I have eaten a lot of baked goods this week. As you’re about to discover. I’ve written, I’ve swam, I’ve worked through some Skillshare courses. I’ve pondered over my obsession with autumn. On the whole, a pretty decent week.
I’ve so very nearly finished The Bandit Queens by Parini Shroff. It’s one of the best depictions I may have ever read that tackles hard-hitting subjects, like violence against women and social hierarchy, in a way that is entirely relevant to the plot but somehow doesn’t define it. It’s some truly magical writing in that sense. To have the intention and success of making the reader laugh and find hope amongst the bad. For my next read, I think it’s time to head back to non-fiction. It’s been so long since I picked up something real. Reading non-fiction is an entirely different experience and requires a much greater focus that I’ve been unable to dedicate to it.
Descriptions for contenders of my next non-fiction read:
How trauma affects the development of brain, mind, and body awareness
The more options we have, the less satisfied we feel with our decision
Pair back digital distractions and live a more meaningful life
There’s a lot of food in the rest of this post so I thought I’d steer clear of that and talk about theatre. I feel inspired after seeing The Real Thing and would love to head back to The Old Vic in the new year to see Oedipus (Rami Malek and Indira Varma are starring). I forget they have an ‘OV membership’ that’s free for locals who live in Lambeth or Southwark, so not that he knows it yet but I’ll be hitting up my brother for a 20% discount on tickets.
Last week I did not hold back from bashing Paul’s Boutique bags and praying their rumoured return never materialises. I do, however, have a confession to make about a particular item of clothing I long to make a reappearance. Around age 10, the knitted poncho became a wardrobe staple for me. My favourite was from the child’s line (“Angel”) at a brand called Bay which no longer exists. It was pink and I cherished it.
Fresh off the Inca trail, in I’d come, feeling like an icon.
This week it was Pophams Bakery’s 7th birthday and they re-released some of their limited classic pastries from over the years. I ate every single one and I’m going to tell you all about it. We kicked off on Tuesday with a ‘fig, walnut & blue cheese with a honey glaze’. I wanted the ‘tres leches’ but they’d already sold out! Apart from a ham and cheese croissant, I don’t know if I’ve had many savoury pastries. Do vol-au-vents count? I enjoyed it, but it’s an acquired taste. Naturally, I went back the next day for a ‘tres leches’, slightly earlier in the hope this time they wouldn’t be sold out. I carefully carried the goods home to enjoy and boy it was worth the wait. Somehow it managed not to be overly sweet, despite having a milk-soaked cake and dulce de leche in its centre. I pressed on, returning again on Friday with friends in tow to try the rest. The night before, they announced a surprise new pastry in the mix, a hazelnut praline Paris Brest, much to my excitement. It was definitely my favourite. So in the final sitting, I tried that, the chocolate Guinness cake AND the PBJ. I then left with yet ANOTHER pastry in hand for my friend at home and I can never show my face again.
It seems I can’t get pastry off my mind and the new Greggs Champagne bar is an absolute abomination. It’s the most off-brand decision I could have ever conceived of. What happened to them championing for a late licence in Leicester Square so people could stumble in for a steak bake at 1am instead of heading over to their neighbour Burger King? The people do not want to eat a sausage roll cut in half on a plate with £75-a-glass Laurent fucking Perrier. The people want sausage rolls for 99p they can shove in their mouths getting covered in pastry flakes while running for a train they’re about to miss.
On Thursday, I went to Waterstones to hear Hetta Howes speak about her new book, Poetic, Mystic, Widow, Wife. The book centres around four medieval women writers and one of those was Margery Kempe. Born in the 14th century, Kempe was a religious mystic and her work is considered by some to be the first autobiographical work written in English. I thought I’d round off with her words. “There is no gift so holy as is the gift of love, nor anything so much to be desired as love, for love may gain what it desires.”
