I can’t help but feel monumentally stressed out every time I go to Shoreditch. When I walked out of Liverpool Street station, into the sun seeking masses, I couldn’t help but feel completely and utterly terrified. I felt like a big fat wood duck, waddling around in the cool part of the swamp, longing for the safe confines of my own, dear swamp.
Oh dear. I seem to have run out of money, which rather scuppers my grand plans to review restaurants regularly on my site. Because eating out costs money, and I have spent all of mine on holidays and plastic crap for my flat and on my master plan to look more like an American Italian Mafioso wife. So you see I’m scraping the barrel for things to write about, and figured I could at least write about the food I ate during my flying visit to Sweden this week.
It’s fifteen minutes in and I’m dying of thirst in the Georgian Restaurant at Harrods. I look around at all the tourists and rich bitches (and believe me, I don't have anything against these women, dressed in Balmain and Chanel; in fact I want to be one of them), chucking tea and champagne down their necks, and gorging themselves on sandwiches and scones. I’m desperately thirsty, and terribly hungry. I also need to dissolve a painkiller in some water. But there’s no water. Nothing. Just an empty table. And I’m fr
I briefly managed to attend the 'Tour through Italy's Vineyards' on Wednesday 30 March at Brown's Hotel in Mayfair, after attempting to get away from work for hours in order to quench my thirst for fine Italian wine. It was a great event and the wine was lovely, but if I were you I'd visit Luisa Welch's (Restaurant Guru) blog for more information.
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