Protests, taxidermy and Boy George

Yesterday was a London kind of a day. It was the day when professional life met real world which literally collided with childhood dreams and gussied up with a little London nightlife.

It was just a regular day. Except that I forgot to set my alarm. I awoke on my own, with a little stretch and big yawn and through bleary eyes gazed out of my one window to see...sunlight. Sunlight?!

I get up in the darkness. Horror! But it was 7:05 and I still had 10 minutes to put myself together and get out the door. I took a European shower, which is really just a small incline from my regular bath (yes, this flat has a bath situation, which makes for a soapy, sloppy and, frankly, cold morning).

But I made it to work and no one was harmed in the process.

It was fittin' to be a big day. I was going to be the point person for any graphics that would come up from the UK desk and I had my first byline story due by end-of-day along with the graphic (!). I was doing three things at once and it was glorious. I put that byline at the top of the page, sent it off to my editor and thought, my, it's 3 and I need a sammy.

There's the monstrous mall just a few yards from the BBC building. I'm not going to sugar coat it, this spaceship of a mini-town is growing on me. I might find errand-type excuses to spend my lunch break there and 'happen' across the top shop.

This lunch break, however was meant to be short. Run in, grab a sandwich with as little mayo as Britishly possible (impossible, in the end) and head back to finish up.

Except there was a protest going on outside the BBC Television Center building. I'd get into the deets but the online site has already covered it ever so clearly there seems no need.

But the scene outside the building boiled down to anti-nazi posters and songs sung through a blow horn about fascist pigs (so European!).

Since I work on the 7th floor I really hadn't even realized that this 'event' was not only taking place but growing. It was all relatively harmless. I got my sammy and swept by the high security with my BBC tag dangling from my neck (the excitement!).

That was until 6 when I was trying to leave and the protesters had 'breached' the BBC security and were in the building and being dragged out by hands and feet. This is actually all incredibly exciting. We were watching the downstairs chaos from our upstairs office on the BBC channel that was recording the BBC break-in.

But then security locked us in. They locked all the - oh - 25 exits to the streets. So protesters were being dragged out kicking and screaming and employees are trapped inside? It makes no sense.

They finally opened up one entrance so I jumped on a small bandwagon of fellow workers who were going to find this far corner exit of the building. We were walking through corridors and down stairs and back up elevators I would never have known existed.

When all of a sudden I walk right into non other than BOY GEORGE. He may have tatooed his face and eaten his former self but I would always be able to recognize that pout.

But there was no time to idle in startruck wonderment. My freedom wagon was leaving and I was not going to be stuck in this maze, I had a supper club to get to.

I made it out. Made it home. And made myself up for a night of dinner and chat with strangers. It's a clever little idea that has taken flight in London and other urban areas. Someone who likes to cook makes the meal. Someone who likes to host gets the people. There has to be a nice mix of women and men and you have to send in song requests (to enter, to dine, to dance) and pay 25 pounds for champ, a three course meal and wine. A delight.


I went with my lovely flatmate who introduced me to the whole idea, but we were seated at opposite ends of the table. I was seated next to a Londoner by way of Sweden, an aged rocker turned professor (who was, ironically, going to be at the protest today but couldn't make it), an Aussie and a slightly sauced young mum. It was lovely. There was plenty of conversation and a surprising amount of wine for so little money.

And the set up was perfect. On the top floor of a north London pub was a little private room decorated like Alice in Wonderland meets Anthropologie


- taxidermy heads on the wall, floor-to-ceiling purple wall paper, chandeliers and a fireplace.



There was also a garden terrace accessible by french doors. Adorable! I had slight food envy of the Swedish girl next to me but otherwise it was delicious. A walnut, pear and blue cheese salad for starters. Something called grouse (game bird...a little gamey) for main


and some sort of coconut ice cream with caramelized bananas for pudding.

I got some more London recommendations from the aged rocker and am newly besties with the drunk Swede (that's right I now have THREE phone numbers in my mobile).

All in all felt it was a London kind of a night.
xoxoL