On ode to the brew.

I confessed recently that I (almost) prefer Eastenders to Coronation Street.

Now whilst some may view this as an act of shedding my Northern roots, I indefatigably disagree. I find the plots slightly more area apt now I'm a local.

This revelation has acumen.

I may prefer the Southern soap, but there's a Northern trait I cannot (& will not) shake. A brew. That gloriously emotionally charged, heart warming, honest beverage.

I dislike coffee excessively *

Saturday morning saw my heartbeat quicken, my forehead bear a bead of sweat. I'd run out of teabags.

MAN ALIVE.

I dislike herbal tea even more **, what's a girl to do.

Forreging around I struck gold. A chum had bought me a mug. A Moonpig mug.

Low and behold, what did it contain. A bloody brew enabler.

AH.

I silently placed my bets on the strength of the liquid it'd stir up. If a Tetleys was a 7 & a PG Tip an 8.5 I estimated Moonpig would be a 2.75.

I overestimated. It was a 2.

Still, my morning quota was par-filled & I could function.

Whilst I do not feel they should go into mass production, the bag certainly helped me out when my chips were down.

The 'Caf' can stick its lattes & cappuccinos. I'd choose 'Roys Rolls' - morning, noon & night.

* Bar coffee flavoured Roses, which seem to have been discontinued.

** all forms. BLEUGH.

Anna Kuchinsky

Oct-vember. Where does the time go. Jeepers.

With a noticeable chill in the air, swathes of synthetic material acting as barriers to the elements and a distinct urge to stay indoors to sip tea & mulled wine (!). I reluctantly ventured West, to Hammersmith, last Friday. Invited by an Estonian colleague, Anna, a captivating character; a look of beauty and a passionate opinions, I was intrigued to hear whether her voice matched.

Part of The European Jazz Festival and set in the Jazz Cafe POSK, a Polish cultural centre, I slipped in to an intimately exquisite room. A vibrant, bluesy atmosphere that oozed passion. Slipping into a chair I awaited the performance. Naturally nursing a whiskey on the rocks, donning a gold cocktail dress and hive.

A rich mix of cultures pouring in, the anticipation was tangible.

She entered, dazzling the tumble weed silent onlookers. Demure in black, with a thigh high split. Every inch the star.

Introducing her band, she eased us in slowly with Manhattan, roused our emotions with Infant Eyes, elated with Fascinating Rhythm and astonished with her version of Just Take Five.

Whilst I've seen Jazz in cities across the globe, the emotive nature of Annas work set itself apart from the aforementioned. Asking her how she would like her work to be perceived, Anna noted she wanted the audience to have 'that good feeling inside. You know what I mean? The feeling that makes you sing and dance and love and fly.'

With her mother spotting Annas raw talent aged 11, she was encouraged to study classical vocals in her home of Estonia. Moving onto jazz, she felt confident and her passions were energised. By 2008, Anna was noted as a musical talent throughout Estonia.

A chance meeting with Toby Stone, late 2010, planted visions of London, storming the music scene as she had done in Estonia; taking a leap of faith, into the unknown. February saw this vision realised and embracing the unfamiliar Anna set out to overcome all obstacles, including the language barrier.

Fast forward to 21 October 2011. With a confident breath, Anna announced an Estonian song;Pigiling. About a young bird; unsure of itself. Unsure of the world. Apprehensive about its future. Feeling harsh realities on bursting the homely bubble. & yet daring to make a move. Take the world on. Do what she was meant to do ...

... I advocate Anna in the same capacity. Taking the leap and flying as she is most definately meant to.

Simply a cynosure.

A must see luminary. Anna Kuchinsky.

Mind the 10 Gaps.

I hate the way you talk to me, And the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car, I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots And the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick, It even makes me rhyme. I hate the way you're always right, I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, Even worse when you make me cry I hate it when you're not around, And the fact that you didn't call But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you, Not even close… Not even a little bit… Not even at all.

Are there 10 I hates? YES.

It'd be refreshing to be faced with this rather than a void.

Nigh.

White.

Mind black. Anger white. Areas of grey.

Profanities. Expletives. A malediction.

Truth is. When all's said & done. To be happy, bask in complacency even. You have to be content. Meandering through with the occasional buoy (pun intended) the Bubble Tea pearls burst & you're left with a familiar bitterness.

I've forced my astigmatism to it. Desolation.

I'm a jealous girl. Grass is greener.

Failing.

Flailing.

I recused a brick in my bed clothes when I was 9.

Career.

Desperation.

Pride.

24 months departed.

I despise emoticons.

Wink.

Lighter octave. Like;

From Vogue

Boris Bell.

I've returned from a journey. Spiritual? I hear you ask. Nay. Found yourself? I see you're getting bored. Nay.

I've been on my first Boris Bike.

Despite being called a wanker, dangerous idiot & a slow coach. I enjoyed it. All 51 minutes. Cycling past London Zoo, Albany Street and Harley Street, I couldn't change gears, my foot slipped more times than I have fingers and toes & this looking over your shoulder malarkey? Balance is not a virtue.

The reason for my late night ride was a colleagues bid to cycle Europe. Organising an hours jaunt to enhance her vigour for the trip, I signed up as an apathetic support. As the time drew close, naturally original enthusiasts depleted, & when, at 8.45pm came, three were left.

I admire a goal.

I set myself a challenge.

Cycling isn't for me.

BBikes don't have a bell

I too have a goal. & in supporting my peer, I gather momentum for my own.

Wonder whether Boris has peddled those metal contraptions.