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I’m just back in London and I must confess to feeling considerable relief. 

First: that Christmas is over. The day before Christmas Eve I went to the depths of the Kentish countryside for some hard-core time with my mother.  In fact 90 hours of it.  It’s best not to linger on this experience, but suffice to say that it felt a little like listening to a broadcast of the Daily Mail.  For four days. 

The second source of relief is that I returned to London to find our one-eyed, one-eared cat is still alive.  Whilst we have a very excellent and lovely cat sitter (rather fabulously called Bruno), the last time we went away he (the cat, not Bruno) went into a decline. This time, however, he looks really rather well all things (the lack of eye and ear to start with) considered. 

And finally, I was able to check that the very excellent outfits that we have procured for our 1920s party on New Year’s Eve are as excellent as I remember.  Having eagerly got our tickets for the famed Prohibition New Year’s night a while ago, we’d failed to think through – until a few days ago – that we would in fact be required to come up with a 1920s outfit.  Indeed 2 of them.  I had, of course, begun the search in Odie and Amanda (who, you may remember, came to the rescue when I was in dire need of a wedding outfit), but without success.  Feeling that Camberwell had, for once, failed us, I had even contemplated going west (Amanda of Odie and Amanda had advised that this was the best way forward).  But I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it (I needed to save my strength for Christmas).  Having phoned round a number of vintage shops to find out what options they had (which fell into two categories – nothing, and vastly expensive), I felt desperate.  But then, on Tuesday of last week, whilst wandering back from lunch at Petitou, I found myself passing SugarMomma.  It’s a shop I always speak enthusiastically about, since I bought my favourite black ruffle lesbian shirt there, but for some reason haven’t been into for ages.  Within 15 minutes I was en route home smugly clutching a gloriously appropriate black dress and wondering why on earth I’d failed to remember that lesson I’d learnt when searching for a wedding outfit – Camberwell has all you need.  The next day, Layla and I returned to consider their other possibilities for her.  I had, of course, nabbed the best dress.  But intriguingly, there were actually four or five other options – in stark contrast to shops in the rest of London.  With its charming and helpful staff, I really must make sure I go in there more often next year.

So, in conclusion, there is much to be cheery about.  And I see that Angels and Gypsies open on NYE.  If you are passing that night, I rather think you’ll see us in there, adorned in our 1920s outfits, en route to Prohibition.  Let nothing keep me from the tapas – another resolution for 2010.  

 
 
By Roz. 

There's no such thing as bad weather, only a poor choice of clothes and transport. Sadly my choice of clothes and transport are usually poor. The former because my wardrobe never seems to have exactly the right item in it, and the latter because I'm obsessed with cycling (and don't really remember that there are other options).  

And thus it was that at 11.30 this morning I set off into town on my bike, wearing jeans, to go to the cinema to see Glorious 39 (which wasn't bad and had very pretty clothes in it). I emerged from the cinema to find the skies had opened. Always resilient, I sighed and battled my way into Soho for a little Christmas shopping in the rain. The rain came down harder and I wished it wouldn't. I then woefully made my way over Waterloo bridge, shunning (with considerable sorrow) the turning for home and made my way to Bermondsey to go to the Design Musuem, having solemnly promised the very long-suffering manager there that I would finally pick up the bottles of prosecco that were left over from our wedding. At this point the rain turned to sleet. I ploughed on. As a reward to myself for having finally got there I went to the downstairs cafe to have mulled wine and a mince pie and to greet the very jolly cafe staff who remembered us from our wedding (not least because of our demand on that day for a cup of tea and a caramel wafer). Feeling festive, I gazed out of the window and thought how pretty the snow looked. And then realised what I was seeing, and contemplated the fun of getting home on a bike with 6 bottles of prosecco in the snow. Having picked them up, I made my way through the streets, rapidly acquiring a snowy hat, frozen fingers and (worst of all) jeans of ice (the sleet that had previously drenched me having refrozen). But Bermondsey Street was very pretty indeed and the restaurants looked very inviting (if expensive).  

Speaking of inviting restaurants, things are looking up in Camberwell with the opening of Angels and Gypsies, the tapas restaurant that has been so long-awaited. Whilst I don't think 3 years is worth waiting for anything for, it is very good indeed, with a lovely ambience as well as excellent food and good wine (bottle of house red is £13 and most of the dishes are £3 or £4 (for vegetarians anyway). We've been twice already and I'm finding it an excellent incentive not to cook. Though, we're not off there tonight - instead we're going to Rosie Lovell's pop-up restaurant in Brixton. Speaking of which, I wonder how we should get there. Perhaps this is the moment to rethink my approach to transport...
 
A little wine... 12/10/2009
 
By Roz

It's been a full week. Though not absolutely Camberwell based, alas.

On Monday, we felt very intrepid indeed as we headed north to the Canal Café in Little Venice, to go to their storytelling night. Except that we stopped feeling intrepid and looked rather foolish when we discovered that, far from being a continent away (which we'd expected looking at the loooong ride on the Bakerloo line), it actually only took us about half an hour, door to door. Most peculiar. And a very pleasant evening it was too - with twinkly lights over the canal - free mulled wine (the only thing which reconciles me to Christmas) and what was essentially a whistle-stop through some of the best stories that had been told there over the last two years (since it was their 2 year birthday gig). As we whizzed home, we felt very pleased to have made the trip north, and promised ourselves to do it more often.

On Tuesday we headed over to the Ritzy cinema for a blind wine tasting, followed by a screening of the film Bottle Shock with Alan Rickman. Whilst the film wasn't dazzling (although very pleasant) we loved the combination (and I have been smug ever since, having identified all of the white wines - sad to say my red wine palate needs more work).

We stayed south last night too, meeting a friend at Polari (the gay literary salon run by Time Out's gay editor, Paul Burston) which was held in Concrete (the bar by the Hayward Gallery). Stella Duffy read from her very lovely book The Room of Lost Things (definitely worth getting a copy of, if you haven't before) and tried to persuade us of the merits of moving to Loughborough Junction. Of course she's right that the property prices are cheaper...and it's very close to the Ritzy...but it just feels wrong. The problem is - and who'd have thought I'd be saying this - but we're probably priced out of Camberwell proper if we really do want to have somewhere substantially bigger than we have now. If a doctor and a lawyer are priced out of Camberwell, does it mean that it's no longer up and coming...?

And as for tonight, it bodes badly for my career that I'm looking forward more to the late night shopping in Bellenden Road than I am to my early evening party at the Swedish Embassy. But then the Swedes haven't promised me mulled wine, whilst I hear that it will most definitely be flowing in Petitou...

PS Quick plug for Whirled Cinema by the Cambria, who have got nicely into the Christmas spirit with their free screening of the French film A Christmas Tale tonight and tomorrow night.

 
 

By Layla

Last night I met up with my ex-flatmate. Both of us have now left Peckham for the bright lights of SE5, though she has opted for the Loughborough Junction end. Which was a good excuse to pop into the Cambria for dinner. I hadn't been for a while, but the vibe is still as good as ever and I envy my ex-flatmate's proximity to its delights. Though she wasn't impressed with her steak, my winter vegetable, thyme and feta pie lived up the the Cambria's usually very high standards of food, and we had a cosy meal amidst Christmas trees and festive decorations. I do like Christmas decorations. Christmas in itself doesn't excite me much, but string up a bit of tinsel and a twinkly light, and I'm already feeling festive. Camberwell's attempts at Christmas lighting this year have struggled to warm even this very susceptible heart though: bits of tinsel wrapped around the lamposts near Camberwell Green, boasting about 3 fairy lights apiece, does not an adequate yuletide decoration make, Southwark Council! When I worked down in Beckenham I used to take the 176 to Penge and pass through all the little areas of that part of south east London: Forest Hill, Anerly, Sydenham, etc. For each new area, there was a special themed display, with each area clearly trying to out-class the other on the festive decor front. It's a shame Camberwell does not feel moved to join the contest. On my cycle to Waterloo, by the back street route via Portland Road the other day, I saw that someone on Portland Road just past Albany Street has taken matters into their own hands: Santa's sleigh is being pulled across the council estate with an absolute explosion of flashing lights and festive cheer, each window adorned with a twinkling display and the garden and surrounding area all part of the fun. It may be environmentally unfriendly, and a tad American (this type of display was the norm when I once lived for a year in Minnesota) but I say hooray for the family who have rebelled against the scrappy tinselly nonsense deemed all that SE5 deserves.

But back to last night. Having polished off my Cambria pie, we walked around the corner to the Red Gate Gallery, who were having a private view of This is Maroc, a photographic exhibition exploring Morocco's burgeoning hip hop scene. The photos did not dazzle especially, but I continue to love the Red Gate Gallery for their completely incongruously lovely gallery tucked under the railway bridge, and we sipped mulled wine amongst the arty crowd of Loughborough Junction and beyond, while gazing at photos of blinged-up teenagers standing in the Marrakesh medina. The Red Gate Gallery has a private view ewith cheap bar pretty much every Friday - a brilliant hidden delight. And the amount of fairy lights they have in their courtyard outnumber those that Southwark Council has scraped together for Camberwell's lamposts.