Nearly New Year
Running horribly late for Christmas (again). In a vague attempt to re-address this balance and taking my lead from the top ten all-time favourites, I’ve researched the party mix of the same old style promises to make good; adding a dash of positive spin.
Mind the Gap
The ‘new golfing generation’ (apparently there is one) largely consists of delicious looking near adolescents of whom I’ve never heard. Zac Efron (20) of High School Musical, enough said. I was firmly under the illusion golf was the preserve of Bruce Forsyth, Expats and middle aged men choosing to wrap their paws around ‘Big Bertha’ in lieu of an extra-marital affair. How wrong can a girl be? MM and I braved the dizzy heights of an evening at Trevose Golf Club during their International Pairs week: as Infamous in the pro’s circuits for great greens and wilder nocturnal adventures.
Rush Hour
“Put your trousers back on” I bellow for the third time. “No, I don’t know where Pirate Bunny has gone and Fireman Sam absolutely didn’t say you could have a biscuit.” It only dawned on me this week that my ‘bed-to-desk’ time is roughly 3 hours: on a good day.
Roots
It’s been four years since I shut the door to my city life and headed for Cornwall. In the whirlwind of relocation ups and downs, dramas and dreams I seem to have lost sight of the here and now – perhaps just a little bit?
What bought about this sudden realisation? Friends quietly part-exchanging their sporty two-seaters for estates (in the name of golf clubs and ski trips). Weddings every weekend? Life it seems moves on at the same racy pace whether you are country or city bound. Receding hair lines, Radio 2 and hangovers from hell are part and parcel of the ageing process; the mid-life rite of passage which appears to be hitting us thirtysomethings pretty brutally at the moment. Have we all been taught to work too hard? To strive for the very best? To consistently exceed all expectations?
Heartburn: I ♥ Cornwall Competition
For the avoidance of doubt and to firmly quash rattling the cages of ‘Anon’ a second time, please can I be absolutely clear that the only heart broken in the writing and research of this article was my own. While Cornwall is possibly the loveliest place to mop up a bleeding heart with its cliff walks, crashing waves and glorious recent sunshine to help blow away those heartbreak cobwebs, just for a moment I found myself missing the relationship anonymity of the city. (more…)
Relocation, Relocation
It may be an easy way to pass an hour on a Thursday evening; devouring the voluptuous vixen that is Kirsty Allsop whilst at the same time greedily twisting fork-fulls of spaghetti bolognaise with hungry gusto. But rookie relocaters beware: there is more to up-sticksing-to-the-sticks than Phil and Kirsty would like any easily influenced city dreamer to believe. Trust me; the size of your inglenook and the length of your lawn should be the least of your worries. (more…)
3G ‘Not’ Spots
Locating the infamous G-Spot is as much an enigma to the great British male population as managing to track down a half-decent 3G spot for any discerning iPhone user or ‘Crackberry’ addict happening to find themselves (pretty much) anywhere in Cornwall. This is not a whimsical attribute of ‘Cornish Life, it’s a bloody and real nightmare. (more…)
Rock Oysters
There’s a bit of a buzz in the air this spring Saturday morning. The usual faces greedily sup-away at decaf double lattes; surreptitiously peeling away doughy strips of Jocasta’s (largely ignored) almond croissant. A raspberry-ripple of Boden-clad cashmere cardigans huddled excitedly amidst a collection of Phil & Teds double-decker buggies (happily blocking both the door and the route to the loo). Nose-to-bumper Porsche Cayennes line the little pavement. An immaculate blonde swings Esme (a two-year old clearly stolen from the pages of The Little White Company) over one shoulder and her beloved Hermes Birkin over the other. Effortlessly closing the back door to the Audi Q7 with a perfectly executed swish of her teeny-tiny bottom, this is business as usual for the Parson Greenies?
...thoughts from a Chelsea girl in Cornwall
