesn't compare to taking stroll along a stretch of white hot sand littered with palm trees, pina colada in hand. And given the choice I'd take the Seychelles over Brighton any day of the week...I'm not a fool. But there's something special, something real and something lovely about our coastline. And it feels like home in a way that a Thomas Cook postcard never could.

These photos were taken at Leigh-on-Sea in Essex, on my Mother's Birthday. A cold, grey, wonderful day, spent with the people I love most in the world. I took the train from the city to Upminster, where I picked up my parents and we journeyed on together to the coast. We had a long, leisurely and luxurious lunch at Simply Seafood - an amazing fresh fish restaurant in the unlikely setting of right under a flyover. The dichotomy is utterly charming, and the food is generous and delicious.

We walked along the shore, stopping occasionally to pet passing dogs. We boarded the train home, sleepy and full. The evening was spent by the fire, in pyjamas, snacking on chinese food and home-made brownies. Family doesn't get much better than that.

Love Wu

Dear Jason Wu

Please can you send me the dresses pictured below from your pre-fall collection? I heart them and I heart you. I feel like we could be best friends, if you'd just return my calls.

We can discuss our lifelong friendship at a later date - but if you could courier over those dresses in time for Christmas party season I'd be super grateful.

Love Sarah x

Not a shade of blue in sight

Sunday is fast becoming my favourite day of the week. Odd, because Sundays have oft presented difficulties for me - part of the weekend, 50% of it in fact, but so intrinsically linked to Monday I'd often be left drifting, slightly out of sorts, a shade blue. Eager to rewind to Saturday or fast forward to the onslaught of Monday. Not always, but sometimes.

Today I feel rested and content following Sunday. A Sunday which is translating into a happy and successful Monday. The trick is to do your favourite things, with your favourite people. A long, lazy lie-in is essential. As are eggs. A meandering walk through the common, punctuated by dogs and ducks, wind and rain. Wet jeans and a dripping umbrella dry off in a quirky cafe with mismatched china and mini teapots. Such niceties appeal to and please me.

A Sunday requires an element of practicality. A trip to Sainsbury's. A load of washing. Not too much - just enough. A Sunday requires hearty sustenance. Hours of gentle kitchen pottering to produce a near perfect risotto, and a dreamy, cloying Shepherd's pie. A Christmas film. A final. Much laughter and unabashed excitement.

A bath. A lot of sleep. A Sunday to make the rest of the week jealous. Not a shade of blue in sight.

Wonderful and Worthy

I'm thrilled that Richard Wright has won the 2009 Turner Prize. At 49 he only just qualifies - and as an entirely uncontroversial painter with little to no shock factor, he's a bit of a surprise winner too. This makes Wright a wonderful and worthy winner in my eyes. His work is so beautiful and subtle, and manages an existence of understated brilliance outside of the mass market art circus. His gold wall painting will remain at the Tate Britain until January 3rd. It really is worth seeing.

Rebecca

I felt a baby kick for the first time yesterday. And not just any baby. Rebecca's baby. A baby we have been waiting for.

I have loved Rebecca pretty much since I first met her, on my very first day of work, in my very first full time job. In all honesty, I wasn't very good at the job. Too many spreadsheets that I just couldn't make myself care about. But Rebecca seemed to think that I was funny, and that my incompetency at ordering reprints didn't really matter. I recognised her as a friend on sight. And soon after, her husband Gareth too.

In March there will be one more. A little girl. A little girl who is surely going to be the most adored little girl in the world. I absolutely cannot wait to meet her.

"The next best thing to having the world at your feet is to have a dog at your heels"

A subject close to my heart.

Every fabulous and fashion forward canine in town will be heading to Purdey's tonight, owners in tow, to celebrate the launch of Dogs in Vogue. Delving back 100 years into the archives, Vogue unearthed thousands of photographs of our furry companions taking centre stage. A few favourites posted below.

Ho Ho Galliano!

Does he ever disappoint?? A sketch of Claridge's Galliano for Dior Christmas Tree - in situ as of today and staying fashionably put until the 6th January. In lieu of baubles and offensive tinsel there will be crystals, orchids and a sleeping leopard. Now that's what I call the festive spirit.

God Bless America

Well, sort of...For Thanksgiving at least. After much cheek and charm (re: hugely inappropriate and over-familiar behaviour) I bagged an invite to the most prestigious and coveted November event: Thanksgiving chez Roach.

This was no easy feat. A year's work of general brown nosing and badgering paved the path to Cambridge, our dearly departed Becky (who left the hallowed halls of Vague House for academia and the pursuit of truth and knowledge... I know, I don't get it either) and the residence of eco warrior Martin and domestic Goddess Sally.

Thanksgiving is an uncomplicated holiday. It consists of one day, and one day alone. No time need be spent trawling the streets for the perfect tree/present/decorative reindeer. No need to spend the month prior organising wayward relatives, or seeking out remedies for Christmas card induced writer's cramp. In fact, aside from the chef (from whom all Thanksgiving goodness flows) all you really need to do is select something smock shaped to wear and brush up on your boardgame skills. Neither of which are particularly arduous tasks.

My Thanksgiving was the perfect Thanksgiving. A five mile walk, punctuated with gossip and a stop for carrot cake and scones. A practice round of articulate while our limbs recovered and we warmed by the fire. The feast. Turkey, sweet potato, mashed potato, two rounds of stuffing, corn muffins, green beans with tomato relish. Three deserts. Apple pie, toffee and dried fruit tart, pumpkin and ginger cheesecake. Champagne, wine, chocolates and peppermint tea. Artery overload, resulting in gorged appearance of one well into their second trimester. A contented train journey back to London Town, late at night. Sated and Serene.

I give thanks to my wonderful friend and her incredibly kind and welcoming family. My first Thanksgiving, my best Thanksgiving. Definitely not my last Thanksgiving. (Please Sally? x)

There but for Grace

My darling Grace departs our fair shores tomorrow for nine months of adventure and gallivanting. I've been coping quite well with this up until now - but suddenly, at three o'clock in the afternoon, it all feels terribly real. Real excitement and happiness for her, and real loss for me.

We go way back. Back to Upminster, back to school, back to university. Back to the union and sugar and boozy lunches that left us good for nothing by the time neighbours started. Back to laughing until we cried, and crying until we laughed. Back to all our mistakes and inappropriate boyfriends. Back to our successes and triumphs. Back to everything that has been hard in my life. Back to when she has unfailingly been at my side. Looking forward to next year's Carnival and many, many Clapham nights of hilarity and outrageousness with our partners in crime. Looking forward to sitting on my sofa in pyjamas, martinis in hand. Looking forward to having her back, the same but different. Looking forward to everything she will have to tell me and teach me.

Here's to Grace. Then and Now and Tomorrow.

My Favourite Fashionista

Could I be any prouder of Alex (my aforementioned fabulous co-habiter)?? No. Absolutely not. See the link below for a fashion insider interview with the Rupert Sanderson PR star herself - typically classy, ever modest and unfailingly on trend.

http://www.womensmafia.com/2009/11/talent-qa-with-alexandra-kotsias-pr-star-at-rupert-sanderson/

Sunday Pleasures

- Waking up early, dry and warm with rain slashing at your window
- Caramel coffee in cold hands
- Respite from threatening clouds in the photographic form of Bowie, Beatles and Hendrix at the National portrait Gallery
- Hilarity at Cliff Richard's 60's status as Rock God Heart Throb
- Introducing American to Cliff Richard's noughties status as Creepy Celibate Christian
- A successful quest for ultimate cosy pub that wasn't too much of a pub. Mussels. Wine
- Brixton. Vanilla candles. Music. More Food. More Wine. Heavy eyes. Happy heart.

Sunday Blues? Not with this foolproof recipe.

Megan Taylor

I am not a photographer. A sad truth.

I have only very recently acquired a camera, and harboured secret hopes that I would unearth an unknown talent, an eye for composition and visual insight. Not so much. My pictures do what they say on the tin, generally with dodgy lighting and the shadow of my thumb in the top left corner to boot.

This glaring failing has been brought to my attention by the talent of others - namely photographer Megan Taylor. Megan takes beautiful and arresting pictures, and is currently shooting a series of portraits for publication/future gallery exhibit. The first series features first time dads, and her second focuses on assistants to important/prominent people. This is where I come in, as I was lucky enough to take part with my PA partner in crime, Katharine. Check us out flouncing around in the big boss' office.

Proud PA

My boss receiving his CBE earlier this week, for services to the magazine industry. Managed to convince him to bring in his medal this morning so I could have a look (resisted asking to try it on) - it's super shiny and surprisingly chic. I am one very proud PA today.

The Lost Weekend

A lost weekend can be a wonderful thing. They don’t happen very often, and they cannot be planned. There is no real recipe, just a series of contradictory experiences, to which all you need to add is willing.

I think it started on Friday. I made the glorious decision to take a day off for no particular reason. I spent a day in happy domesticity, before treading an unfamiliar path to hidden rooms, down dark corridors behind unmarked doors – a land of excess, dangerous tea and fancy dress boxes. I saw the sun come up and lost track of time and space. I made a new friend and said goodbye to an old and dear one. I met untrustworthy girls who smiled daggers. I committed a crime. I returned to the comfort of Warwick, and the East, and the people who know me best.

And now it is Sunday evening, the haze is lifting and the reality of Monday is fast approaching. I find that I am happily found.

Free Treats from the BBC

There is nothing better than a free treat. That's why it is always a good idea to join the end of a queue in White City - because if the gods are smiling on you, you might just end up ten feet away from Dermot O'leary and Noel Fielding. This is proof that dreams really can come true.

Tune in to Never Mind The Buzzcocks tomorrow night for backflips and panda jokes in abundance. Or if that's not your bag it's worth it for Dermot's baby blues and Noel in a skeleton outfit. Fact.

Loco at UNIQLO

The good people at Glamour hosted an exclusive shopping night at Uniqlo's flagship Oxford Street store for readers and freeloading Conde Nast employees alike... obviously I was in attendance. Uniqlo's A/W collection is full of delectable cashmere and super chic knits - and with the added bonus of a goody bag with every purchase it was impossible and downright illogical to resist.

Sponsored by Vitamin Water, Lambs rum and Yo sushi - Glamour readers were treated to cocktails and handrolled treats. The only way to shop, in my opinion.

Many thanks also to Nails Inc. and L'Oreal who caressed our cuticles and tamed our tresses after a long evening's shopping. It's a hard life.

Some Very Sexy Sanderson

I consider myself lucky for many reasons, one of these being my good fortune at having the super fabulous Alex Kotsias, PR Manager for Rupert Sanderson as my dear friend and flatmate. Co-habiting with Alex has many perks, and her insane shoe collection and generous invitations to press days is but one among the number.

I skipped out of work to view the Spring/Summer 2010 collection yesterday.

Alex in the flagship store on Bruton Place. Pop in and say hello.

Evidence of the insane shoe collection

Rupert's favourite design from the new collection

OH PLEASE RUPERT

Designed by Rupert for Karl lagerfeld's Paris show.

Shacked up at Cottons

The trip to Cottons Jamaican Rhum Shack was a big old schlep North of the river - but the promise of jerk chicken and 250 varieties of Rum was too alluring to ignore... And thank goodness, as I am now a fully paid up member of the Cotton's fanclub - alongside my fellow shack frequenters Samuel L. Jackson and Amy Whinehouse (no great surprise there).

Cited as the best Caribbean restaurant in London, Cottons is certainly not to be judged by its rather modest entrance on Chalk Farm Road, as

beyond the doors lie a tropical haven, complete with cocktail bar and three themed dining rooms: St Lucia, Barbados and Margarita. The atmosphere is rum fuelled and as laid back as one would

expect, perfectly complimented by the DJ spinning 80's and 90's soul tracks long into the early hours - an ideal antidote for the November blues.

Inadequacies and Shortfallings

It has always been a secret dream of mine to become an international spy. I can write about this without jeopardising the ambition, because my own inadequacies and shortfallings have already taken care of that.

Reasons I cannot be a spy.

1) I can keep other peoples secrets but not my own
2)I'm hopelessly clumsy
3) I have no sense of direction
4)My poker face consists of flared nostrils and and a squint
5) I'm frightened of melted ice cream and balloons so probably would not cope well with a national crisis and/or impending doom.

But tonight, oh glorious tonight, I will spend one blissful hour living out my fantasies, ably guided by the BBC. That's right. Spooks is returning to our screens. I have cancelled actual plans with actual people to be in attendance. I suggest you do the same.

The Wright Stuff

I've always liked the Turner Prize. We're the same age for a start, and it's mainstream enough for an enthusiastic art novice like myself to have heard of it in the first place. The exhibition is at the Tate Britain, and it showcases the work of the four short listed artists. There is something quite special about having four young and very talented but utterly contrasting artists exhibiting in the same space - and this year's whale skeleton, gold leaf wall paintings and atomised jet engine certainly didn't disappoint.

I'm backing Richard Wright for the prize. Wright creates wall paintings in unusual and problematic places, where the work will at some point be painted over or destroyed, or where there are elements that make it awkward to use as a canvas in the first place. His paintings are delicate and comprise intricate patterns, inspired by medieval paintings, graphics and typography.

Wright says that the vast majority of his work no longer exists, and that he likes the idea of leaving nothing behind that is sellable or marketable. I am inclined to agree.

A Lesson Learnt

It is a fact that Not Everything Works Out. If it did, we’d all stay put in our first jobs and first homes, and marry our first boyfriends just in the nick of time to live happily ever after. Death would claim sleeping souls in a calm and timely manner, taking only the old, content and fulfilled.

It seems such an obvious fantasy now I see it in stark type - but to be honest it came as a bit of a shock to me. It’s funny how sometimes you don’t realise a universal truth until it hits you right between the eyes.

And of course this is a good thing. It has to be. There would be no surprises, spontaneity or adventures. Moments of breakthrough and self-discovery would be few and far between. Though conversely, there would be no heartache, disappointment, disillusion or loss.

But once the lesson is learnt, the heartache, disappointment and loss take on a bit more meaning at least. And the days would be pretty boring if you knew how everything was going to turn out. Where’s the fun in that? I’m happy not to live in Disney Technicolor – it’s a myth. And an overrated one at that.

Street Style Aesthetic - blogged by a blogger!

Popping out to lunch last Friday, I bumped into Wayne Tippetts - photographer and blogger of London looks and the sharpest styles. His blog is testament to our city's sartorial flair and individuality (despite the odd chancer in a gold coat slipping through the net).

Obviously tried to remain cool and unfazed, but was secretly thrilled to be included. Props to Wayne, and to Street Style Aesthetic.

http://www.streetstyleaesthetic.com/

Trick or Treat??

I have only recently come to embrace the holiday that is Halloween. I think this is largely due to the fact that I grew up in Essex, where trick or treaters wore hoodies and a scowl and the trick was a smack in the mouth.

Not entirely sure how my new home town would compare, I eschewed Brixton for a party in Islington, where there were only treats to be had, and a varied array of costumes which resulted in some rather odd couplings...

Nick Griffin and The Disco Zombie

A ghoulish Jester and Little Red Riding Hood

Man with Monocle and a Dead Sea Sailor

Mrs Santa and an Arachnid

A Mime and the Devil wears Prada... slightly concerning when someone dresses up as (to all intents and purposes) you for Halloween...

A right pair of Minnies.

Halloween Fun for all the Family

Now I wouldn't normally publicise the cover of a magazine that didn't belong to us... but this is a triumph.

Why I don't work in finance

I spent this afternoon taste testing cupcakes for a party. I know. I could hardly believe it myself. It went a little bit like this:

Walking back into the office after lunch...

Boss: Sarah! Thank GOD you're back.

Me: (somewhat startled) What's happened?

Boss: (rustling in boxes) Boil the kettle and get a knife.

Like the performing monkey my state education trained me to be, I followed my instructions without question.

Boss: Now cut up these cupcakes while I make tea. We can't taste test cupcakes without tea.

Bliss. We (thoroughly and discerningly) made our way through carrot, oreo, rocky road, chocolate and peanut butter. There was much swilling of tea and thoughtful squinting and chin rubbing. Carrot came out on top as being the most flavoursome, and crucially the one you could eat the most of before feeling sick (this is where peanut butter let us down).

Today was the definition of a good day. I love my job.

The Wonders of Wigan

Wigan. The home of Vernon Kay and Pataks Curry. And most importantly, the home of Janine Stott, my dear friend. I have been avoiding visiting Janine in her own habitat for a good five years now (being a self confessed London snob who has never been north of Oxford, thank you very much) - but what a mistake that was. The North is full of unimaginable delights, and I was treated to a full tour - Wigan, Bolton, Manchester and Blackpool. The gems in the northern crown, if you will.

Being the tourist and happy snapper that I am, I captured my Northern Adventure in photographic form.

Because in Wigan, there is always a sofa that needs moving, and I felt this was an opportunity not to be missed. It was just like we were in Friends! Except we were in Wigan, not New York, and we were sat on top of a volvo in a carpark... but other than that it was uncanny.

Fish and chips in Blackpool - minutes later I was accosted by a man in a short sleeved t-shirt who laughed at me for wearing a hat and scarf. At night. In late October. On a pier. I have learnt that layers are not de rigeur in Blackpool.

Incidentally, neither is taking a photo of someone else's chips and gravy. Yes. Chips with gravy. A northern delicacy which takes the traditional potato chip, and covers it in bisto. Wonders never cease.

Tomfoolery on the pier.

Blackpool culinary delights

Tomfoolery on the waltzers - a calculated risk after culinary delights.

The bright city lights.

And last but certainly not least: the birthday girl. Wigan's crowning glory.