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.