la coco noire.

Is there anything in life I love more than autumnal colours?! Well, um, yes actually - Leonardo di Caprio in the Titanic era, kindereggs, fresh sheets, and waking up on a Sunday without a hangover to name a few BUT autumn colours come a very, very close fifth.

If you haven't yet reached that stage in your life where you find euphoric triumph and jubilant glee in stumbling across a really good view, then you might as well remove yourself from this blog. I just do not need that kind of negativity in my life.

Ain’t nothing in the world better than a girlie weekend away. Especially when that girlie weekend teaches you so many rich and fruitful life lessons. So without further ado, this weekend I learnt…

We all know that Pinterest is the place where good intentions go to die and the sad realisation that you don't have a single crafty bone in your body becomes frighteningly apparent (seriously, some of these are so good). But let me tell you - PINTEREST IS REAL, GUYS. From the flowers in Tash's hair to the bunting on the fence to the pizza van that turned up after dinner; Tash and Jack's wedding was what dreams are made of (be still my Hilary Duff loving beating heart, ahem).  

Hands up if you were happily going about your business and enjoying your merry little summer and then - WHAM - autumn slapped you in the face like a cold, damp fish?! *Insert hand up emoji closely followed by tears streaming down face emoji*. Where did this summer go?! And how has it been almost two months since I returned from mon vacation au Riviera?! Time will you stop moving please and allow me to finish my summer in peace, you speedy little hoe. 

So. A little while ago I bit the bullet of social acceptance and decided to dedicate an entire post to my cat. I thought this post would go by largely unnoticed and wholly uneventful but the response was - and I don't mean to toot my own trumpet too much here - absolutely off the mother******* chain. Toot a-tootie toot toot *insert trumpet emoji*. Apparently y'all love feline Fuhrer's just as much as I do. SO, back by popular demand (read: no demand whatsoever but, meh, cats) I present you with #Caturday 2.0. 

There is one reason and one reason alone why Saint Tropez holds a special place in my heart: it was the first place I ever sampled the delectable delights of the creme brulée ice cream. Now we all know that good food is the key to my heart/pants/inheritance tax so you can rest assured, that this place ranks pretty highly on my freakin'-naughty list. Beautiful as it is though, this little hubbub on the south coast of France has an incredible habit of reminding me just how poor I really am. You kinda feel like you can't afford to look at some of the shops here. Like some sort of Gucci clad man in boat shoes and a jumper flung frivolously around his shoulders is gonna demand your current salary and politely suggest you return to Bognor Regis.

Bleurgh. Bleurgh. BLEURGH. Yep that pretty much sums me up right now. Partly due to the ongoing inner turmoil of DO I OR DO I NOT TAKE A COAT / UMBRELLA / SKI BOOTS to work today because the damn weather can’t decide whether it’s coming, going, maybe leaving, possibly staying a bit later or not even bloody turning up at all.  And partly because, well, life is just a little bit shit sometimes isn't it? So in my most despondent yet actually incredibly poignant and reflective post yet, I leave you with photographs from a day of torrential downpour on my most recent holiday. Because you know what? You can't have a rainbow without a little rain.

Let's all say a huge great big hello to the most inaptly named village in the French Riviera. Port Grimaud evokes images of a dark town with black buildings, lots of iron work, fire, smoke and probably loadsa horrible little goblins holding lanterns and grunting at you as you walk past (...too far?). But in actuality, despite its nasty little name, it's a really cute place. Kinda like Venice. Just with a lack of overpriced gondolas and, praise the lord, far fewer selfie sticks.

Sometimes if I reminisce about living in Paris too much, I actually cry. Like a big old wimpy baby I well up; my bottom lip starts quivering and I full on ball my eyes out. I miss our apartment with its hideous green bathroom/orange kitchen combo, I miss how we had to cook nachos in a slow cooker because we had no oven (takes 1 hour 15 minute for cheese to melt sufficiently if you're wondering), I miss the freezing/scalding kitchen tap that offered no washing up level appropriate heat compromise, I miss losing my shit on Disneyland's Tower of Terror every other weekend, I miss pain aux raisins being my only source of fruit and that being totally okay... Kim K cryface in full flow over here so let's look at some pictures instead, eh?

As well as the doctor's dream team of antibiotics, painkillers and flu tablets; I think that every good medicinal handbook should suggest prescribing that fab little herbal drug: a change of scenery every once in a while. Preferably at a dosage of 3 to 4 times per year or, you know, whenever you damn well feel like it (because we all diagnose ourselves via Google anyway). 

Let me tell you one thing that really appeals to my Internal Happiness Coordination System (IHCS for short):  ROOF TOPS. Rooftop pool, rooftop yoga, rooftop barbecue, even rooftop nudist beach - stick 'rooftop' in front of practically any noun (bar maybe 'murder') and I'm there, I'm interested, I've got my "I ❤ roof tops" t-shirt on (no, really) and I'm ready to roof top the shit out of my day.  Roof top roof top roof top. So when I saw the advert for an open air rooftop cinema in Croydon I booked tickets there and then. What my excited little brain forgot to comprehend was quite how nippy it is in April.

With summer so nearly on its merry little way I am;

a) gleefully counting down the days until I can lay sprawled on a sun lounger in the south of France with nothing but a book, a cocktail, a lack of work and the calming sound of silence to accompany me

b) forcing myself to go to the gym at least three times a week so I don't give any unlucky onlookers the fright of their life and 

c) wondering why it's so easy to polish off an entire packet of mini eggs but then so difficult to sculpt an ab. Such are life's mysterious ways, eh. 

No but seriously. I know this sport* has got a pretty nerdy reputation and the term geocache evokes visions of men in camel coloured budgie smugglers and awkwardly long socks (for reference) squawking around a map and guffawing at Brendan's inability to calibrate a compass…but, much like shepherds pie sandwiches, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Mikey and I had a solid time this weekend and I am finding it REALLY hard to be sorry about the fact that - brace yourself - I just bloody love a spot of geocaching.  

*F%ck you we’re calling this a sport, goddamnit. 

PAUSE AND STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING. I have reached a momentous occasion in my life that I want to share with you. I have made the most attractive cake that I have ever and will ever make in my entire life (and quite possibly in the history of the world). Yep, just gonna leave this here for ya.

You know there are some things that you eat all the time but you never actually think to make yourself. Like you kind of forget that they don't come ready made. Like bread. Plain old simple bread. And ice-cream. You're so used to buying it in Tesco that you forget a cow in a field somewhere gave it's milk so that you could scoff the entire cookie dough tub on a hangover.

Contrary to popular school ground opinion, a ginger loaf isn't what you call your strawberry blonde class mate, it is in fact a very tasty, very moist and very delicious little loaf. Feast your eyes on this gorgeous little ginger baby. Takes 10 minutes to throw together and 1 hour to bake to perfection. Also I think the fact that it's a loaf instead of a cake lets you pretend that it's just that tiny bit healthier. Whose with me?! #GingerLove