Welcome to London where we put the ‘strange’ into Stranger

This morning I met a man in a bagel shop and started a conversation regarding the peanut butter and Nutella cheese cake in front of us. I don’t make it my habit to talk to strangers in the city, in fact, like all Londoners, quite the reverse, but the sight of this cheese cake was too exceptional not to comment on. It was overwhelmingly gorgeous. The conversation quickly moved to nutrition and he very sincerely advised me not to eat potatoes too late at night (as it may be fatal) or more than 6 or 7 bananas in a day. I didn’t laugh; he was being serious. But who is in danger of eating 6 or 7 bananas in one day?! He did look like he did body building for a living, so maybe that’s it. (Also he was eating a turkey bagel for breakfast, which proves it). Maybe this is why Londoners don’t talk to strangers - you never know what strange (and potentially ill-applicable) advice you might get.

However, if anyone is interested in seeking out the type of cheese cake that will make you too forget your principles regarding stranger danger, it’s available from the bagel shop on Goswell road.

Being ladylike is difficult

I am absolutely baffled at the way in which some people can be effortlessly ladylike ALL THE TIME! 

This story actually starts in Borough market and with a valuable lesson for any Londoners looking for somewhere nice to visit at Sunday lunchtime: Don’t go there. It’s shut. Learning this was how I ended up in a rather cute little café nearby called Le Pain Quotidien with my good friend, Charlotte. Think freshly baked bread, wooden furniture, and earl-grey-mango-iced-tea. 

We did that awkward thing that everyone tries to avoid when they go out to eat together and ordered exactly the same thing. Consequently we were both brought 2 identical baked eggs sprinkled with smoked salmon, served in little round pans alongside 2 slices of dark rye toast (and thereby taking ‘cute’ to new levels).

I always say that I learnt everything I know about appearing ladylike from Charlotte (such as how to chose shoes and store jewellery, On one occasion I even sent photo of something that I thought might be a bra to ask what it was and how to wear it!) For this reason I was shocked when she tipped her egg onto the toast in its entirety and proceeded to eat it as if it were a large slice of ham. How very unladylike!

I thought I’d take the moral high ground (for once!) and approached mine it as if it were pâté in a way that I thought my mother would have approved of. It was a very unimaginative approach - basically spreading egg on toast. However, Charlotte's method looked like such sensible, tidy and effective idea that I copied it for my second one. When she did it, it seemed very neat and practical. When I did it yolk went absolutely everywhere in just the way you’d expect if you’re silly enough to lay a baked egg on toast and bite into it. Not only did I manage to get egg on the surrounding table but also all over my face. Luckily there were napkins on hand but, to put this in perspective, it was even necessary to mop my eyebrows!

Charlotte of course remained immaculate throughout as did the area of table surrounding her. Of course she would. I don’t understand how some people can be so dignified and ladylike while the likes of I are limited by reality! Baked eggs are just the start of it. Nigella can give a potato skin sex appeal and Kate Middleton can run on sand in high heals.

I’m going to have to mull this over. In the meantime, does anyone know a sophisticated method for eating baked eggs?

Charlotte with her perfectly neat baked egg

I can't show you a picture of me with mine!

Jimmyz Night Club in Monte Carlo

When it came to finding an after party, the Italians led the charge by drunkenly jumping into their minibus and driving dangerously to a night club several miles away called Jimmyz. They took a Dutch girl with them and for this reason both the Dutch and UK teams (or at least the UK boys) were motivated to follow (romance is not yet dead). After walking a very long way we all got to Jimmyz on foot and didn’t appear to be dressed right. The set was like one out of James Bond and I felt that my knee length dress was about a metre too short. Thankfully there was a separate night club downstairs for us plebs. However, we’d overlooked the Italian’s terrible taste in music; the club’s only redeeming feature was the free cloakroom and I felt inclined to leave (along with the other girls - the boys were staying. Their work was not yet done). This part actually worked rather well because we were mistaken for upper class guests attending (as luck would have it) a conference hosted by a car hire company and so our ride back home was free.

There was no sailing the next day due to lack of wind. The Dutch were happy because it meant they won; the Italians not so much because they were cheated out of running finals, which they might have won.

I see this as Karma. And this happy ending concludes the #ClareInMonaco series.

For the full story:

1. We went to the Russian Christmas market for ice go karting...
2. ...then went for a night out in which we found 100 euros on the floor...
3. ...a funny  old man was encountered...
4. ...not everyone made it home...
5. ...Then we had another night out in which we worked hard to further the UK's international relations...
6. ...secret Santa happened after dinner. Dutch style...
7. ...and that brings us on to the after party.

If anyone's interested in hearing what happened with the Dutch girls...well I'm not entirely sure, but I can tell you that there was a kiss at the airport and they stayed in touch. Aww.

They say international athletes bond at sporting events. Now we know why.

The first surprising thing about Monaco is that it is built on an incredibly steep slope. From the marina you can see right to the edge of the city simply because everything is built on top of each other. This was to prove a challenge to the ladies on our second evening there because we were required to get dressed up in black tie and that requires high heels. We tackled this problem in a pragmatic manner and carried spare pairs of shoes instead of handbags.

All eight international teams assembled in the yacht club de Monaco. Our boys had disrupted the seating plan so as to have as many Dutch girls on our team table as possible. The rest of us played a minor role in match making and the more we drank the more ambitious we got. We started with simple actions like suggesting that all the ladies moved 2 seats to their right before pudding (thereby ensuring that the right people were sat next to each other). Then when free wine had been liberally served to everyone present, the pudding arrived and turned out to be a variation on fruit salad, some people weren’t interested in eating it and so the game of passing a 2-inch slice of banana around the table from mouth to mouth was instigated. You might think, as I did, that this would never catch on, but the initiator of the game was sat right next to the wannabe couple and so uptake was alarmingly strong. By the time 3 people had done it no one else had an excuse not to join in. Watching people with a banana poking out of their mouth seemed funny but we did get it round the circle without any compromising incidents. No sooner had I breathed a sigh of relief then, to my horror, our instigator picket up a floppy bit of mango and declared a new round. Would the Dutch girl go for it? Why yes she would. The wannabe couple found it very easy to do this but everyone else had more in the way of personal space issues. By the time the mango got half way round to me, my stomach muscles were exhausted from laughing at them all in their awkward efforts to transfer the mango from one to another. My moment in the spotlight came of course. I found it a moderately sobering one. I was faced with a grinning Dutchman, with a beard and a piece of limp mango dangling from his teeth at significantly closer proximity than you’d ever expect to see such a sight. There’s really nothing to be done but to dart in and get the metaphorical hot potato moving on as fast as possible.

After the meal and a few other formalities, the evening’s entertainment was announced: Karaoke. This was something that no one felt inebriated enough to do, which is funny considering they felt ready to pass a mango around between them. It did eventually get off the ground though in rather a spectacular fashion as the Dutch girls were coaxed onto the floor, seated comfortably on chairs and then made distinctly uncomfortable when the British boys, clutching microphones (and lunging wildly), energetically serenaded with 'you've lost that loving feeling' in an admirable recreation of that famous Top Gun scene. Unfortunately I'm not sure the girls got the reference.

When the party ended, no one wanted to go home (I think it’s because a night never feels complete until there’s been dancing. Singing doesn't count) and for that reason I’ll have to put together one final post to explain how it all ended.

#ClareInMonaco

It's a city on a very steep hill

Hungover like a Monegasque tourist

The morning after the night before, Monaco was cold, full of rain and we were tired. We were made painfully aware of the fact that we were primarily in the town to compete in a sailing competition, when our alarms went off promptly at 8am. The girls were lacklustre, but the boys even more so as they had all woken up in our hotel, without a beautiful international sailor in sight.

Having said that, our team was in a better state than some, as three competitors had been arrested the night before. It sounds like a cliché but an Englishman, an Irishman and an Italian walked out of the bar (told you it sounded clichéd), they had been distracted by some bikes and [allegedly] decided to steal one. Unfortunately the bikes had been parked outside a police station and while their drunk efforts were not strong enough to prosecute them for bike theft the 3 amigos were extremely surprised to learn that it is a criminal offence to be drunk on the streets of Monaco and so they were promptly locked up until such time as they were fit to go free.

This was considered highly entertaining by those who made it safely had to the Marina the next day (particularly those who still had a full team of sailors). We soon saw the Italian girl safe, well and (more importantly) sober but the Irishman didn't appear until 4pm! He was obscenely grumpy at this stage. This is largely because it transpires that police hospitality does not extend to feeding their short term guests. Even basic provisions like toilet roll and water are only given on request.

Sailing did not go well for us that day. It rained torrentially and I couldn't help thinking (while shivering violently) that I might prefer to be in the UK. With a sedentary hobby (board games might be nice). Indoors.

It might sound like this would be a good place to end this sequence of stories from Monaco – everyone has learnt a valuable lesson and is ready to go home. However, what we really needed was to get a grip!!! This was a 3-day event and we were only half way through.

#ClareInMonaco

The old man of Monaco

The band in the club played covers of other peoples’ songs and did so incredibly well. It all started with Avichi and we were reassured from that point forwards. At one point I realised that the guitarist was playing his instrument behind his head. It amazed me as I’ve never seen this done anywhere more proximal than youtube before but this chap was lose enough to touch. Despite the expensive drinks, Monaco wasn't all bad.
However, the real star of the show (beyond the Dutch guy upstaging the band by standing in front of them and with his truly epic air guitar) was an elderly man who seemed to be by himself. He was probably about 75 years old and was tearing up the dancefloor. When it came to getting low he was just as able as I was! Dressed in a shirt and tie, I couldn't work out if he was a rich tax evader or a cute old granddad. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and humoured him but in hindsight I think he probably had a bit of cash to burn as you can’t get hip, joint and knee replacements like that on the NHS!

#ClareInMonaco

Welcome to Monaco

Our big night out in Monaco got off to a bit of a false start, when we wondered into a Russian themed marquee full of line dancing bingoplayers by mistake. Our next choice of party was much better, not least because the Dutch team were there and our boys took an instant liking to the Dutch girls. It’s probably worth explaining at this point that we were primarily in Monaco for a sailing competition, where there were 8 international teams of 8 sailors, each composed of 4 men, 4 women.

Meanwhile, us English girls were entertaining ourselves on an empty dance floor by seeing how high we could kick. This predictably ended up in one of us falling over as the floor was covered in a good deal of highly slippery confetti. As we bent to pick her up, Jenny spotted a 100 euro note on the floor. I've never seen a €100 note before in my life and in Monaco they have them just lying around!

This discovery was presently reinvested in a round of drinks for us all (well, the 6 of us that were present). We only got €24 change for this and so politely explained to the barman that there’d been a mistake, perhaps he hadn't realised we’d given him a hundred euros (after all, we probably don’t look like the sort to be in possession of one).  He gave us an apologetic smile and turned to the till as if to get more change, then with a grin and a flourish, whirled round, produced the receipt, (confirming that 6 drinks had indeed cost €76) and said “Welcome to Monaco!”

#ClareInMonaco