Refried Neurons

Last weekend was… full on. A black tie dinner, Kevin Keegan throwing a strop, a rainy walk that ended in horse manure, and a Sunday finale of WTA 500 and snails. Naturally.

Let’s start with Friday. Big charity dinner in central London. I had a new dress – under £100, thank you very much – and both flats and heels ready for battle. Working from home meant I had plenty of time to get ready. Which, as we all know, is the fastest route to wasting time. Cut to 30 minutes before I absolutely had to leave: me, in a mild panic, running around like a headless chicken with a hairbrush.

Hair done (no, I’m not paying someone £80 to make me look like a drowned rat two hours later), dress on… and then I noticed it. While taking the dress off in the changing room, I’d ripped the arm straps. Fucking brilliant.

Cue emergency sewing. My handy travel sewing kit was, of course, out of black thread. Fuck. No matter, I remembered the big sewing box stashed in the secret eaves cupboard — the one you have to crawl into like you’re breaking into Narnia. With freshly styled hair and a rising sense of doom, I wriggled in and 20 minutes later, I emerged triumphant: straps reattached, dignity mostly intact.

Makeup was next. Now, I used to have loads of it. These days I wear almost none, apart from the odd special occasion — like pretending to be a functioning adult at a black tie event. I dug out my ancient cosmetic bag and realised the last time I touched it was approximately three Prime Ministers ago. Foundation pump broken, bronzer missing, and my emergency eyebrow tint doubling as contour. Desperate times, etc.

The mascara? So old it practically sighed when I opened it. But it held on.

Makeup done, heels in bag, I power-walked to the tube trying not to break into an actual jog — I didn’t want to arrive looking like I’d done a HIIT session in a cocktail dress.

Of course, the cotton dress (what was I thinking?) collected half the tube carriage on the way there: threads, dust, mystery fluff. I spent a solid five minutes outside the station lint-rolling myself by hand. But I arrived on time.

P was already there — he was one of the organisers. Amusingly, he wasn’t sure whether I counted as a VIP, so I wandered in with the proletariat, which felt oddly appropriate. About 350 people from the construction industry had gathered to raise money for Lighthouse, a charity supporting workers and families affected by mental health crises, financial hardship, and bereavement in the industry. And frankly, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. Construction’s tough. Good money doesn’t protect you from burnout, loss, or the inability to manage said money. Not everyone has the luxury of taking a year off to recover — I should know.

We raised over £100k through ticket sales, auctions and a raffle. Not bad for a bunch of people who usually argue over snagging lists.

The guest speaker was Kevin Keegan — yes, that one. Liverpool legend, England manager, football icon. He started strong, chatting about his career… then launched into a truly bizarre attempt to link football to construction using lots of confusing stats and analogies that lost the room entirely. People started talking over him, and he just… walked off. “If no one’s listening, I’ll leave,” he said. And he did. Left the stage and the building. Very dramatic. Not quite the motivational crescendo we’d hoped for, but at least the lads got selfies.

The auction was very blokey — signed boxing gloves, football shirts, fancy watches no one bought. I did wonder what would get the women bidding. Dinner and an interior design session with Abigail Ahern, maybe? Personally, I think they should’ve auctioned off seats next to the directors. Most tables were filled by subcontractors who were probably more interested in networking than in charity.

By midnight, I just wanted to take off my stilettos. Quick car ride, congestion charge paid, and I was horizontal by 12:30.

Saturday: Rain, Plants, and Potting Mix

Saturday brought relentless rain and a doomed attempt at a country walk. We made it halfway down a bridal path before hunger hit and we turned around to head for Finchley Nurseries — a magical place where urban stress melts away and people joyfully buy manure, bee hotels and overpriced shrubs.

They also have a lovely little café tucked away in the garden. We had wraps and salads under a gazebo while the rain pinged off the roof like polite applause. Then we wandered the nursery, spotted some plants we fancied for the kitchen, and returned to the car. Then drove straight back in to buy them. Naturally.

We left with four plants, one pot, and one bag of “horse manure” (just potting mix really). Next stop: Waitrose. Then, in a surge of ambition, the gym. I ran a whole kilometre on the treadmill before deciding I’d rather walk outside in the rain, thanks. So I did — Dollis Valley Greenwalk, my favourite stretch of green connecting the flat and the gym. No raincoat, obviously. Why would I take one just because it was raining?

By the time I got home, I was damp, cold, and locked out — house keys in the car with P, phone dead. Thankfully, our elderly Irish neighbour (keeper of the sacred spare key) was home and kindly let me in. I declined tea and went straight for dry pants.

We finished the evening with mushroom risotto and the last episodes of Clarkson’s Farm. The one where he opens the pub. A few weeks ago we actually nearly ended up in that pub, realised what we were doing, and ran away — we weren’t in the mood for crowds. I just wanted a sausage roll. Still, I’d like to go properly one day… maybe in March, midweek, when it’s raining, and half the tourists are lost in the car park. I really want to try the all-British menu. Sausage rolls included.

Sunday: Tennis, Buildings, and a French Dinner With No Wine

Sunday brought sunshine and a lazy start with Menemen for breakfast. After our favourite radio show finished, we headed to the Queen’s Club for the WTA 500 — a women’s tennis tournament that’s about three rungs below Wimbledon, but very civilised nonetheless.

Now, this was only my second live tennis experience — the first being the Olympic finals, which frankly had more singing, more shouting, and a better atmosphere. I realise that makes me a peasant, but so be it. I missed the chanting.

Still, we enjoyed a couple of matches, soaked up the sun, and admired the architecture on the way out. Some stunning buildings I’d never seen before — if not for the dual carriageway, I’d have started flat-hunting on the spot.

Back home, I finally wrapped up 100GB of cottage photos and videos for my new social media manager, realised I’d never be able to send them via free WeTransfer, and decided to post her the drive instead. Honestly, how did I manage to film that much and never use any of it?

We ended the weekend with a double date at Table du Marché in East Finchley — hands down the best French restaurant in London. We had snails, onion soup, beef bourguignon… and no wine for me. Antibiotics. Let me tell you, a French dinner without wine is a bit like Wimbledon without strawberries. Technically possible, but spiritually offensive.

Still, the food was glorious, the evening was warm, and we walked home with full bellies and a smug glucose tracker reading.

Good night, London. You chaotic, rain-soaked, utterly brilliant beast.