Tarantella The Night Away!

Do you dance? No, me neither.

Not until the tarantella found its way into my life, that is. This night was up there with the most fun nights ever since fun nights began.

What better way to stomp away a bitingly cold February evening than by learning the deceptively simple tarantella steps? This fiery, traditional southern Italian dance is unbelievably fun, exhausting and hilarious. A touch of fact – the word ‘tarantella’ is another word for ‘tarantism’ – the hysterical condition following a bite from a grotesque ‘tarantula’ – now your turn for a ‘t’ word.

Let me rewind.

I went with a gorgeous, (more so than enthusiastic I might add) group of friends to what seemed like an abandoned warehouse in nondescript Limehouse, (think distressed, eery SAW shoot location if you will.)

Do not be fooled by appearances!

If the thumping percussion, siren singing and red music doesn’t seduce you then, frankly, I don’t know what will.

I hope the pictures below awaken something tarantella-esque in you enough to get your ‘jeeeeg’ on (as the Italians would say.) If that fails to stir you, perhaps the flowing wine and cosy entertainment might be enough to lure you out of your  70% off GAP pyjamas.

Watch for upcoming events here at the Jamoboree!

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9 Things My Mother Taught Me (And That I Wish I’d Listened To)

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1) Don’t worry what people think (the people who matter don’t mind, the people who mind don’t matter, etc. etc. etc.)

2) Drink hot water and lemon before bed….no, its not the same as a fab cuppa Yorkshire but…

Apparently lemon clears skin – the vitamin C component flattens out wrinkles and blemishes (not that we have the latter or the former ever) and rejuvenates skin from inside the body. Lemon also has antibacterial, antiviral immune-boosting powers, it is also a liver-cleanser (undoing those Proseccos hurrah! and is a general digestive aid, ie: you don’t scoff during the day.

 

3) Don’t brush curly hair. Just don’t. Unless you want to look like you are wearing an old, backcombed wig that has been trussed up in a plastic bag then put on your head.

4) Save up and buy something you really, really like that is made of nice stuff.

5) Not to make plans unless you are absolutely sure you won’t regret it later. That goes for generic dinner plans and date plans.

6) Be discerning, always.

7) If in an awkward situation/doubt anything in any way, smile and be polite then make a mental note not to agree to see this person/go to said event again.

8) Be aware of everything and never assume (a wise man told me assumption is the mother of all mistakes).

9) Know that most things are always “exciting” (I quote my mother) and if you look at the world this way, I can promise you it will never go grey.

 

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Nutella Hot Chocolate

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 Just climbed a frosty mountain? Braved the weather in wellies and a hat damp from the Christmas Day walk yesterday in an effort to feel hungry again? Perching by the fire with a frozen nose?

 

Nutella hot chocolate is the thing to make yourself/loved ones this Christmas, (if you haven’t already dissolved into a champagne & brandy soaked sugar cube yet that is.)

 

It is sweet, indulgent and cosy – so that is 3 hearty yes’s from us.

 

You literally just need milk, a big dollop of Nutella (per person) and something hot in which to bubble it all up together.

 

What are you still doing sitting there?

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The rather suggestively dubbed ‘Pornstar Martini’

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– Prosecco (little buddy in the shot glass)
– Passion fruit
– Gin
– ‘Penash’

They may look far too summery and deceiving in this droning winter, but once you’ve escaped the pulse of commuterdom (whether in New York, London or Paris) they are a lovely if unoriginal choice.

So step down mulled wine and soggy cinnamon sticks (that just get in the way).

As Shakespeare the very man himself famously said:

It is a known thing that a martini maketh merriment

Autumn freezes into Winter

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This is in Richmond Park, the sun pouring like honey through the trees.

Deer roam regally across the park, and it is lovely to see even adult faces watch in wonder as the herd picks their way towards us.

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Back To London: Face Lift Friday!

No! Not a real one. Just a bloggy one. Less exciting and life changing but still important if you ask me. If I ever do have one I will certainly turn it into life-changing literature, which I’m sure it would be. There is a … Continue reading

Unimpressed: Bridge Rendevous

“When I stopped for a moment, he swooped over like an uninvited pigeon, and said in an Italian dripping with old oil and stale, half-price men’s cologne…”       

What a treat I had yesterday afternoon as I took the dog for a walk. After about ten wintery minutes of walking towards the bridges near the house, I noticed a smartly dressed man walking rather close a few paces behind me. When I stopped for a moment, he swooped over like an uninvited pigeon, and said in an Italian dripping with old oil and stale, half-price men’s cologne: “Do you know by any chance where Largo Argentina is please?”

“Oh…” I said dryly and pointed bluntly in the correct direction, poker-faced and un-amused (practised expression.) He knew exactly where it was.

“Sorry-” he stopped me with a floppy hand: his pointy nose and parrot face, grinning stupidly: “I only wanted to speak to you.”

CUE A ROLLING THE EYES MOMENT.

 “Sorry-” he stopped me with a floppy hand: his pointy nose and parrot face, grinning stupidly: “I only wanted to speak to you.”

Ladies! If you have two breasts and a pair of eyes that blink: drifting, bored men will find cunning ways of intervening into your life, albeit in the most harmless, but nevertheless, intrusive ways.

He then asked where I live? Poking into my lovely walk, crossing his arms across his creased, baggy suit, that his mother had probably laid out on his bed a few hours earlier. Who was I? How long was I staying? (In a way that suggested, I bet you don’t know where I am going with this! What a score!)

After making several, unimaginative, but vaguely realistic excuses to leave, he questioned:

“Quando posso rivederti? When can I see you again?”

I wasn’t sure, in which millisecond of the conversation, I’d remotely hinted that I positively couldn’t go on, if I didn’t see him again – I then noticed, as the gnarled Gollum did once Frodo crossed his path, that he was wearing a ring. A wedding ring. God, he must have thought I was born yesterday. Or maybe he’d borrowed it from a dressing table at home and forgot to take it off, and his mother was frantically looking for it?

“He then asked where I live? Poking into my lovely walk, crossing his arms across his creased, baggy suit that his mother had probably laid out on his bed a few hours earlier.”