Review: Gina Conway Aveda Salon and Spa, London

I'd hurriedly rushed up Fulham Road in the direction I thought the salon was located, before realising I had actually already gone too far. A frantic assessment of Google Maps had me throw a quick 180, cross the road, and head back the way I'd just come searching, searching for number 612 on the busy high street. The salon - when I found it, was so very unassuming that you would be forgiven for missing it if you didn't already know where it was. It lacked the normal Sandwich Board Specials you expect from your high street chain salons, but with clientele bragging the likes of Made In Chelsea's finest, perhaps this wasn't Any Old Salon.

I was greeted with a warm welcome, escorted to, and asked to take a seat in the Waiting Area. Would I like a drink? I would, thank you. Make mine a coffee. For lunch time on a Saturday, the salon was already heaving. There were three of us waiting to be seen, while the majority of the seats inside the salon had already been taken by earlier clients. There was an air of emergency; very much a "there are people waiting, we must satisfy everyone!" vibe, which - as a result, meant I wasn't left waiting very long. Except for that coffee, that only materialised about half an hour later, after I questioned its whereabouts.

Soon enough, I was met in the by the exotic Kiran, and led three foot forward to the Hair Washing Station; conveniently located within the Waiting Area. Handy. Except, I wasn't about to get my hair washed, I was about to experience the salon's famous Glow Facial - a bonus plant-based exfoliating treatment you can choose to include in your regular cut and blow dry experience, for some added pampering (and pennies; £15 for the treatment on top of your salon experience). The lights above the Waiting Area/Hair Washing Station were dimmed, and I was told to make myself comfortable.

With my neck at odd angles and my legs out straight in front, I was told to take Three Deep Breaths while Kiran wafted some delightful aromatherapy oils under my snout, and began the treatment on my semi-made-up face - sans consultation about the products that were to be used, but avec consultation about the procedure. I don't recall the exact treatment, if I'm honest; there was a lot of Cheek Manipulation and thick oils massaged into my sensitive skin and more Three Deep Breaths, but mostly what I remember was: a lot of noise - primarily from the hectic Waiting Area cum Treatment Area and the fact the toilet, staff room, and back door were right there. I'm told there is a full treatment room downstairs, where one can enjoy an array of relaxing procedures... doesn't that sound nice?...

After the Cheek Manipulation/massage of oil into sensitive skin/repeat was complete, a warm flannel was used to wipe 'clean' my skin; I was given a mini head massage (so lush), and I was then sat up right and led - bare (and massively oily and red) faced over to one of the free chairs in the front window of the salon.

Would I like a drink? Oh yes please, make mine that white coffee from earlier, thank you. There, I dared look at myself in the mirror; I was a hot mess. blotchy, oily and red faced, with my hair at all angles and make up smeared across my face. At this point, beyond embarrassment, I was greeted by my stylist Paul, and handed my coffee. I can't imagine what Paul thought he'd done in his life to be so lucky to have me as a client in that particular moment, but I tell you what; I was mortified.

With my feeble attempt to apologise for the state the head massage had left my hair, and as I frantically tried to wipe my mascara from where it had been left on my forehead, Paul sat there patiently and laughed with me. Not at me, with me. Like a good lad. His laughter was only ever to be short lived, especially after I explained to him that my most recent hair cut was done by me, with the kitchen scissors. I saw that poor man's heart drop with his eyes, as they rollllllled back into his head. It was the reaction I was expecting, to be fair - it's also the reason I don't go to the hair dresser as often as I should.

Thankfully, our consultation was brief; I'd laid few rules; no layers, blunt fringe, a couple inches off the ends max. His only quibble was with the layers. He was the professional after all, so we discussed the pros and cons of layers, and I was convinced to let him layer the underneath of my hair, not the top, so that it wouldn't be visibly noticeable, but so I would notice the weight relief. Fine.

I was then shuffled back to the Hair Washing Station. Now, who doesn't love their hair being washed? It's probably the best bit about going to the hairdressers, no? Well, it was lush. Whomever played that part of my treatment needs a high five, because it was lovely. Except the part where the deep treatment had to stay in for five minutes and I was left alone. Once she returned and the treatment was rinsed off, I was returned to Paul and my now-cold coffee, and the real treatment began.

Paul was lovely. We chatted like old friends the whole way through my time with him. He was attentive to my hair concerns, and paid a great deal of attention to what he was doing - especially as he got all up in my eyes with the fringe trimming, and conversation with him was never hard. This is another reason I hate going to the hairdresser; forced conversation. Well, it never felt forced, and we had a lot in common to talk about. The hour with him flew by, and before I knew it, he was blow drying his creation and clipping my fringe aside so I could see to de-hairing my face in the bathroom (and applying some make up so I could face the Fulham public afterwards).



When I returned to his station, he was gone. I fiddled about a bit with my fringe, as it was a bit wonky from the clip, and looked about for him and his industry-strength hairdryer so I could fix the problem before I left. He never reappeared. After a few more minutes trying to do something with my fringe so I looked acceptable, I grabbed my jacket, a business card, said my thank yous to the jacket-getter-employee and asked her if she could pass my thanks on to Paul herself. Of course she said she would, but I thought it odd he didn't come back to say goodbye himself. I assume he knew I was there to review the treatment, so was a tad let down he didn't follow through with me to the end.

Once I was out the door, I hauled all my hair up on top of my head as I normally would, only to discover that the layers he'd convinced me would be a good idea underneath were now too-short to make it into my bun. Thank god for pins, eh! When I got in and blow dried my fringe straight, my disappointment was doubled when I noticed that it was still wonky. Wonky, and cut into, not blunt as I'd asked. Clearly when I'd had my eyes closed, some hairdresser trickery ensued. I'd mentioned cow licks in my fringe, and I know he added some product to combat that, but as he's cut it with product in, he'd not taken the natural kinks into consideration. Again; there's a reason I do my own hair - I know what I'm doing, and how I like it to look. Thankfully it will grow enough for me to fix it in a few weeks, but until then, sadly it's staying up.

The cut itself and the treatment I'd received had left my barnet in a top quality state; shiny and healthy, and I couldn't be more happy with how that's turned out. The style is fuss-free, which means I can wash and go and it will pretty much do itself, which is a huge bonus as I'm kind of lastminute.com in the morning, and keen to sleep as much as possible.

This style allows for maximum sleep.

The Glow massage I'd received on the other hand, had left my skin inflamed, irritated, and when I woke up the next day; broken out. The combination of exfoliation, massage oil and the fact that I wasn't asked to clean my skin prior to the treatment, meant that my skin was angry and rebelling. I was cautious to not add fuel to the fire and steered clear of heavy make up, opting for BB cream for the public's benefit for the next few days, but even come Tuesday morning, my cheeks were still red, sore and spotty. Not ideal on a thirty year old.

Overall, my experience was a mixed bag.

The service was incredible; the staff were ever so attentive and welcoming, but also a little lacking when it came to the things that really mattered (after care, allergies, etc). The treatments were each wonderful, but could have been more so had they been given in a calm environment and not in the busy waiting room of a busy High Street salon.

The value for money was excellent; £37 for a ladies cut and blowdry (and I assume this includes the standard hair wash), including full consultation and precise cutting - with the added bonus of a really nice person to chat to, was definitely worth it. I would definitely suggest that if you're going to consider adding the Glow treatment (£15) to your salon cut, that you consult the ingredients first, prepare yourself with clean skin, and speak to the salon staff about any concerns you might have.

Learn from my mistakes, guys!

Thank you to Paul and Kiran and the rest of the team over at Gina Conway Aveda Salon and Spa on Fulham Road for the wonderful experience. I'll be back... just don't touch my fringe, ya hear!

By Erica.

Gina Conway Aveda Salon and Spa  | 612 Fulham Rd, London SW6 5RP | 020 7731 7633

Interested? Read on...

REVIEW (Kinda) | London County Town Hall Club and Spa

A couple of months back, I was lucky enough to be asked to review a spa for this here magazine, and I thought I'd well and truly made it. Review! A spa! For a magazine! It was going to be epic, and I basically bragged to all and sundry (even though I wasn't really supposed to) that I was being sent away on this super lush spa day with my best mate, and it was going to be epic. I even bought a new bikini in preparation (I mean, I totally had to because prior to that I actually didn't own such a thing). A few weeks passed, and no matter how hard Laura tried to get the spa day locked in, the venue kept pushing back with a myriad of excuses; refurbishment, the dates didn't work, etc. A month or so of to-ing and fro-ing later, we popped that particular perk atop the No Joy pile and I was assured that the next time a spa-type-thing came up, my name would be atop that particular pile too.

That was fine with me. The Promise of a Massage is almost as good as the Massage Itself, and is not something you question; we left it there and I silently prayed to the Massage Gods that something would happen, and soon, because dammmmmn have I had some stress in my life.

Behold! A few weeks ago The Gods answered my prayers, by way of an invitation from the Marriot London County Town Hall Club and Spa to try their "ideal personal retreat, located over the top two floors of one of London's prestigious architectural landmarks." Errr... yes, please, sign us up at once! No spa date would be complete without the obligatory few hundred emails between PR and editor, and in this case, a date and time were agreed - and then again changed - many, many times. In the end, I'd agreed to let Laura book the thing, and I'd just go; a three way email between her and I and them and her and them and the Spa was all too brain-achey for me. Eventually though, it was booked. I was going!

And went I did. All rushed and hurried I barrelled into the hotel mere minutes before my appointment, with thanks - as always, to a slight train delay because of [choose where appropriate: leaves on the tracks/a signal failure/person under a train/adverse weather conditions]. With grateful directions from the doorman up to the fifth floor, I landed at 1pm on the dot - sweaty, but with much excitement, to the lobby of the spa. There, I was greeted by a smiling employee... whose smile began to fade as I explained why I was there.

"You didn't get my email?"

Errr... no, I have received no emails from your anonymous self today, but do go on.

"I emailed you to tell you that your appointment was cancelled earlier today as...[insert explanation about a broken wrist here]" It's not that I have no sympathy for the poor woman, but MY LORD imagine how ANNOYED I was at this point.

Look; I will admit that as she went to fetch her manager who then proceeded to show me the email she had sent the agency that morning - who clearly does not work on Saturdays - that I lost my temper and maybe my manners, and did zero work in upholding the reputation of this amazing magazine.

I flew out of there as quick as I'd arrived, all the while texting Laura the extent of my outrage. That certainly wasn't how I saw my afternoon being spent. While I stood outside the hotel, amongst the many thousands of tourists soaking up the views of Westminster bridge and beyond, I took stock and realised that maybe, just maybe, it could be worse... I could have still been on that train.

So I'll end with this:

Dear Spa Manager Lady; when you showed me the email you sent, it was evident you had the email address and contact number of the editor who could have put you in touch with me, and saved me a pointless trek to your gorgeous and delightfully-smelling spa. No amount of apologies from you was going to squeeze an ounce of empathy out of me, as, in my opinion, you didn't "do everything you could think of" to reach me to cancel the appointment..

Add to that the fact that there were three of - what I can only deduce were employees - standing around in that back 'employees only' room smiling at me while I seethed in anger, please understand I was not being unreasonable, I was being furious at your poor management, and my wasted time and expense.

Regards, Erica.

Editor's note: six out of ten are impartial when it comes to reviews, treating each and every bar, hotel and restaurant visit as fairly as possible to give you, our reader, the chance to decide whether you'd want to visit yourself. Some reviews don't make it, some reviews don't cut it, some reviews are glowing and if I could, I'd get kittens to repeatedly lick your face to get you to visit. While we generally try to avoid negative content on this site, preferring to say nothing if we have nothing nice to say, the reason for publishing this feature is as follows:

six out of ten was approached by the spa's PR agency to review a solo spa session. After much discussion and failing to come up with a week date that worked, this spa review had been arranged for a Saturday. The spa's management emailed our contact with the cancellation that morning, negating to get in touch with the editorial team despite having our contact details as well as knowing the visit was on behalf of our magazine. As there is a contact form on the website which could have been used as a last resort, we feel the spa could have done more to get in touch. We see this failure to do so as a case of not being interested in us as a customer.

The account executive emailed Monday morning after checking through her emails and apologised for the unforeseen circumstances - which we completely understand - offering an afternoon tea by way of apology. While we appreciate the gesture, it's in our personal opinion that we experienced a serious lack of customer service by the spa. While this could be an isolated occurrence and are sure other patrons will have enjoyed their visit, we sadly could not recommend the spa to our readers should the same happen to them. six out of ten declined the offer and chose to post this review as our first-hand experience of the spa.

Interested? Read on...

Wanderlust and making mum proud

When you're growing up, all you want to do is make your parents proud. You take the classes they want you to take, you do the chores to earn your keep, you go to university and get the job they've always wanted for you. That's how it's supposed to go, right? But what about when you don't do the things the way they were planned for you, how do you measure the pride then?

As a kid, I played the team sports as requested even though I sucked at them. I took the classes they wanted, and worked hard at school. I helped out and earned my keep too; at home and in the real world - part time on the minimum wage so I could buy my own dolls and books and... whatever teenagers bought back then (probably not dolls or books, if I'm honest). As hard as I worked at school, eventually, it wasn't for me anymore. I was doing it for someone else, and I was resentful of that. I didn't want to be wasting my time studying towards a life that I realised I hadn't chosen anymore; all I really wanted to do was work and earn the money I needed to do the one thing I really wanted to do... see the world.



I left home at 21. Not just, like, down the road - I moved out out. From medium-sized-town Australia to teeny-tiny-town New Zealand, into a en suite room in my cousin's flat just outside Wellington. I literally finished work on the Friday in Adelaide, and started up again on the Monday in Lower Hutt. I wasn't even scared about the move, I was too excited. What I remember most about leaving Adelaide though, is seeing my Mum cry. Before that day, I'd only ever seen her cry once before - when she'd accidentally left the grill on all day and blew up our kitchen. That day in the ashy remains of our beloved kitchen, and then the day at the airport, were the only times I ever remember seeing her cry.

Back then, I interpreted those tears as disappointment; I thought I'd failed her.

Now that I live on the other side of the world, I talk to my mum more than ever. We have a regular-as-clockwork Sunday-morning Viber date. I update my blog with the most inane of things, just so she knows that I'm eating and bathing and earning all of the money (note: I don't earn all of the money). We email. We text. We communicate more now than when I lived under the same roof as her. Although the physical distance is further now, it's brought us closer together emotionally. And you know what else? I've given her a reason to travel more. In the three years I've lived in London, she's currently packing for her second three-month-long stay with me. For a woman of a certain age, on a working class income, in a job that owes her a hundred years of long-service leave, she's certainly now milking the fact I live abroad... and I'm told it provides her plenty of the "my child is better than your child" fodder that we all know goes on when our parents have too much wine-of-the-boxed-variety (goon: Google it).

So, maybe I don't have the degree, or white picket fence, or 3.4 children and power husband to boot. I also don't have barrels of debt or an irregular sleeping pattern, which I'm pretty pleased about, just quietly. Instead, what I do have is a chance to offer my Mum something she'd only ever dreamed of having before; unlimited access to the world*.

She's English by birth, you see. Emigrated to New Zealand at four. Married my Dad and moved to Australia in her twenties. After that, it was backyard breaks and family holidays to New Zealand for her until her mid-life-crisis took us to The Disney Lands during my late teens. In all that time, she'd not once considered visiting the Motherland before I made the epic journey myself (this may or may not have something to do with the free accommodation I now provide her with) - but in the last two years has seen more of the UK that most of the UK ever have.

Why? She's been bitten by the bug that bit me all those years ago; she's finally got a case of...

Wanderlust.

And recently, after one of our bog standard weekly chats, I had an email from her drop into my inbox that changed my world; in it, amongst a recipe for tuna mornay, some grainy pictures of nieces I've never met, and an update on my Dad's 65th birthday platters (he wanted KFC, she convinced him to go with antipasti), were those four little words I had been angling for since I first boarded that plane as a 21 year old 'runaway'. It was in that email that I knew I had underestimated her tears at the airport all those years ago. Now, nigh on ten years, thirteen flats, and three countries later, I know I was wrong about my Mum; she was never disappointed in me. She was proud of me.

Well, you know what?

I'm proud of you too, Mum.

*unlimited access to world is for a limited time only.

Interested? Read on...

What's wrong with being bossy, Beyonce?

WARNING: Those not a fan of swearing, sarcasm and the word bossy, please look away now. This is the only time I'll say you can skip a post, btw.

adjective: bossy; comparative adjective: bossier; superlative adjective: bossiest

1.

 fond of giving people orders; domineering.

"don't be so bossy!"

synonyms:

domineering, dominating, overbearing, imperious, masterful, autocratic, autarchic, officious, high-handed, high and mighty, authoritarian, dictatorial, strict, harsh, severe, iron-handed, controlling, despotic, tyrannical, draconian, oppressive, subjugating, undemocratic, anti-democratic;

With Victoria Beckham and numerous other celebrities all saying Bossy should be banned, are we in danger of guilting strong-willed women into making them feel ashamed of being authoritative leaders? Is banning a word really the answer, or should we be doing more with young girls to help them feel secure, no matter whether they love being in control or following direction from others? Surely more women who know what they want and how to lead a team is only ever going to be a good thing? 

We asked Erica, our self-proclaimed strong-willed writer, to give her opinion on the Bossy dilemma.

Queen Bey says "I'm not bossy, I'm the boss." I say, "What's the difference?" and also "What the hell is wrong with being bossy?" and more importantly, "Well I am a boss bitch, Bey, so you just calm your tits now."

Seriously, I am a bit of a bitch; I don't have a censor between brain and mouth, and I say what I think. Some call it 'being honest,' some call it 'a mean streak,' but you know what? Just don't. Because I am 'being a bossy cow.'

And you want to know something else? Those words don't define me, offend me or undermine me - if anything, instead they empower me, so puuuhhlleeeaase don't stop calling me that now.

Some really popular-on-the-Internet women want to ban the word 'bossy' from being used to describe other women, because of the damaging long-term affect the word has when... what? It's taken the wrong way? When it causes offence? I can kindasortamaybeatastretch see where they're coming from, but I've personally never taken offence to the word 'bossy'. Because, and this may come as a surprise to no-one reading this, I've always been called bossy, and it's sure as shit not bothered me none.

If anything, being called bossy from an early age has encouraged me to become a strong, independent women; one who does not censor herself for anyone, nor give two fucks about what other people think of her.

Ohhh, it's a gender bias thing! The powerful men are being called Leaders, and yet the powerful women are branded as Bossy! Now I get it; it's a feminism thing! That old chestnut. No. It's not. It's really not you guys. Cos... I know plenty of dudes who are more bitchy than me, I swear. It's not a gender thing, because I 100% guarantee that you call your guy-boss bossy and he will be just as un-offended than if you call your fierce lady-boss bossy. Either of them will probably love the fact that you've used up your precious emotion to describe them, because that totally means you're a wimp, but they will not be offended.

I've been in leadership roles before - albeit ones that involved the management and care of some of life's real underachievers, but in a leadership role nonetheless. Ergo, I was The Boss. To fulfil the requirements of being The Boss, I had to employ a certain level of bossiness. I mean, the meek shall inherent the earth and whatnot, but they wouldn't last a day in fashion retail management, that's for damn sure. These jobs have always needed someone in them who possessed a certain level of 'I don't give a fuck what you think, just do what I said" and luckily for me, my levels are exceptionally high.

I'm proud of that fact, because I earned that confidence.

I own bossy.

Ohhh, we're talking about the self-esteem of young girls, not just me and my loud mouth! Well, in that case, there are about a gazillion more important problems that need to be addressed before worrying about the words we're using to describe strong women. How about promoting body confidence at a younger age by restricting their exposure to 99% of the popular media available to them, or introducing a balanced diet of school lunches that doesn't consist of mostly-complex carbs and saturate fats, or educating young girls on some of the awesome, powerful jobs they can have if they want them.

Let's maybe address some actual, national problems like obesity or unemployment or why my internet drops out all the fucking time, and not how to avoid offending Beyonce next time you accidentally call her bossy.

It really is hard out here for a bitch. Oh hey, except when it's not.

Interested? Read on...

Pancake Day spesh: Polo Bar, Bishopsgate, London

I learnt how make them at a really early age; from a smash-and-grab recipe (smash into the pantry, grab what you can find) handed down through the generations - originally found in a New Zealand Woman's Weekly or an Edmonds Classic cook book, but read from a tattered and battered once-leather bound recipe book, handwritten in pencil but gone over in ink, scribbled out where the imperial measurements turned to metric, and corrections made in the columns as necessary. This was the one recipe I stored in my memory when I moved out of home, and it saw me through many a hangover, burnt dinner and everything in between. Those pancakes are my childhood. Those pancakes are my comfort.

Would I go as far as to say I am a pancake fiend? Yes. I suppose I would. So, when I heard that the folks over at Polo Bar on Bishopsgate reckoned that their pancakes were the ones to (b)eat this Pancake Day... well, I had to see for myself.






There was literally no need to Google the restaurant prior to arrival, because as soon as you get to the top of the elevators on the Bishopsgate side of Liverpool Street Station, it's... right there. Nestled between a 7/11 and a betting shop (I'm surmising)(it's pretty accurate though) is a big, bright window, and a tiny, narrow door. That's it. That's Polo Bar. That's the restaurant.

Upon entry you'd be forgiven for thinking you were in the wrong place. I certainly did. From the dude in chef's whites (assume he was the chef..? again, surmising) standing in the middle of the walkway, smiling at us, to the employee with his head popping out from under the innards of a coffee machine waving for us to take a seat - this didn't feel like the top notch restaurant glamour that we'd grown accustomed to when out roving for the mag. This felt more like 'twenty minutes to kill before the next 149 to London Bridge, wanna grab a coffee?'

With the menu boasting a range of all-day-breakfast as well as the standard burgers and fries, we pointlessly mulled over our choices before finally settling on... something that wasn't even on offer. There was only one thing I wanted, and the waitress was gracious enough to see to it that I got it. WHO DO I THINK I AM? With my order of pancakes with bacon and maple syrup (and almond slivers!) placed, and the prosecco in retro champagne glasses in hand, we enjoyed the quirky retro-modern decor and waited. Not for long though - in a matter of minutes, our food had arrived...






...and was devoured. We're told a standard serve comes with three pancakes, but ours came with four. Four smallish pancakes. Four smallish and pretty thin pancakes. I mean, I'd hate to say I was disappointed, but I was. With the amount of Americanised restaurants saturating the food scene in London, you can just about get a short stack on every street corner. So to hit up an all-day-breakfast bar specifically for pancakes, and not even have them served in a stack... WUT?

 Don't get me wrong; they tasted great. They were great tasting pancakes. Their presentation was just a little... un-pancakey for my liking.

With three large rashers of bacon and a side pot of maple syrup, plus the almond slivers and random powdered sugar, my pancakes were sweet and salty - just the way I like them. The thing I didn't like about them though, was how quickly they disappeared. I usually get owned by a short stack; I fill up on the thick and fluffy morsels, and just leave that one, tiny mouthful at the end that drives my boyfriend mad ("IT'S ONE MORE MOUTHFUL! JUST EAT IT!"). These though, were gone in under five minutes. They just didn't fill me up, at all.

They were nice. They weren't game changing. And they didn't stop us discussing whether or not it would be disgusting or not to follow pancakes up with a curry on Brick Lane. But, if you're around Liverpool Street this Pancake Day, and have 12 minutes and £5.50 spare before your next bus, consider Polo Bar. Have the maple and almond, and ask for bacon for a quid extra.

Alternatively, try and get your hands on an Edmonds cookbook from the 60s, and go at it yourself. At home. With wine.

By Erica, of www.imbeingerica.com

Polo Bar is open 24 hours a day, with an all-day alcohol licence too. Find it at 176 Bishopsgate, London EC2M 4NQ | 020 7283 4889

Interested? Read on...

Valentine's Day on the cheap. In London. Cheap. London.

Living in London is not cheap, and Valentine's Day is one of those holidays we don't really have a choice in recognising - but Valentine's Day in London? The mere thought alone is enough to send me into overdraft. But, there's hope for us. If you live in London and you're lost for thrifty things to do this Valentine's Day, or simply don't want to fall into the expensive 'dinner and movie' trap this year - I have you covered. I have compiled a list of my favourite budget friendly and totally datable spots around town that anyone would be pretty happy to be taken to on a date this coming Valentine's Day.



If there's one thing London has an array of, it's markets. If you read my blog at all [HINT, you can find images from Erica's picnic below wot I pinched - Laura], you'll know I am rather fond of Borough Market for a pavement picnic, and Camden's stable market for it's hidden gems like the secret tea rooms, but what of some of the other - more unique markets on offer? There's Alfie's Antique Market in north London - the capital's biggest indoor market, and renowned for it's quirky antiques, vintage treasures and - upstairs, the Handmade By You studios for craft workshops and handmade gems. On Valentine's weekend you can book in for the stage one bookbinding workshop that I attended myself last year. Tell me you've never been on a get-crafty date before?





I've touched on my penchant for picnic-ing. A picnic on the big day; it's cliché, sure, but cute as hell. Go somewhere idyllic and quiet, perhaps not the middle of Primrose Hill on a Saturday. What about Richmond Park or Kew Gardens? The park is free to enter, and you'll find yourself wandering among the wild deer and water fowl and taking in some amazing views of the city. And maybe - if you're lucky, be serenaded by the geezer practising his bagpiping skills in the open air. If you're on a budget, this is perfect (except the zone 6 travel... weekends are off-peak though!); pack up some of your Tesco's Finest, some charity shop sourced tea cups and saucers and a big old blanket and hit up some of London's finest parks or gardens. we're sure as hell not short of them!





Saving your date for the evening? Don't worry, I've got you covered here too. Ever heard of the 'lates' phenomenon that's taken the city by storm? Basically, a handful of the treasure houses around the city reopen their doors after home time, put on some booze and nibbles, turn down the lights and let you wander their halls in an 'adults only' environment. The Museum of London has a special Valentine's event booked for the 14th - if this is more your thing, then hurry up and get booking now!

This list is not fully compiled, but if you're stuck for budget ideas that won't leave your date feeling like those petrol-garage flowers you bought them last year, then trust me when I say these date ideas are all winners... you might even get a valentine's kiss after...

Boyfriends of London take note!

By Erica, of www.imbeingerica.com

Interested? Read on...

Review: Five Guys Burgers, Covent Garden, London

Friday nights in Covent Garden are often categorised by two things; how long the line is into a restaurant, or how irrelevant the costume is of the flyer-er employed by it. Generally, the more redundant the costume, the better the deal. The same can be said for the lines; the longer they are, the more you want to join the them. Rarely will you see people flyer-ing to people already in the line for their place, but that's exactly what I encountered last Friday night - and he was without a costume, if you can believe that!

We'd made arrangements to meet with Pali over at Five Guys at 6pm, and when we'd blown in like drowned rats shortly after, there was already a lengthy line out the door; inside at the counter the line was longer still. that's when I saw the flyer monger, mongering his flyers to those already lining up for the place. Sranger still, the people in the line were grabbing for them like they'd never been flyer-ed before. This had me curious!

Breezing past the giggling couple at the head of the line, we spoke to the chief flyer-er, announcing our arrival. While he ran off to find Pali, I helped myself to his stack; what I'd mistook for restaurant propaganda was actually just a copy of the menu. It was... short. All the research (all five minutes of it) I'd put into this place led me to believe there were over 250,000 kinds of burger options and over 100 drinks choices! Impossible to include at length on a menu, yes, but this hand out merely described a handful of burger options, and not a lot else.




With my previously high hopes dashed, we were escorted by Pali into the heart of the restaurant; some secret underground burger lair, walls adorned with gratuitously positive reviews of the restaurant - both overseas and here at home. Words like "Yum!", "Delicious!" and "Tasty!" shouted at me from the red and white walls, and I wondered if it was subliminal messaging at its finest, or something to be taken ironically - this décor was not that of a modest family restaurant, rather a bratty burger-bar heir shouting "LOOK HOW GOOD I AM, DAD!".

When Pali explained the menu to us, it all became clear. From the staple menu we'd seen, you can ultimately customise your burger, however you like. Ketchup or BBQ, Chipotle or mayo, jalapeños or tomatoes - pick your burger, and build. So, with the endless combinations of options, I'm told their are over 250,000 ways to have your burger. Genius! With the option to add more patties to your burger too, Pali described for us the classic Man vs Food moment when some (stupid) person tried to eat a burger with seven patties and every possible extra on the menu. We did not question that person's current health situation. Pali shrugged though, and starred off to the distance wistfully... enough said?

I'd chosen the bacon cheese burger with added BBQ sauce, mayo, lettuce and tomatoes, while my date for the night had gone for a bacon cheese with ketchup, grilled mushrooms and onions. Basic. We'd also opted for a portion of the regular fries as well as a portion of the cajun fries - and, a cupful (or two) of the complimentary peanuts that spill out of their confines on both levels of the restaurant. I'll admit, they're a fun way to kill time while you're waiting for your burger; shelling those nuts is bloody therapeutic, but, must be careful not to overdo it on the peanut front - the short wait is totally worth it.




While we waited, we debated the drinks selection. We were told that the magic soda fountain contains over 100 drink options; here was me thinking it was one of those machines that lets you add your own flavours to create a specialised and totally original flavour (orange and red Fanta ftw!) - but no! it literally contains 102 different flavours of soda. I was told to try the peach Sprite, so that was the first of many a drink from that machine. Tasting exactly like peach iced tea (but bubbly!), it was refreshing and sweet, and definitely did not disappoint. With options like Strawberry Coke and Vanilla Fanta on display, we were torn about where to stop. Turns out though, once you go Grape Soda you never go back.





And then there were burgers. Delivered by the attentive Pali in brown paper bags reminiscent of any drive through order, ever, the mere smell had us salivating. Now, you know when you order a burger from a picture, and when your burger comes, it never looks anything like the picture? Not here, man. My burger was perfectly symmetrical. There was no overhang; the patty was the perfect size for the burger bun. The streaky bacon was cooked to a crisp; deliciously crunchy morsels were evident in every bit I took. The cheese was not too melted, but melted just enough to not run out all over the wrapping or drip down my hands. Let me be clear: these burgers are game changers.






Stuffed after a few measly mouthfuls, I powered on. The perfectly cooked and juicy patty was seasoned to a tee - the flavours of the BBQ sauce, cheese and bacon danced in my mouth, while the mayo and salads balanced the whole deal out. This burger, was the only burger I ever wanted in my mouth. It has shamed all burgers before it, and I doubt there will ever be another burger after it.

By Erica, of www.imbeingerica.com

Five Guys | 1-3 Long Acre, London WC2E 9LH and also Islington, Reading, with Bluewater opening soon, Guilford opening February 2014 and Kingston opening March 2014

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The importance of Being Nice

[insert handful of clichés about how being nice leads to a better life here] 

It's not a hard thing, you know, to be nice. It's as simple, really, as simply saying "thank you" or "you're welcome" or, "excuse me sir, I don't mean to harass you, but would you mind removing your umbrella from my shoe?" It's in the smile or wave as you acknowledge the cabbie or bus driver who's spared your life by allowing you to cross on the pedestrian crossing, even though they've been waiting for a few seconds aaaages.

That time that you - a twenty-something female - stood on the peak-hour commuter train so the soon-to-be-mother with her "mind the bump" badge could take your seat, and share with you that "I'm grateful to you but also embarrassed by The Men" glance that Us Women sometimes share; although it should be considered The Right Thing To Do, it was in fact considered nice by that woman. I think - according to The Men - it was considered to be a show of Equal Rights or some such bollocks, but that's besides the point. It was not expected of you, and therefore it was nice.

I've learned a bit about being nice recently. Mostly it was by accident, but that doesn't make it less important. See, I've been having a bit of a mare in my professional life which has sort of teetered over into my personal one. Mostly because the two are saaaah entwined. But, after being nice to a few people recently who - unbeknown to me - had the ability to help me change some of my woes, a few really amazing opportunities have now come my way. Which, is bloody nice (if you're me)(which I am).

I'm not naïve enough to think that if you smile at the right person you'll get that promotion you've been wanting, or miraculously win the lottery, or finally find that coveted pair of shoes - and in the sale no less! But I am of the firm belief that you Never Know what can happen if you just forget about what's in it for you. Behave in a way that makes you stand out from the crowd; because Lord knows the crowd are a miserable bag of misery, and have nothing good to look forward to.

By Erica, of www.imbeingerica.com

Interested? Read on...

Review: Ping Pong Dim Sum, Wembley

A mere stone's throw from Wembley Arena - in the newly developed designer village at Wembley Park, is the newest addition to London's favourite dim sum franchise; Ping Pong. (It's so new in fact, that Google Maps doesn't know where it is. Which proved to be a problem for me, until I opened my eyes and saw the enormous sign pointing me in the right direction. I'm also told that the first customers of this store were none other than, oh... what's their name? Oh yeah, One Direction. So, there's that.) We were invited to sample their exclusive Chinese New Year menu - including seasonal dishes and delicious cocktails, and who were we to refuse? We headed along on a dreary Wednesday night, our bellies grumbling with anticipation, and boy oh boy, did we dine.

With the cocktail menu boasting such exotic offerings as Kumquat Mojito, Ginseng Passion and Something Served in a Beaker with a Jasmine Rose and Fancy Straw, we carefully made our first selections. One came served with a suspiciously small amount of Anything Other Than Alcohol, while the other came Drowned in Crushed Ice and Thai Basil Seeds. Regardless of their contents, they tasted AM-ASIAN (get it?), and after the first round, we deduced that there would certainly be another (or two).

With pencil in hand we pored over the New Year specials and the regular old house menu, and assessed our dim sum options. We were advised that five dishes each would usually suffice, and we chose a few snacky type bits to start too; the tempura seaweed crackers and some sea salt and celery edamame, followed quickly with a serve of the deliiicious duck spring rolls (with hoi sin sauce!) and the infamous Crispy Prawn Balls (trademark, patent pending).

We were running out of room on our table for two by the time the next course was served, and were kindly offered the use of a nearby table to hold the never-ending flow of steamed, griddled and banana-wrapped Parcels of Goodness as they arrived from the kitchen. Next to arrive was the king prawn and scallop sticky rice parcels, char cui buns (OMG nom), prawn and chive dumplings and the chicken and cashew nut dumplings. What you need to know is that in every serving there were either three of four pieces; between the two of us we'd just consumed just under twenty five pieces of dim sum. I mean, I don't want to brag, but... that's a lot of food.

We sat back, stuffed, admiring the damage we'd done in such a short space of time. The staff were super attentive and friendly, and - bless them, a bit deranged to ask us after all that if we'd like to order dessert. Another cocktail, yes, but more food? Absolutely not. We still had many a zone between us and the opportunity to lay horizontal, and after all that food, it was all I wanted.

While we digested enough food to feed - well, two or maybe three people, we chatted to the staff about their new menu, the thought process behind their inventive cocktails, and just exactly how good St. Germain Elderflower liqueur actually is (answer: very). We were more than looked after by the amazing staff over there in the new venue, and I can hand-on-heart declare that if Wembley wasn't so damn far away from my little flat in SE London, that I would easily become a regular. Saying that though, should I ever have the displeasure of being forced to that stadium for anything other than a One Direction concert, I will certainly be holing myself up in there first. Or after. Or, both...

By Erica, at www.imbeingerica.com, with images provided by Erica and Rebekah Jays (Erica's dim sum date).

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on why asking for freebies via #prrequest only #makesyoulookdespo

Hi everyone! it's me again - the one with all the opinions and none of the actual knowledge, but Who Likes to Think She Knows Everything. I want to talk about something that's really starting to irk the living irks out of me. Picture the scene: it's a dreary Friday afternoon, you're bored of staring at your never-ending tabs of spread sheet dullness, and so to break the monotony, you decide to head to your safe place for a wee natter; Twitter.

Today though, between the usual "I #blogged this!", "#wiwt #ootd #highstreetbrand!" "Randomly Funny Celeb TwitPic" or "Ricky Gervais Ripping On The Christians" there's another hashtag doing the rounds, one that used to be a great way to connect with the right people or get your hands on a press release or some copy, that's allofasudden being abused, taken advantage of and, sadly, getting a whole lot of bad press.

I'm looking at you, #prrequest.

Today, for example, the same one person has used the tag no less than eight times, and only changing the company name that she's directing the tweet at. I don't want to read between the characters, but it reads like this; "Dear [brand]. Can I please have some free stuff? #gimme", and it stiiiiinks of desperation. You really want a brand to reply to you? Do it the right way. Pitch them an idea; tell them why you are approaching them, what you want to review, and how it will benefit them. Because right now, you're doing it wrong.

Ok, so maybe you're a new blogger and you're trying to get noticed. well guess what? You are! But for all the wrong reasons. I happen to know for sure that the PRs reading through that tag have certainly blacklisted you from any future activity, and have told their PR friends to do the same. There's a reason the term 'Blaggers' was (not wrongly to be honest) used to describe a generation of bloggers a few years ago, and that was because of their uncool, lazy, and entitled behaviour. The same behaviour that seems to be returning to our news feeds.

If you're not prepared to pay for it yourself, don't just expect that - because you have a blog - the brand will simply give it to you. Especially if you're asking ten other brands at the same time, and in a public forum no less. You're genuinely embarrassing yourself, and I feel kind of awkward having to watch your selfish behaviour in what is supposed to be my happy place - you're making me want to go back to work.

If you're interested in hearing more about how to successfully (and legally)(and in a less embarrassing way) market your blog or magazine, your Editor and I run a Twitter chat every Tuesday at 7pm (GMT) with the tag #prrequest #MYBchat. You can also follow along at @MarketYrBlogChat for any questions you might have before and after the chat. We're usually far less controversial and much more polite. But for the sake of my happiness, please, pleaaaase, stop abusing something that is wholly an information-seeking resource.

By Erica, of www.imbeingerica.com

Interested? Read on...