Dial 007 for Urologist: the EAU Congress, Paris

Posted on February 26, 2012 by fortewinks

Last week I had an overwhelming sense that my career path and health were inextricably linked, for I suffered my first UTI in over ten years. Not just ouch … super-double-and-treble ouch.

I won’t bore you with the details, but it seemed a spookily apposite problem to have, given my weekend destination: the European Association of Urologists Congress in Paris.

Urologists from Europe and further afield were gathered in this most beautiful of cities and I found myself surrounded by the men that care passionately for our tubes, tracts and valves.

And here, an important caveat: forgive me, Sisters, but I gather that only 5% of Urologists are female and I didn’t encounter one. Mores the pity, but I can only surmise that the whirring, gurgling world of “down there” is so akin to plumbing and mechanics that it holds a greater fascination to the male of the species. Who knows?

I was at the EAU thanks to the remarkable Roger Frais of Cariad Technologies, established purveyor of high-tech, world-class urological surgical equipment. By contrast, fledgling Forte Medical has developed and now manufactures Peezy MSU, also world-class but low-tech; contrasting businesses that made unexpected but complementary companions.

Peezy MSU is an efficient, elegant, hygienic and cost-saving midstream urine collection system for women. It was invented by diligent GP Dr Vincent Forte in response to complaints about the traditionally inaccurate, comedic, messy and undignified process endured by his female patients – indeed, by women everywhere. It can be especially valuable for the elderly, the very young and those with learning difficulties, because carers can provide kinder, unobtrusive assistance and get an accurate specimen in one “go”.

Having developed Vincent’s concept and brought Peezy MSU to market we have seen it adopted first by HCA, standard bearers of excellence in private healthcare and since by others;  penetrating the NHS was more challenging and we endured a three-year wait for the right Tender Opportunity to emerge from the NHS Supply Chain.

Happily, Peezy MSU has recently been accepted into this powerful institution, which means that from 1st March 2012, hospitals up and down the country can order it directly, centrally and most importantly, easily. Clinicians can now opt for right-first-time analysis, diagnosis and treatment, which should mean they see less of their patients.

Our task now is to make sure that those working across urology, outpatients, gynae, antenatal, infection control and their procurement managers know about and understand Peezy MSU. One of many ways to start is to gain clinical recommendation and support from the Consultants, the Gods of Urology.

Those encountered at the EAU were James Bond smooth and charming to a man, but also friendly, conversational, witty, entertaining and musical. Yes, musical and by all accounts appearing in bands, orchestras and a local venue near you most weekends.

Peezy Champion 007 par excellence is Mr Julian Shah, Consultant Urologist and not only one of the most eminent in the land, but guitar-wielding leader of a band whose fellow members include a Plastic and a Dental Surgeon. They play regularly at a pub in Hertfordshire and have quite a fan base.

Roger my host, is recognised amongst his industry peers as an accomplished jazz pianist who plays under the moniker Count Fraisie; meanwhile, polished classical pianist (and Consultant Urological Surgeon) Mr Stephen Brown sparkles with pride and joy describing happy hours on his Steinway, a gem of a piano discovered under a dust-sheet at the back of a shop in Manchester, some years ago. Given that Peezy’s esteemed inventor continues to play double bass and jazz piano in bands (since his days as a student medic at St Mary’s when Covent Garden venues were standard fare), none of this is surprising.

Which led me to wonder: does the steady hand required for coaxing sweet notes from musical instruments lend itself to the mastery of our most delicate primary parts, or the other way round? Which is the chicken and which is the egg?

But back to the task in our very own hands: whilst Mr Shah already employs Peezy MSU in his consulting rooms and is encouraging its adoption in the hospitals to which he is affiliated, my EAU visit meant I could introduce it to his peers. Frank Chinegwundoh from Barts and the London NHS Trust, Mark Emberton of UCH, Manoah Pancharatna of West Hertforshire NHS Trust, Simon Bott of Frimley Park NHS Hospital to name a few.

From its high-level clinical and patient care benefits, to the most basic “if I don’t have to handle any more urine-soaked bottles, then I want it”, every Consultant exposed to Peezy’s charms instantly appreciates their value. The EAU may just have led me to champions who, directly or indirectly could influence the adoption of a new gold standard and drive improvements. This is after all a woefully overlooked, antediluvian process that hardly chimes with the ethics of modern medicine.

A recent antenatal clinical trial of the system in France showed an 80% reduction in epithelial cells, and this is the kind of outcome the EAU audience likes. Peezy MSU may be low-tech but it is also a highly engineered and very smart piece of kit, with global appeal.

Which means that my EAU adventure didn’t end with the Smooth Operators of Urology; I met switched-on distributors who saw how Peezy MSU works, did the low-cost-high-volume maths and will explore our markets in Spain, Italy, the Far East and the Middle East.

Of additional interest to the delegates I met – most especially those specialising in male urology – is Peezy V1, a new product that captures the first 10ml of urine (first void) for prostate cancer testing in men, and STI screening in both genders.

This, our latest concept is materialising into a beautiful, three-dimensional and diagnostically invaluable system, which will be trial-ready mid-year, undergo validation testing and with a bit of luck, find its way to market in 2014. One of my eminent NHS introductions is leading a major programme of prostate research and suggested we become involved in trials, all of which augurs well for Forte Medical.

What’s interesting is that our products are unique not only in terms of performance and design, but because their success can be most accurately determined by the extent to which they reduce their own market size. That’s the kind of anomaly I enjoy.

Pounding the Congress floor can be enervating and by close of play we were all pretty jaded. I took the Metro back to my small but perfectly formed budget hotel the Libertel Suede, limped into reception, stopped and examined my surroundings.

“What are you looking for?” asked my genial receptionist. “A Vodka Tonic.” “Where exactly do you think we’d put the bar, Madam?” he laughed, gesticulating across the modest reception space. I was henceforth known, in most friendly fashion, as Madam Vodka. I can think of worse.

An hour and a shower later, we reconvened to find that our cheerleader Count Fraisie had done his research and after strolling through leafy Avenues and Boulevards we arrived at La Marine, a traditional 1930s style Bistro alongside the canal.

Following an introductory and obligatory glass of Champagne, our traditional but sublime food was elevated by some truly exquisite St Emilion red (memorable dishes: creamy hand-made ravioli, succulent snails, juicy-lean canard and garlicky mash potato – I love food.) Even the austere, unsmiling waitress caught our merriment and we were served with indulgent favouritism; La Marine is my kind of restaurant.

The London leg of Eurostar was fabulously uneventful: swish, stylish, prompt – mais bien sûr! My lovely cab driver was envious of the Parisian weekend. “My wife has no enthusiasm for it,” he reported mournfully. “I haven’t been there for 30 years and I’ve never been on Eurostar. I’d love to go.”

We arrived at my front door and pulling the fare from my purse, I found a €5 note and had an idea: “Please promise to book your tickets? And use this to buy your wife a rose when you get there.”

His shocked expression melted into delight, the width of his smile virtually bursting the cab doors wide open and he rolled away with a happy “Thanks, love, I will!”

I mean really, who on earth can resist Paris?

Or if you’re me, Urologists.

© Giovanna Forte

Read an earlier blog about our Peezy journey here.

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Spicy rum, wayward cherubs and the artist unzipped

Posted on January 28, 2012 by fortewinks

Top of the 100 Toys

Once upon a time I must have known how to spell ‘prompt’. These days its meaning seems to escape me, and so with more metaphorical Lycra than was decent for “fashionably late”, I landed in the midst of Zyg’s Private View party.

Hosted by Professor Alan Phillips, at his eponymous Gallery (arguably Brighton’s finest architect and certainly its most roguish), Leap of Faith is Zygmunt Jarzembowski’s first solo exhibition, which opened last Friday. This body of work combines a model making background with toy collector’s eye and has been shaped by the contents of the artist’s head and heart. Nothing unusual there you may think, but you haven’t seen the pieces yet.

A fine crowd of friends were gathered, already much buoyed upon a generous quantity of tasty cocktails (mixed from The Kraken Black Spiced Rum, thank you Marblehead), Zyg’s own brand of Glühwein and the extraordinary artwork that we’d all come to see.

Having researched Zyg online, and found reference to “Arty Toy Lamps”, that’s pretty much what I expected to find. On closer inspection, although these pieces may feature vintage toy components, the finished articles are galaxies apart from toy world. Whilst some are apparently jolly confections of familiar childhood stars, things are not necessarily what they seem.

In one golden lamp sculpture (above), Mickey Mouse stands triumphant atop a defeated retinue of familiar toys, featuring Woody, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and others, with poor Action Man at the bottom, a comment on the business of global brand identity.

Trainspotting

Others are more sinister; the anachronism of Trainspotting, for instance, makes you wonder what’s going on. A wistful cherub looks askance, right hand lying across left arm, into which a needle is held, and the eye is drawn to an exhausted paraphernalia of heroin below. Perhaps heaven is not all its cracked up to be.

In the style of an antique mantle clock, Fairie Liquid is topped by a benignly smiling child casually plucking the wings from unsuspecting fairies; victims are scattered beneath, writhing in their own gossamer detritus.

Fairie Liquid

The scene, both vile and beautiful has been immaculately arranged and finished with tentative gold brushwork; the flawless, unrelenting detail is irresistible.

Throughout Alan Phillips’ new Gallery, guests to Leap of Faith were gathered in chatty, chuckling groups whilst around them, others gazed open jawed at the work, which provoked discussion, speculation, wonderment.

I love a proper party and that’s exactly what this was; around eighty happy people ebbed and flowed, inside and out, with good juicy stuff to drink, look at and talk about. And in the midst of it all there he was – much loved Zyg, animated, warm, smiling, beaming and booming as usual. Nothing wrong there, then.

With several of the twenty or so pieces sold, the evening was a successful and splendid affair; Julia, Zyg’s beautiful, calm and serene partner glided effortlessly, Nathalie and Buzz entertained, the lovely Philip Reynolds chatted (a reunion after, um, eleven years) and the Jarzembowski family featured large, including Zyg’s brother Jan and his astonishingly bright, engaging, articulate and forensic daughter Anastasia.

I mean that in the nicest way; she’s studying forensics and human behaviour – a career path, which perhaps, just perhaps, has been somehow prompted and inspired by her very own uncle.

Who can tell?

………………….

Leap of Faith, until 29th February 2012
The Alan Phillips Gallery, 31 Montefiore Road, Brighton BN1 1RD
Contact Zyg: info@uzi1960.com
Website: www.uzi1960.com

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Mexico: mariachi, mountains, merriment … and my Girls

Posted on January 15, 2012 by fortewinks

Where are Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?

Bethnal Green is where we usually congregate with family and friends to spend Christmas, exchange gifts and enjoy hearty food. But this year, we abandoned our home in East London to gather in Mexico, for what transpired to be the happiest time of my life.

I had good excuse to take youngest-of-all Giorgia and I to sunnier climes. For in Mexico City resides Alessandra, my Tornado eldest daughter who is there until September working on the project she created to fill the third year of her History and Hispanic Studies degree.

Arriving in Mexico City a few days in advance of Giorgia (Exocet), there was a minor commotion at customs, for I was caught smuggling. A uniformed operative examined the arrival form on which I professed not to be carrying illegal substances. She opened one of my suitcases and with cursory but disdainful glance, dug her gloved hands into the contents. After some concentrated excavation, she withdrew the offending packages: two blocks of incredibly strong mature Cheddar cheese. Dairy products. A no-no.

My rueful smile must have disturbed her antennae … back in she went, to emerge triumphant with the third block. My heart sank.

I was ‘let go’ with a warning and a receipt for the cheese. On the other side, the embrace I received from the Tornado made it all worthwhile. As did my realisation that they hadn’t found the Stilton! 

After a fitful sleep, my first day in Mexico City was hazy but wondrous. We walked, we talked; we stopped to gaze at buildings of an age and scale I hadn’t imagined. Achingly beautiful architecture, huge intricately carved palaces; history and grandeur cast in stone. And drunk.

Not us, the buildings. Mexico City is on the lurch, as evidenced by steeples and towers that sit at alarming angles. The Tornado explained that Mexico is built on the site of a lake, emptied by pioneers in search of gold believed to lie at the bottom. Faced with a distinct lack of precious anything, the intrepid adventurers built a city instead. A sinking abeit very beautiful one.

When darkness fell, we ambled up the road, to Plaza Garibaldi, a square colonised by the Mariachi. Here, mayhem unfolds every night; groups of men in black suits with silver leg-stripes, play trumpets, saxophones, guitars, xylophones and accordions. And they sing. Oh, the singing: jazz here, a military tune there, a ballad over in the corner – and next to that some traditional Mexican songs, all the while couples young and old forget their woes (a-plenty in this town) and dance, spin, laugh, haphazard, happy, carefree, crazy.

Mexico City comes alive at night and the following evening brought more madness; we met up with Gorgeous Jorge, one of the Tornado’s many handsome male friends.

I was taken to a beginner’s Salsa Dancing Class. In Spanish. Without revealing too much of the shame I endured in this hour, without expanding on my lack of balance and coordination, without describing my inability to move because of ill-contained laughter, know only that my Mambo and my Cucaracha elicited delight in the Tornado and commensurate dismay in our teacher. The Tequila and Tacos we devoured thereafter were well deserved.

Happily, the following day brought a dignified delight: a trip to the Pyramids at Teotihuacan, with the warm and welcoming Mr and Mrs Sanchez and Sons (Mexico boasts an extraordinarily beautiful brand of boy and Alessandra, a very good eye.)

We started the day with late breakfast before setting off in the Sanchez family car, parents up front and the four of us squeezed behind them. But not for long. Sanchez Snr stopped the car, the boys got out. There was a brief discussion, the boot opened and closed and one son rejoined us on the back seat. The other had, it seemed, been folded up into the boot. This is, apparently, perfectly normal procedure, carried out across generations – but not just in Mexico. I spoke to someone about this in London the other day, and unperturbed, they confirmed that they too as children, had traveled with their siblings in the boot of their parents’ car. On this practice then, perhaps my sheltered life has not been as sheltered as some.

And so: with a Boy in the Boot, we arrived at the huge and mbeautiful Pyramids, oddly desolate despite the number of visitors clambering around their inclines. We walked about ten kilometres that day, up, down and around this breathtaking pre-Aztec city, discovered deserted, with scant evidence of an organised people whose lives revolved around the moon and the sun – each represented by one of the monumental Pyramids.

We concluded the day in a cavernous restaurant; I don’t mean it was deep and high, more that it was a huge rocky subterrane within which were clusters of tables and happy diners, friendly waiters and delicious food. My waiter almost excelled himself. Receiving my post-prandial request for an Americano, he asked “With blue eyes?” Presented with a mere black coffee I had no choice but to enquire: “Dónde está Paul Newman?”

A few days into my visit, a tired Giorgia, released from Christmas cheffing duties in London, arrived at 6am; we failed to appear at the gate on time however, because Mother got the terminal wrong. Tornado and I flailed across the airport compound, eventually finding Exocet sitting on her case looking, well, forlorn.

Things picked up and later that day we boarded a coach for Oaxaca, a cultural, historical and architectural joy. Our seven and a half hour journey seemed half that; although tired, I didn’t dare close my eyes for missing the spectacular mountain ranges, the colours, the vast and extraordinary tracts of land, the skies – I didn’t dare miss, well, Mexico.

Our destination lay on the slopes outside the City of Oaxaca. La Villada Inn isn’t a hostel in the received way; it is, according to the resident Cute Canadian, part of an“upscale hostel” world, with pool, terraces, hammocks and well appointed ensuite “cabins”.

Sharing our room-for-three was like a return to Boarding School, but with two people I knew incredibly well. We hardly stopped giggling for five days. In the intimacy of our cabin, I identified sweet traits from days gone by, being vividly reminded for instance of Tornado’s first steps as she strode across the room with identical intent and purpose. Inside Exocet’s gales of laughter, were echoes of her wonderfully robust baby chuckle. How lucky am I, to recapture these and other rare vignettes of an earlier life and make whole big new ones, too.

Christmas Eve was a very different proposition to those past. This scene was set by a spectacular and strangely luminous mountain range, onto which the sun projected rippling cloud formations, somehow giving a fourth dimension to the panorama.

Whilst I lay by the pool, the Girls played it in the upstairs bar and in between turning the pages of my book, I would glance up to observe the far-away shadows, interrupted only by occasional shouts of “Mom! You alright for a beer?”

This would have come from any one of our resident companions, which included Chris the mad Devonian and friend of La Villada family; Michael, an elderly, bearded amateur radio fanatic from Albuquerque; various Mexican family members and Steve, the aforementioned Cute Canadian, a laid-back, guitar-strumming Professor of Philosophy.

That evening, before La Villada’s Christmas Eve Party, the three of us ventured into Oaxaca, which was brimming with festive expectation. Families processed and danced through the streets, little girls dressed as Mary each clutching her very own baby Jesus; people sang, musicians played, street food abounded – and scrumptious it all was, too.

Most bewitching of all was the Son et Lumière projected onto the Cathedral of Our Lady of The Assumption. Out of darkness, white lasers slowly, intricately detailed the building façade and over the next ten minutes, an opulent, fantastical light show seduced us.

On our final full day in Oaxaca, we ventured to sights further afield; El Árbol del Tule, the 1600-year-old tree that boasts the stoutest trunk in the world (over 38ft diameter); more totally delicious corn, bean and spicy salsa combos for lunch; a craft market – and then the Mexican Rug Experience.

Teotitlán del Valle is a world-famous textile-weaving district; it is reached by way of dusty roads reminiscent of every Western movie you’ve ever seen; highways that stretch into the distance, apparently leading nowhere. Except that occasional, small roadside houses and workshops gather in number as you approach the village centre. Here, swanky showroom style properties sit cheek by jowl with the poorest shacks, housing several generations of one family. The common thread between them being the loom in every room, each carrying work in progress, vivid patterns drawn from mosaic, from landscape, from history and culture. Happily, our very own piece of Teotitlán is resplendent, centre stage at home.

In and around all this, our dreamy days at lovely La Villada gave us the best full-body massage we’ve ever had, relaxation, conversation with interesting people, yet more delicious food and a wolf-whistling parrot. But like all good things, it had to end and the day came when we, The Three Graces, boarded the coach bound for Mexico City.

We arrived just before midnight, disheveled and happy, waking late for a slow breakfast, even slower walk around the City and a final visit to the food market to explore the array of bustling aisles crammed with everything good.

The Tornado’s regular stallholders were delighted to meet The Mother and The Sister; we were plied with wine, given samples of delicious cheese, salsa, fruit. Papaya was the Holiday Hit; sweet and juicy beyond – if heaven were edible, it would be made of this.

We spent an hour or so with wine and cheese purveyor Francisco and his sons Enrique and Jesus (who have a pet lion to which they feed fresh chickens); then to see Juan Miguel on his excellent coffee stall and who made me blush with pride when he declared “Your daughter, she love Mexico. And Mexico love your daughter.”

What haven’t I mentioned? The incredible clothes market, the fairy-tale dresses worn by 15-year old girls at their “coming out”, cacti, the breathtaking Postal Palace, the world’s second biggest public square Zócalo, drinking far too much Mezcal with Carlos, eating too much of everything and expecting Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid to clip-clop round every corner. Only on this last, was I disappointed.

Day ten and with heavy hearts, Giorgia and I climbed into a taxi for the airport. As it pulled away Alessandra waved from the sidewalk and of course, Mom shed a tear or few, not so much in sadness, but in thanks for the rare, precious, heady, beautiful days spent with her Girls. Lucky me indeed.

Oh, Mexico.

…………………..

Travel notes
Our super-stressful travel to Mexico was very regrettably booked with Expedia. Far-away call centres were near-impossible to deal with in the face of last-minute problems caused by an Iberia pilot’s strike. Never again.

Posted in Family, Food and wine, Friends, Life and romance, Travel, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

East London: a culinary playground

Posted on November 20, 2011 by fortewinks

Hix Amedei chocolate mousse made
(and snapped)
by Giorgia McAllister Forte

East London: a place of many textures and many tastes is now inextricably linked – for me – to the sating of a raging appetite for good food and great wine, at friendly places.

But how times have changed. In 1986 I met my future husband on the stairwell of 8a West Smithfield, above Ferrari’s sandwich bar (it’s still there). Apart from a Friday pint at the Bishop’s Finger next door, the area had little to offer but a sawdust floor at long-gone Burgundy Ben’s basement bar, on the Clerkenwell Road. There were one or two unremarkable restaurants in the area, but it wasn’t until 1991 that The Eagle opened on the Farringdon Road, and things began to evolve.

Further East, in 1998, the opening of The Cantaloupe on Charlotte Road caused quite a stir; the chargrilled dishes and rocket salads served up here were almost revolutionary.

Real change was heralded a year later, with the arrival of The Eyre Brother’s cafe next door. Chef par excellence David, co-founder of The Eagle, and his brother Robert, created a legendary spot, serving the most robust and exquisite dishes from a tiny space of organised chaos. Robert’s reputation as an expert Ambianceur was honed here; a disorderly queue would form at around 9am, along which word would be passed, as to the exact mood of Front of House. If negative, the queue might dissolve as if by magic; if positive, a cheerful demeanour would descend on those present and coffees duly ‘corrected’, with a hey-nonny-nonny and a whistle in the air.

The Charlotte Road venue was, as it turned out, merely a warm-up act for the more sophisticated, much larger eponymous restaurant that opened round the corner on Leonard Street ten years ago. I’ve shamelessly extolled the virtues of the Eyre Brothers before, so perhaps all I need to add is: Grilled Mozambique Tiger Prawns; Paella Valenciana (to order), Iberico Pig, David’s very special goose-fat roasted potatoes and the best Tapas menu in London (the Gambas are to die for).

The Eyres’ original tiny space now is occupied by Ruby, founded by Lino and Afram where some of the best lunchtime nosh in Shoreditch is served to queues even the Eyres would have been proud of. Made on the spot, to order, delicious, perfectly cooked risotto and pasta; ciabatta sandwiches that contain tender, grilled haloumi and vegetables, rare steak and juicy chorizo. Even the avocado and chicken salad is sublime … but the eternally twinkly Afram has a bottle of something special that he sprinkles onto certain dishes; he won’t let on what’s in it … but its addictive. Meanwhile, co-founder Lino has opened a sit-down counterpart in Hoxton Square. Every bit as good, this bustling, busy Ruby is a regular lunch spot for my former-future-now-ex-husband and I; much much better than the Smithfield pint.

Staying in East London’s Italy, we’ll visit Gianfilippo Mattioli at the Bottega Prelibato on Rivington Street. A week or so after it opened in 2008, I entered to enquire about olive oil. Without missing a beat, I was invited to sit, relax. Four small bowls were set out, each filled with different extra virgin oil, and then some bread arrived. I was exhorted to “Try!” I tried. I loved. After successfully dealing with an uncalled for fuss from the licensing people, Gianfilippo has been serving wine with his delicious Italian food for about a year now, and stays open for dinner. The Bottega is unhurried, ambient and delightful.

A few doors down, on the other side of the road is The Rivington. Formerly a proper early 90’s cocktail bar with marvelous, neon fascia and decorative umbrellas in its drinks, it passed into the hands of the Caprice Group. Out went the flourishes, in came understated urban chic, British dishes and flavourful things on toast. Today, Chef Simon Wadham’s Mushroom Sausages are a hot favourite. They came off the menu briefly, but have, happily, reappeared. Two larger than life croquettes, stuffed full of delicately flavoured Portobello wonderment; accompany with a glass of Merlot. There’s a great deal more at the Rivington, not least the luxury burger, but if we’re moving on to meat, then we need to stroll over to Hix, in Farringdon.

The first of Mark’s growing empire, Hix Oyster and Chop House is tucked off Cowcross Street. My first visit was shortly after he opened, hungry enough to embark on a (shared) Porterhouse Steak. If you’ve never had melt-in-the-mouth meat before, this is it. But precede with a starter of Dalston, home-smoked salmon that boasts mystical buttery qualities you won’t have encountered before, in any kind of fish.

I should now extol the charms of the Hix dessert menu, but heaven forbids nepotism in a blog, for the Chef de Partie in charge of desserts and pastry here, is none other than my own progeny Giorgia McAllister Forte. If you visit, don’t forget to leave a generous tip for the kitchen.

Scrumptious pastries can, however, also be found back in Shoreditch, at The Albion on the corner of Boundary and Redchurch Streets; a light and airy café with grocery up-front, this place fills up early, so I tend to swing by and pick up a couple of affordable treats for lunch. My favourite combination is a juicy Stilton and walnut salad with the Albion’s own brand of potato salad. Like Afram’s aforementioned magic, there’s something addictive in this confection; I just keep returning for more.

This first foray into East London food doesn’t venture far enough I know, but there simply isn’t time to finish my foodie trail now. Another day, we’ll explore the Cay Tre (arguably the best Viet in the area), Tayyabs for curry, Bistrotheque (Prix Fixe option for both lunch and dinner) and the highly original, perfectly formed Rochelle Canteen at Arnold Circus.

For pizza, we must stop off at The Furnace (for the Del Mare) and Stringray Globe (the Vegetariana). And for tasty bits, my own neighbourhood Brawn, on Columbia Road, where “taste ticklers” include chunks of Parmesan or quails eggs at £3.

Rest assured, we’ll venture forth again soon for more digestive delights. In the meantime, you don’t need me. Go ahead: step into the culinary playground, and have some fun.

Buon’Appetito.

© Giovanna Forte

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Twenty clever women (and two men in the kitchen)

Posted on November 12, 2011 by fortewinks

Men at work

In May this year, I realised that I did not see enough of my female friends. Whilst the Boys are pretty easy to find barside, the Girls are more difficult to pin down.

My girl friends are a fabulous lot and seeing them always a great joy. But finding the time is an onerous task. And then the train pulled into the station (albeit more slowly than it might): I would invite them to dinner. All of them. At the same time.

One evening, in our usual spot at the Eyre Brothers, I outlined the idea to a couple of male friends; red-blooded both, they were keen to become part of the action. And so it came to pass, that one Tuesday night in June, my kitchen was commandeered by two marvelous men, who served a veritable banquet, of Indian origin, to twenty wonderful women.

The Clever Women’s Dinner was met with unprecedented enthusiasm. Having anticipated that of the twenty-five invited, perhaps ten might turn up, a combination of events conspired to prevent only the journalists from attending. A shame, because the expertise of these five cut across favourite topics of art, architecture, design, travel and sex. They were missed, but we managed. Somehow, yes, we managed.

You can take this Girl out of PR but … I instinctively researched what everyone was up to right now, and therefore know what they might have in common and how I would introduce them. There was no need, for these women just got on with it. Introductions were self-made, commonalities established and even cards exchanged within about a nano-second.

I should have guessed, because 99% of my guests run their own business. This gathering was an enlightening insight into my circle of female friends: like-minded, resourceful, creative, opinionated, beautiful and strong. To a woman.

At around 7.30pm, the first guest arrived; by 9pm, the room was ringing with conversation emanating from gorgeous creatures aged from 18 to somewhere around mid-50 (or more, its difficult to tell). The last lady left at 3am, after songs were sung and dances, er, danced. You know who you are.

So who made up this Oestrogen Army? What remarkable wealth of talent had congregated in my house?

Delightfully, we had three mother-daughter contingents (including the home team, as both my Clever Girls attended). Trayler and Trayler represent image-makers – both Carolyn and her progeny Skye got along with all the creative talent filling the room, not least mother-and-daughter Sarah Haque and Fatima who run fashion and licensing empire Urban Species, my very own Chef de Partie, Giorgia McAllister Forte, feisty Photographer Amelia Troubridge, Cinematographer Alessandra Scherillo and the glorious, willowy blonde Architect, Holly Porter.

At the dining table, I witnessed an animated discussion around publishing. Leading the debate was Trolley Books’ Hannah Watson, with lively input from illustrator Laura Quick, my Adventuresse Alessandra McAllister and her (and my) friend, the inimitable, warm, enterprising Sophie James. This duo also learned a great deal about life in a 1980s commune from neighbour, actress and writer Wanda Briggs.

Outside, gardening expert Claire Gladstone and City Marketeer Samantha Barber came up with psychedelic patio ideas I will never be able to realise (thanks, Girls). Around them, conversation flowed between author Philippa Stockley, the best pub landlady in the world Farika Skilton and Italian fashionista Michela Gisotti, whom I also noticed getting along with documentary producer Anna Lisa Piras and glamorous, elegant lawyer, Virginie Lalanne.

Virginie wisely positioned herself at the threshold of living room and kitchen, a hothouse of culinary creativity. Here she could see Calligrapher to the Stars, Satwinder Sehmi and her partner, Artist and Man-About-Town, Robert Fairman conjure up the most incredible (edible) spice.

Our dishy chefs presented us with truly bespoke cuisine; dishes to die for. From 3pm that afternoon until the table was stripped bare at nearly midnight, the pair simply didn’t stop chopping, sizzling, serving, flirting … and found themselves universally admired and adored by Twenty Clever Women.

Well, twenty-one in fact … Boys, thank you for a wonderful and hugely successful night. I love you too. Oh, and how are you fixed in January?

© Giovanna Forte

Posted in Entertaining, Feminism, Food and wine, Friends, Life and romance | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

London: the opening credits

Posted on October 23, 2011 by fortewinks

Parliament Square at dusk

Chelsea, Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner, Piccadilly, Soho: my route to work on the number 14 bus in 1982. New to London, embarking on an inglorious secretarial career, I climbed to the top deck daily, and gazed in wonderment as the opening credits to my day unfolded before my eyes.

The London bus was a perfect wayfinder for this fresh-faced Girl About Town. It bestowed an immediate sense of place; I marveled at the daily revelation of street names, landmarks, lanes, parks, palaces, avenues, and architectural triumphs. Each day brought something new.

Boarding opposite my home at 737 Fulham Road, the bus and I trundled through London’s most fashionable arteries, to Thames Television on the Euston Road; more often than not the same, chatty conductor strode up and down the aisle. He had an air of Eric Sykes, and pointed out the sights for those of us less familiar with the territory.

I promised myself I would one day buy from the boutiques that studded the Knightsbridge streets, like gleaming jewels. These were the days of independent shops with big bold windows; shops that excited material lust, crafted by imaginative stylists in love with their work. Any passer-by could enjoy whole worlds of retail drama, woven from artful wisps of silk and lace.

Another promise was, one day, to dine illicitly à deux, at the small and elegant restaurants that winked knowingly from half-hidden places, looking for all the world that they had scandalous secrets and stories to tell.

Time gave way to a car, and a different perspective; in London the car is a mode of transport pure and simple, with little to offer but frustration, too enclosed and too blinkered to bring genuine joy to a journey.

Not so the scooter. For a few years from 2002, a trusty Piaggio Zip took me daily from Putney to Soho and back, and introduced new and varied opening credits. Now I traveled to work via some of the world’s most famous landmarks that imbued my day with film-star glamour.

From the Kings Road I would weave my way to the river, emerging from narrow Chelsea streets to see the Thames sparkle in the sun, as if lit from beneath by a million tiny, blinding bulbs. I learned to love the most unexpected buildings: Millbank Tower that rises from its perfect pedestal, with a modernist elegance of which the myriad new corporate City towers can only dream. The concrete South Bank complex is an architectural joy that performs to a constant, yet transitory audience on the north.

Parliament Square. How many people can check their watch by Big Ben every morning, or nod to the Plod guarding the gates to our seat of power? The stone of these buildings absorbs the light and the weather, adopting a different hue and temperament at any moment, never the same twice. From my scooter, I looked up at the detail of the roofs, and across an unexpectedly open London vista.

To Trafalgar Square then, to lift my eyes to Nelson. Hello Nelson, how are you today? What can you see? What do you have to tell? Everything and more, no doubt. Of all London’s famed columnists, he alone must surely hold secrets the tabloids would die for.

The opening credits of that era, took me to the Forte Communication office, which sat proudly on the corner of Wardour and Old Compton Streets in the heart of Soho. I’d scoot left at Peter Street and park at the bottom of Berwick, saying hello to Gary and Les on the fruit stall where I bought my five-a-day. This, en route to Bar Bruno where Claudio may have caught sight of me turning the corner, and have a double-shot Americano ready, with a charming smile. I loved that place. Franco, Pasquale, Ermino and Claudio – they’d sometimes keep an eye on My Girls who would sit there colouring during half term, when childcare was scarce.

These rushes and stills of an earlier life returned last week, as I sat pillion on my friend Andrew’s motorbike. Safe and sound on this substantial BMW and reassured by the broad shoulders in charge, I gazed skyward and outward, absorbing Soho, the river and Parliament Square, watching the glorious shimmer of lights, as traffic traversed London’s unique set of elegant and beautiful bridges that conjoin the north and south of this splendid place.

We passed St Paul’s and stopped to engage with the anti Capitalist protest there (great music to boot). That London can host this peaceful and pertinent sign of the times, with little protest of its own, is something to be grateful for.

The capital may have changed over 30 years, but its sights, smells and sounds are just as immediate and no less fulfilling. My city still exudes an air of vitality and excitement with new and wonderful landmarks appearing on a regular basis.

Riding pillion through the London dusk on a balmy autumn evening, I was reminded just how very lucky I am to live in one of the most beautiful and liberal cities in the world. The opening credits of my London life continue to evolve and inspire.

Maybe, just maybe there’s a film in there, somewhere.

© Giovanna Forte

Picture courtesy Brian Micklethwait

Posted in Life and romance, London, Travel | Tagged | 6 Comments

Brighton romances revisited: make mine a ’99

Posted on August 14, 2011 by fortewinks

Brighton romance: mine’s a ’99

Brighton station appears earlier than expected. No matter; it’s a balmy, sunny, seaside day and a cycling jaunt through the delicious salty air is a welcome and unexpected pleasure, after the stuffy train journey.

I set off down Queens Road, the umbilicus that joins the station to the town centre. It’s always been a mish-mash, this road, with funny little businesses, oddly named shops, an organic tea-house, tobacco specialist and once upon a time, the poster shop. My first holiday job (one that didn’t involve a family restaurant) was in this road.  At the age of 14, in “Occasions”, I learned how to roll Athena posters into tight tubes, with a flick of the wrist.

A few doors down, another place became familiar years later: the Electric Grape, a teeny-tiny one-up-one-down bar. “The Grape” boasted a dimly-lit basement, where we bounced around to The Specials, The Jam, The Cure … a pink ra-ra skirt, fishnets and vintage snake-skin stilettos were involved … I remember too, a particularly sweet, long, languorous kiss taking place down here. I only wish I could remember who with.

I turn left at the Clock Tower into North Street. There on the right was Shades. We’d sit at the back, crammed onto velveteen banquettes smoking Peter Stuyvesant cigarettes and drinking terrible white wine; there were no id cards in those days and no-one bothered much, either. From here we might decamp into Ship Street, turn left again and into Pip’s Wine Bar, an early example of the genre, with sawdust floor and stripped wood everything. On the fringe of The Lanes, Pip’s afforded proximity to plenty of alleys, in which to excite our fizzing hormones.

Feeling rather nostalgic now, I swing right and freewheel past a super-narrow lane, Ship Street Gardens. Simon lived here, in the coolest regency house called Fig Tree Cottage (the walled garden was indeed resplendent with said tree). We’d end up here sometimes; I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding hands with my first proper boyfriend John, puffing on a joint and feeling terribly sophisticated.

Over three years of formative bliss, John and I set out to establish exactly how badly behaved two people could be in a VW Beetle; we spent a whole Saturday afternoon applying red and gold flames along the side of this creamy vintage vehicle. Proper teenage theatre, set to an Elvis Costello soundtrack.

At the seafront I head towards The Old Steine, in my mid-teenage years still the site of Fortes of Brighton flagship restaurant, self-service café and Rock Shop. Here I mastered the art of turning an ice cream cone, how to plant a chocolate flake in its white, billowing folds and, of course, the art of portion control: never fill the handle of the cone with ice-cream, but start at the top.

Another art or two mastered at that time, came by way of an Italian waiter, of whom my father instinctively (and very correctly) disapproved; I think wistfully of Massimo’s creamy sweetness, of fumbles on the beach and ouch, those damn pebbles.

I spin round the Steine, and head west, towards Hove. The most important landmark on the Kings Road is my own father’s restaurant, to the left of The Metropole. From the age of about nine, I cleared tables at Forte’s Ice Cream Parlour. Over the years I learned to serve customers, create our House ice-cream dishes and – this is Brighton after all – deep-fry the fish and chips. I slow my pace and stop, turn to look and instead of the take-away there now, I see our old place, my father standing at the door, hands on hips, surveying his world and smiling.

Blinking just a little, I move onto the prom and peddle slowly past the Kiosk café, past the Angel of Peace (still blessing my misdemeanours), and on to the beach huts. Two or three summers were spent here and it was eternally sunny. The huts bring thoughts of Leo, he of the floppy hair, blue, blue eyes and a penchant for buying me slushy records. Funny Leo, my first ‘steady’ … until Father decided we might be kissing, and put a stop to things.

I check my watch – it’s getting late. Time to head home once again, at a slower pace now whilst musing at those fledgling romances. As formative years go, mine were truly a confection of joy.

A whopping great ’99.

© Giovanna Forte

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Carcassonne: land of luxury, fine wine, beautiful women and dangerous men …

Posted on August 1, 2011 by fortewinks

42 Rue Victor Hugo

42 Rue Victor Hugo Apartment

42 Rue Victor Hugo, Carcassonne, is the B&B for those that enjoy a high-pamper factor. Nestled in the ample bosom of the Languedoc, this retreat has much to offer, although not as much as its hosts, the warm and welcoming  Peter Woodcock and Debrah Smith.

Peter and Debrah abandoned London a few years ago, for something a tad better than The Good Life: their version comes with a French kiss.

The new Woodcock-Smith world is the stuff of dreams. Based in the custom-designed office at the heart of their sumptuous B&B apartments (all created by her), Debrah (a raven-haired Marilyn Monroe) conducts her design business, with flair and aplomb (she’s currently orchestrating a fabulous project for a posh British food retail specialist).

Meanwhile, Peter runs the luxury B&B; a well-oiled machine, 42 Rue Victor Hugo attracts guests all year round from across Europe, mainly the UK. He is handsome, charming and for the women, exudes a wonderful avuncular flirtation; the men benefit from a natural blokishness – there’s little he can’t engage with, be it rugby or cricket, fine wines, or the truffle season.

Peter is known locally as “Monsieur Le British Chef”; he conducts wine tours, he hosts lavish dinners. But dammit, slaving over a hot stove in France for grateful paying guests is so much more rewarding than working spreadsheets for one of the world’s most successful London-based advertising agencies, where he held long tenure as Finance Director.

My nights at Number 42 were spent in The Apartment, an elegantly decorated and furnished place. The huge sitting room has French windows (natch) overlooking the street, from where I could smoke my menthols (sorry Peter) and people-watch, pouring from time to time, tasty wine from the expertly appointed mini-kitchen. After nightly forays into town, I sank into the decadently large bed, which took up most of the simple but dramatic bedroom (with en suite).

Was I happy? Oh yes. A Languedoc Lady – a Princess, no less.

“We’re taking you to see the fireworks,” Debrah announced on night two. Really? Fireworks, I thought, are never great. Oh dear. Little did I know that The French truly know how to set these glittering babies off to best effect.

These were no ordinary fireworks, they were incredible Bastille Day flames: layer upon layer upon layer of bright metallic shards, bursts and showers of flaming strands leaving smoky tentacles, which were obliterated by the next bursts of layer upon layer. They came from so high in the sky and unfurled crazily, into billions of beams that fell low, so low we could almost touch them  … And then they set the Cité alight – for all the world, the ancient battlements were aflame. My face was too small for my smile. Giovannina, aged five and a half.

Afterward, we sat in the lovely market square, chewing the cud, supping glorious rosé, and I soon found myself curled up in bed, head fizzing with visions of an incandescent world.

The earlyish night was all to the good, given our lunchtime foray to the legendary Carcassonne Market. We meandered through stall after stall of gourmet food – mushrooms, herbs, saucisson of more varieties than I can cover here; tongue-tingling olive oil … for a food-loving girl like me, this was unadulterated heaven. And some of the more pleasurable lbs I’ve ever embraced, for sure.

And so to a square even deeper inside the town, where myriad people lounged over freshly grilled langoustines, platters of local delicacies and, er, wine. Lots and lots of wine. We approached an interesting looking table, colonised by handsome people. Dangerous people. I know this now: would that I had known this then, I’d have got there earlier.

These two were, however, more interesting than most. A Rogueish Gent and Glamorous Blonde, both twinkling rather more than was decent for Saturday lunchtime. No ordinary duo, this was Weddingcar Riley and Jane. Yes, dear reader, you read that right.

Weddingcar is a former M15 Manhunter (Paraguay and Ecuador) and Jane, an equally mysterious (delectable) character. English expats both, hugely entertaining and ridiculously good fun. Would that I could fill you in on the meat and frites of the afternoon, but alas, my most distinct memory comprises my own words: “I don’t think I can drink any more.”

42 Rue Victor Hugo rest assured, is an adventure, a joyous discovery of life beyond London, with people who’ve been here and left for there, who have settled in gentler (although no less alcoholic) climes. Peter and Debrah, I salute you.

© Giovanna Forte

Posted in Food and wine, Friends, Life and romance, Travel | Tagged | 2 Comments

Struggling with the NHS, Mr Lansley? Meet Medical Futures

Posted on June 8, 2011 by fortewinks

Demonstrating Peezy to Dr Michael Mosley

Picture if you will, 6.30am on Monday morning. Your author is slipping into a new dress; a beautifully tailored, slim business sheath, of deep brown and charcoal hues. A most flattering frock, designed to give her gravitas, presence and a bit of oomph.

Up went the zip, but not far enough. Right arm over shoulder – nope, can’t quite reach. Under went the left arm to push but no, the gripper won’t budge. It is stuck fast, just under my shoulder blades. Beads of perspiration cascade down my brow. Then the expanse of zip below, splits open down my back. I am stuck inside a dress I cannot get either in or out of.

I’m in this stew because of a deadline: today is the day I present Peezy to BBC TV’s Dr Michael Mosley, at the Tenth Medical Futures‘ Innovation Awards exhibition and glittering dinner, hosted by Rory Bremner and Emma Samms. Rest assured gentle reader, I wriggled out of this unfortunate frock and into my presentation on time, to demonstrate our smart and nifty device that came about because of this very event ten years ago.

Medical Futures is a force within healthcare innovation. Founder Andy Goldberg, Honorary Consultant Orthopaedic Surgeon, was recently awarded an OBE in recognition of services to Medicine.

Andy set up the not-for-profit Medical Futures to help clinicians realise ideas that might otherwise lie fallow and deny the world some of the most life-changing inventions that the organisation has since helped bring to fruition. It was in 2001 that my brother, Dr Vincent Forte, GP, author and broadcasting doctor, saw a flyer promoting the very first Medical Futures Awards. He submitted his prototype concept mid-stream urine (MSU) collector for women, the Female Freedom Funnel. His invention was duly peer group reviewed, analysed and judged. In October 2001, it won the inaugural Innovation Award, and so began our journey.

Vincent and I forged a collaboration to bring the renamed Peezy to market, he leading the clinical development, and I the business. For four years, whilst maintaining our own full time occupations, we dipped in and out of our embryonic enterprise, looking for licensing partners or manufacturers. In 2006, we secured investment funding, embarked on nearly three years of R&D and launched our finished, tried, tested, CE-marked product in 2009.

In her column entitled “A sample of medicine at its simplest”, (23/24 April 2010, FT Weekend), Dr Sophie Harrison explains: “Urine is full of information,” and describes in simple, clear terms the value of an MSU, to conclude: “Laboratory testing can not only identify what kind of micro-organism is present (if any), it can also tell you which antibiotic will work: relatively low-tech, but perfectly targeted medicine.” As every clinician knows, the quality of the result relies on a quality sample. This is where Peezy comes into its own, because it quite literally streamlines urine collection by replacing the comedic and unhygienic process of peeing into a narrow bottle, with a simple, accurate and dignified system.

When adopted as the gold standard, Peezy could yield up to £100m cost savings for the NHS, because it reduces the national average contamination rate of up to 30%, to 11% or less; this means a much lower rate of costly retests and, it is predicted, less unnecessary antibiotic prescribing.

Our regular attendance at nursing, infection control and healthcare exhibitions has confirmed that nurses up and down the land would welcome Peezy as the standard MSU system for women. We know this, because we always book a place near the loo. When delegates head towards relief, we give them a Peezy to try “on the job”. They return to our stand and tell us all about it: 98% of them love it.

As of today, Peezy is being adopted by HCA Healthcare, the standard bearer for excellence in the private sector; where HCA lead, their competitors follow. We have sold to some enlightened GPs and hospitals, and to Europe. We have excited interest from the USA, and embarked on trials with the state-owned Laboratoire in France, where we are told of early results showing happier patients and reduced sample contamination.

Meantime, despite Peezy’s cost savings and meeting of its own QIPP guidelines, the NHS continues to procrastinate. As two recent examples show, decision-making is resisted at even the highest levels: four months after submitting a detailed NHS Supply Chain tender document we received this note:

“As you will be aware NHS Supply Chain is committed to delivering high quality products and value to the NHS. During the course of the quality evaluation of the samples for the Urology Products Tender it has become apparent that it will not be possible to evaluate these products in the way which was set out in the Invitation to Tender. As such, we have taken the decision to withdraw this tender at this stage with a view to issuing revised documents for these products later this year.  NHS Supply Chain would like to thank you for your continued involvement and support in the tender process to date and looks forward to working with you in the future. Thanks.“

With the most critical (for us) NHS decision making process in limbo, we decided to go straight to the top and wrote personally to every female MP, every decision maker in the Department of Health and every NHS “opinion former” giving details on our dramatic cost savings and included, of course, a Peezy. One unidentified MP wrote to advise: “the matters raised are the responsibility of the Department of Health,” from where, coincidentally, the most enlightening response arrived:

“Thank you for your letters of 4th and 5th February to Anne Milton and Andrew Lansley about your healthcare product. I have been asked to reply. I have forwarded your correspondence and your product, the “Peezy” to Buying Solutions, which is the national procurement partner for UK public services.”

Astonishingly, the DoH appears to be unfamiliar with the clinical procurement processes for its own national healthcare system; amongst other commodities and services, Buying Solutions procures paper clips, uniforms, telephones and loo roll. But no medical products. Fortunately the nice people there pointed us in the right direction: back, full circle, to the NHS Supply Chain.

While the Government and NHS flounder with indecision, Medical Futures identifies and nurtures innovators like us, people who make wonderful products that can improve healthcare, save money, build British manufacturing, develop export, create employment and in some cases, even save lives. They are inspired, they join the dots and get things done. It’s just a shame they are not in charge of the nation’s health.

Now, where’s that dress that needs to go back to the shop?

© Giovanna Forte

Peezy Awards


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Bethnal Green Behaviour

Posted on May 30, 2011 by fortewinks

Bethnal Green Behaviour

Just over three years ago The Girls and I left the Shoreditch loft that had been our home for some thirty months and into a less exuberant, much smaller,  three-up two-down Bethnal Green cottage, half a mile East.

The moment we set foot in our new home, we threw open the front window, perched on the precariously stacked boxes and cracked open a bottle of champagne. Within ten minutes, a couple of neighbours stuck their heads in to say hello (this is London?) Within another ten, my friend Buzz rolled up to help shift boxes and, together with Sophie, who’d helped us clear out of the old place, accompanied us to dinner at the Royal Oak, to toast new beginnings.

Celebrate we did, courtesy of this marvelous pub, where someone had heard we were “moving in” and chilled a bottle of bubbles for our arrival. Bart, The Oak’s redoubtable chef whom we knew from his Eyre Brothers days, joined us and together we all strolled back to our cottage of crates for more bubbles and toasts.

Just two weeks later, on my daily stop at Londis on Columbia Road, this time seeking out cream cheese for my party Bagels, the Boys there asked if I’d settled in. “Yes thank you,” I replied, “and today’s my Birthday.” “Welcome,” they said, “Happy Birthday,” and I left the shop a big box of chocolates richer.

Some six months into our happy Jesus Green tenure, we were musing over the near-perfection of our new home, the people and shops around us. An Italian deli, we agreed, would bring our satisfaction to a rare 100%, but had little expectation that the wish would be granted. Not a month hence, however, we saw a young woman refurbishing a previously boarded up shop on Columbia Road. “What are you opening here?” we asked. “An Italian deli,” said Emma, since when Campania has purveyed some of the best Italian food in the area. Hello 100%.

Our luck and contentment has since scored a steady set of full marks. The perfect landlord installed a new kitchen; we bought some classic 1970s Danish chairs for a few quid, on the pavement outside the antiques shop on Hackney Road. Our bikes sustain a puncture and are fixed by Pat at the Cycle Centre. The Boys in Bargain World on Bethnal Green Road (great affordable glassware) always ask after my children; Smiling Man in the International Supermarket (herbs to die for)  knows exactly how to hang shopping bags from my handlebars. Latterly, Brawn, which I can only describe as the perfect local supper-spot opened nearby. On the collapse of our own internet network, we are rescued by one called “neighbourly.”

Communally, Ion Square Gardens are a fine example of local culture. The rehab centre residents from round the corner, occupy the benches to the north and always offer a friendly “hello”. The playground to the south is populated with a melee of mixed culture families; bright Sarees and black Kippahs intermingle, implicit components of the well maintained swings and roundabouts. The middle-ground hosts shifting sands of couples, old and young, groups of picnicking friends and solo girls and boys just lying around.

Today’s news: a strange cat arrived in our house. Apart from a red collar, she looked for all the world, like one of ours. She strolled in, took a tour of inspection, ignored the shocked expressions on the faces of the resident felines and settled down in the living room for a couple of hours’ kip.

The forbearance the cats showed our intruder is less remarkable than it might be, because in true Bethnal Green style, they have become mates with the neighbouring dog. Grouped at the windowsill opposite they commune happily, startling passers-by.

Indeed, this afternoon, Iris and I concurred on what a blessed spot we call home, “Like our own corner of the moon,” she said as we leaned from our bedroom windows, facing each other for a proper, neighbourly chat that took place quite literally, over the road.

© Giovanna Forte

Our successful move was orchestrated by a hugely efficient Davey Stone, who completed the process in just five days from enquiry to moving in.

Posted in Family, Food and wine, Friends, Life and romance, London, Shopping, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment