A farl cry from Hugh’s recipe
I’m getting well into the warm fracture booty now but it doesn’t half take ages to get everywhere. Last night I damn near broke my neck and wasted years of my life transporting flour and potatoes to Phoebe’s house for a wee dinner party with Nin and Liv. Not that it was a waste of time to go – it was lovely. I’m just used to racing everywhere in a huff rather than taking time to admire the empty fried chicken boxes and soggening leaf mulch of London’s streets.
I cooked us all a fry-up, which was supposed to incorporate Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s potato farls but ended up starring gluey mash instead. The bonus was that mashed potato is bigged up in the Measure this week, so I was inadvertently succeeding at one of this week’s to-dos while failing at another.
I don’t know if I mixed in too little flour or what but hell, I think mash goes with pretty well anything and I was more than delighted to eat it with fried eggs, sausages, bacon, beans and toast.
I forgot to ask the girls to take my photo before I was dropped home by kind Phoebe and there was no Guardian farl snap for the day anyway, so this post is sadly unillustrated. Therefore I’m going to keep it short and sweet.
Tomorrow you can expect: booty (not that kind), omelette skyscraper, cake and possibly a home improvement feature – but let’s not set our goals too high. I have to do a mammoth cook tonight to get my tasks done before I head to Antwerp tomorrow.
Conclusions:
- Consistency is key but when it comes to fry-ups you just have to be grateful for what you’ve got.
- There’s arguably little point in walking around in an unflattering outfit all day in the name of the blog if I then forget to photograph it, but I can tell you it’s still quite pleasant being told what to wear of a morning. I missed that during my recent break and pretty much went around in little black dresses every day. It was boring.
You ain’t seen muffin yet
I undertook another another mission last night as I had to get a cab from work to A&E via Bezzer Liv’s house to collect my moral support and then have my crummy foot checked out again. An evil nurse made me feel so silly for even being there (“we’ve already told you clearly there’s nothing wrong, so why are you here again?”) that I secretly cried a little bit after she’d gone. Luckily Liv saved the day by finding the nicest lady in Homerton Hospital and asking her what we should do. Nice lady instantly got a doctor to have a quick, kind word with me, and he checked the x-ray and made me an appointment at the fracture clinic for this morning. Turns out the bone is in fact cracked and I’m now in a space-age fracture booty device for the next six weeks. That’s going to put a whole lotta spanner in the Guardian Girl works – unless they happen to base the next six weeks of fashion shoots around pseudo-ski style and/or neu-medical hip.
Such is my renewed dedication to the Guardian cause that, even though I didn’t get home from The A&E Experience (“watch your crutches on that puke on the floor. Actually, is it a turd?”) until past 11pm, I still made a batch of muffin mix, let it rise while I had my bath and then cooked them while I dried off. They were less satisfying to make than yesterday’s crumpets and I totally fonzed up the mixture by using self-raising flour instead of plain and putting too much water in so the dough resembled PVA glue. I also coated them in actual semolina rather than the suggested semolina flour, because it was what I had in the cupboard. I thought they’d be disastrous but in fact they came out looking more or less like muffins, albeit slightly fecal as ever, and they tasted pretty good but a bit bland. Actually, to be totally honest about it half of them tasted like washing up liquid. There’s a good reason for this. After crumpetgate I washed my frying pan by pouring water and washing up liquid into it and leaving it on a hot hob until it boiled away. Dunno why it did it but by the next day I’d forgotten I had. The frying pan looked lovely and clean so I started cooking the muffins without rinsing it. I suppose I might produce some extra oestrogen as a result but that’s unlikey to do me much harm. Three breasts are better than two.
I think the muffins are meant to be split and served with butter or the like (marge?) but I’m trying to be slightly calorie aware as I’m getting zero exercise with my injured paw, and we know what happens when you eat Guardian food every day. It tends to supersize a girl. I got away with it slightly more when I was walking or running 4-12 miles a day but arguably that’s what gave me the cracked foot, and one must pay attention to the body’s cries for help apparently.
I could sue the Guardian for making me chubby and further adding to my distress by suggesting I wear small fashions. Or I could thank them because the surgeon told me I have good strong bones, which I attribute to all those pies.
So the crutches made it into yesterday’s fashion and the booty is soon to become a regular sight. Dunno if I can wear it with a platform heel on the other foot. I suspect the answer to that is fairly obvious. So much for xmas party glam.
No muffin shots but here’s another underwhelming fashion shot of yours truly outside Horrorton Hospital.
Studs or sequins
Stubby deliquent
Conclusions
- I’m pretty sure my captions are going downhill.
- Every time I try to type “conclusions” I type “cobclusions”, which is not only irritating but also reminds me of my dead house rabbit Cobbie, who I really loved even though he bit the crotch of every male who went anywhere near me, no matter whether their intention was to kiss me or or hand me my change. He had a pink lead and used to go everywhere with me, which I think might be why he was so irritated all the time. I feel a bit guilty now but I did give him lovely fresh veggies every day and he lived a mollycoddled, free-range life.
- Don’t forget to clean the detergent from your pan before you heat food in it, will you.
Crumpets and Mickey Mouse ears
Yesterday was my first day back on the case and, of course, it turned into the inevitable rollercoaster that comes with taking a magazine’s lifestyle template and Pritt Sticking it directly on top of your own week in spite of its total ludicrousy given the fact that you can barely walk due to messing up yer foot, and have spent all your money on cabs around London, and cream cheese and salt beef bagels to make yourself feel better. Today’s post is going to be a string of extremely long, pompous sentences and you’re just going to have to deal with it. I’ll get back into the swing of being brief and personable soon enough.
The lowest trough last night was hobbling through Camden on a deformed bruise of a foot in the howling wind after a long day at work trying to get to Hackney in time to buy crumpet rings, have my photo taken, see my bezzer mate, phone the bailiff to tell them I don’t owe the council any money (I don’t) so can they please stop threatening to seize my valuable goods (not sure whether 20 threadbare Ikea rugs, a collection of owl portraits, a roasting tin, the Dallas Season 1 DVD boxset and a dribbling but well-meaning cat would add up to the value they say I owe anyway), have a bath, epilate my legs before I have to return to A&E and risk terrifying the doctors yet again with my hirsutism, and finally actually cook myself some food. The average busy evening is made far more stressful by having your maximum speed capped at 0.00005mph, I’ve discovered.
A higher peak arrived later though, steaming-skinned after a hot bath and standing over the stove watching bubbles rise through golden homemade crumpets. It’s a big grumble hauling myself back on to the Guardian wagon and whipping the old ‘orse back into action but it’s always been those moments when a recipe you’d never have thought of cooking yourself turns out to be beautifully simple and impressive that it really is worth the effort.
I used egg rings, whatever they are – I suppose they’re so greasy-spoon owners can make sure their fried eggs are worth £6.95, or people in really clean slippers on polished wood floors can give their kids a nice neat breakfast – but they were on sale in Sainsbury’s and did the trick perfectly for the recipe.
Globbing the batter into the rings and watching it turn into actual, professional-ish looking crumpets was very satisfying, although it got boring after a while and I cracked out the Ladyshave while I was waiting for each batch to cook. Here’s a lesson I’ve learned: plucking the toe hairs out of a swollen, purple foot is not the most pleasant way to spend time and in hindsight I don’t really know what I thought I was doing, even with these tasty teatime treats as light at the end of the tunnel:
Crumpets
Crummypets
As for yesterday’s outfit, I don’t have any Mickey Mouse ears and just putting myself in the position of my colleagues for a moment, if the new person at my work rocked up in Disney fancy dress on day six of their employment, I wouldn’t be thinking kind thoughts. If they also happened to look a bit self-conscious, crack weak jokes every two minutes and walk on crutches, I’d wonder why the hell they’d even bothered with the ears if that’s the way they approached life.
I went for a headscarf teamed with a brilliant sequined sweatshirt my friend Hamburg Emily bought me for my 30th and I felt just dandy. I think sequins in the office is fine, totally fine. Disney in the office is totally not fine, of course, and we must fight back.
Liv kindly took my photo later that evening. She got some good shots but in the end I prefer this accidentally long-exposed one because it fits with the supernatural theme of several earlier photos on this blog.
Hang Tough
Dang rough
Conclusions:
- You liderally can’t look chic on crutches, or cool, or anything other than injured.
- Imagine if you were on crutches and wearing Mickey Mouse ears. It’d just make life miserable wouldn’t it.
- Crumpets are something you can make at home cheaply, quite healthily and quite quickly, and they have the proper holes in and everything! It might just be me being a philistine but I’d never have guessed this.
Task #2: Uniqlo Heat Tech
Next thing on The Independent‘s agenda: thermal undergarments from Uniqlo. I was pleased these came up, what with them being fairly cheap and me having no heating. Perhaps if I change into a thermal polo and leggings combo the moment I walk through the door I might be able to get away with not turning my daze-making electric heater on all winter! Imagine the cost savings, which can all be ploughed straight back into the business.
I hobbled off after work last night (return of the stress fracture: no running for a while) and caught the bus to Oxford Street to get the thermals in. £9.99 a piece for a black polo neck and leggings, which I’m wearing today under a dress (which I daringly removed for the photo). I can report that they are soft, warm and not deadly unflattering, and that I’m throughly enjoying the Independent agenda as opposed to all that Guardian palaver.
Having a break from the cookery has already made me lose a couple of pounds in chub and save a great deal in sterling: I’ve realised that most of my money was going on ingredients. And I’m seeing a lot more of my friends already as it’s easier to fit a social life around a calendar of events and purchases than around cooking from scratch each night. So far, so darn good.
Lily Donaldson
Silly Simpleton
I haven’t really worked out how to get the images the same size, even after many months of doing this, and for that I can only apologise and promise to do nothing to remedy the situation. I also haven’t worked out how to pout without looking, as Photographer Cari (she’s reached Capital Letter status now) put it, like a stroke victim. Mind you she seemed to think I did OK in this attempt. You should see the ones we rejected.
Marks out of 10: 7
I bought the Uniqlo stuff I was supposed to, although the article mentioned £6.99, neons and camouflage, none of which I paid any attention to – I thought it too wasteful to buy something I clearly wouldn’t wear. I also have to deduct a few points for failure to pout alluringly and failure to stand against mountainous backgrounds. What is it with The Independent and mountains anyway?
Independent Girl
I spent most of this weekend at a spa hotel with my Mum (my 30th birthday treat), sauna-ing, steaming, eating and chatting. I’d brought Saturday’s Guardian Weekend magazine with me, so after lunch we headed out into the grounds of the hotel to find something close to a beach in which to pose for that day’s photo. The landscape around the area looked lovely but Mum had the genius idea of photographing me in front of a puddle in the car park, with highly satisfactory results I’d say, wouldn’t you?
Men's knitwear
Men's twitwear
Since I started this project various onlookers have suggested I take the odd roadtrip through the publishing world to see what influence other newspapers and magazines might have to offer. Most people insisted that if I really wanted to challenge myself I ought to copy every snippet of lifestyle advice in the Sunday Sport or the Daily Mail. This seemed like a highly amusing idea until the realities of living even the Guardian way began to hit home. A slightly interrupted social life and dedication to a rather off-the-wall daily routine I can live with, having been strongly predisposed in this direction for most of my living memory. The thing that has unexpectedly crept up and haunted me, which I’ve mentioned several times before, is the disposable consumption involved.
Every issue Weekend magazine reels out a relentless ticker tape stream of clothes, music, celebrities, soft furnishings, make-up and recipes that clamour for attention, only to be gobbled up/worn once/googled and forgotten by the following Saturday. Apart from learning how to make a passable attempt at cooking most dishes under the sun, being Guardian Girl isn’t necessarily an enriching experience. The photoshoots are fun and I love the cooking but sometimes I feel like I do so much consuming, I barely have time to digest. And as for seeing my friends to do fun stuff, it’s worryingly one-sided. “I’d love to watch that film you’ve been waiting to see for months, but why don’t you come to mine instead? I’m cooking raspberry tarts.” Nice, but a little inflexible for friends who don’t live round the corner/like raspberries/enjoy sitting on a rock-hard sofa in a small flat with no heating being dribbled on by a cat while trying to make friendly conversation.
So to return to the weekend, my mum takes the Independent, which arrived outside our hotel room at her request on Sunday morning. While flicking through the IoS review I noticed its ‘On The Agenda’ section, which makes suggestions for not only clothes and food but also books, events, interesting adventures and so on that are coming up in the near future. Needless to say this caught my eye instantly and I wondered whether it mightn’t be a bad idea to take a holiday on another left-leaning newspaper to compare with the Guardian. It’s certainly one alternative to proving what I probably already know, which is that while I might spend less money and provide more amusement by following the News Of the World, I might also end up with hair extensions, a diet inspired by Cheryl Cole’s favourite healthy snacks and a wardrobe manufactured entirely by underpaid children. Let’s save that for later, I thought, and see whether I become a more useful member of society after a few weeks of Independent action.
In the name of entertainment I will continue to upload as much unselfconscious photographic evidence as possible. So please join me as I embark on the next chapter of Guardian Girl. Independent Girl is born!
(At least for a weeks until Guardian Girl is reborn, the pair of them don lycra outfits and pugil sticks to battle for ethical supremacy while readers watch on with increasing bafflement/boredom, and News of The World Girl rises from the ashes, grinding into oblivion with a Primark stiletto the last vestiges of the greying, powdery husk of my identity.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.)
Conclusions:
- Here we go then, let’s see how long it takes before I’ve spent all my money on tickets to literary festivals and following every page of the Guardian to the letter seems like the best idea I ever had.
Ten years, ten looks #7
Well this was a bit alarming. I think the model looks great but I was under no illusion I’d be able to pull it off.
I’ve taken off the shades at my desk but other than that the whole thing is fairly office appropriate. I know some say you shouldn’t wear shorts at work but with thick tights, boots and a longish blazer I really can’t see the harm. I don’t exactly look racy. Not feeling too chirpy either after getting through considerable amounts of red wine and port in front of Question Time last night.
Kate's rock chic
- Kate’s got sick
Grand conclusions of the week:
- How nice it’s been to have a week off, free to dine out and about with friends and family.
- No great investments needed, no guilty money splashed on idle capitalism.
- And no particularly ridiculous outfits. It’s been a fantastic birthday week, I saw all my most loved people, got some brilliant presents and entered the Decade of Success. I seem to have been on a rollover hangover most days but tomorrow my mum’s taking me on a birthday treat to a spa, so expect a refreshed, newly focused GG on Monday. (Do these words sound familiar?) Au revoir and have a great Weekend. x
Ten years, ten looks #6
A little black dress, no probs. Needless to say I put on some tights and took off the Raybans for work purposes.
The shoes were given to me by an ex’s sister in one of those brilliant “Nice shoes!” “Thanks, I never wear them, you can have them” moments, but I’ve abused them too much and the heels are now at an acute angle and are bandaged up with fraying sellotape. Once I was toiling through Angel in them and a woman outside a cafe stared so long and hard and disgustedly at them that I was forced to wave passive-aggressively at her. Even then she didn’t notice – too engrossed in the shoes. Her boyfriend noticed though, and was tapping her manically. Anyways, you can’t even see them properly in this picture but I’ve not got much else to say today. Happy Thursday.
Victoria Beckham looks genuinely posh
Vainglorious plebeian looks genuinely sloshed
Conclusions:
- The caption is a little laboured today, do forgive me.
- Good job my wonderful mother gave me some money to buy a new pair of black heels for my birthday.
- I need to fix the hem of my dress as well.
- And remember to buy some more cat food on the way home.
- Oh, and loo roll.
- (Stop! – Ed)
- (I grew up on Trev and Simon’s Stupid book [funniest book ever, still] and Smash Hits [every time the Ed interjected I thought it was Edd the Duck speaking and wondered why they couldn’t spell his name.])
- OK, I’m really stopping now, bye.
- Bye.
Ten years, ten looks #5
A classic get-it-a-bit-wrong day. All the component parts are good, in my book, but put them all together and you get a mad old farmer’s wife. Or a mad old farmer, to be a little more modern about things. Imagine: you encounter this figure hobbling down a country road in the autumn dusk. You say a friendly hello. The old hag looks up from underneath her straw hat to reveal a hideous, gurning apparition with empty eye sockets and wormholed skin.
I’m not the biggest fan of the totally full-on boho look but at least the model’s outfit is consistent.
I love this straw hat I’m wearing – and the skirt, which my granny made in the 50s. But I think both should be worn on a beach or in a field, with a tan. I’ve never been too sure about long skirts in winter – unless it’s done in an Edith Holden sort of way, which takes commitment. I’m quite content being at work in this outfit and I won’t feel wrong wearing it out for dinner later, but I’d never have put it together this way if it weren’t for the Guardian.
The boho boom
- The bozo boom
Hmm. Now I look at the photo again I’m thinking: you’re watching TMZ. A drunken Sienna Miller stumbles out of the Ivy trying to shield her face from the paparazzi. You’re watching on widescreen.
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Two consistent obstacles to getting the fashion right: proportions and textures. You need the biggish brim and the floor-grubbed skirt with the slim hips and the long top. You need the felty hat and suede boots.
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That’s why all this is such an expensive lark. You can’t just have a pair of boots – you have to have suede boots for one skirt and leather boots for another. You can’t just have a nice hat – you have to have a straw hat for summer and a felt hat for winter. You can’t just cut your hair into a bob, throw on your old Sienna Miller get-up and expect it to look as boho as it did with rib-length hair. It’s all too tiring. No wonder so many people choose a style that suits them and stick with it until several decades later when a ‘friend’ from work calls up 10 Years Younger and Channel 4 forces them to cower helplessly around Brighton Beach while the general public vox-pop dates them at 95. “Let’s bleach the old crone’s teeth! We can get her down to at least 70!” Terrifying.
Banana caramel cream pie and a week off consuming
On Friday night I cooked the remaining recipe for last week: Dan Lepard’s banana caramel cream pie.
Sainsbury’s was out of bananas but for a load of very green ones or a massive multipack of fairtrade ones, which I bought. When I got them home I realised there was no weight on the packet so I had no idea how many to use. I plumped for one in the sauce and another sliced up under the meringue. I added a very, very liberal amount of rum and brandy, and used a mixture of thick chantilly cream and mascarpone. I made the meringue properly (good girl, no slacking) with my hand blender, which worked a treat.
Liv arrived a bit later, we finished off the labneh with celery sticks (and she pronounced it delicious), then we tucked into the pie in front of a DVD. After one slice each we were pretty tipsy – not sure if this could really have been the pie’s doing alone, as we were drinking the remaining brandy with 7up as an accompaniment. It was delicious anyway, however intoxicating, and a spoonful of mascarpone on top cut through the sweetness a bit. As much as I complained when I had to eat pie every day, you can’t really beat a good one, and this was that.
Banana caramel cream pie
Rum and brandy pie
I woke up the next morning to discover that I was 30 years old, so the rest of the pie made a good celebratory breakfast before I popped out to buy the paper. To my delight I discovered the whole mag is given over to a retrospective of the noughties this week, which means no cooking and no shopping all week – just outfits. It was a much-appreciated birthday present. Off I trotted to the pub in my party dress, and there I stayed, with all my pals, for a very long time. What a brilliant night – I have yet to recover. Here follow this week’s outfits so far:
Carrie Bradshaw
Barry Bradshaw
Skinny denim
Chubber denim
The It bag
The nosebag
Bling is the thing
Grim is the bling
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Alco-pie: a grand foodstuff.
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Labneh: gets nicer with time.
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A week off cooking, reorganising furniture and searching for elusive garments: sublime.
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Being 30: yes.
Denim: let’s go to workwear #4
I thought I was going to fail at today’s outfit but actually I feel like I did OK. I couldn’t work out which combination of jackets and coats to go for so I’ve plumped for the ubiquitous boxy Gap blazer with a gingham shirt underneath.
It’s becoming clear that I could do with a new pair of blue jeans (that knee tear is less rip, more ravine) but regular readers will know my problems with jeans shopping. Shuddery shuddery shudder.
Trusty
Crusty
Conclusions:
- A good pair of jeans will find me soon, I’m sure of it.
- The outfit would be better balanced with a baggy hat like the one the model’s wearing, but I don’t have one, so there we go.
I've always found it funny when people write letters to the Guardian's Weekend magazine complaining that the recipe ingredients are too middle class and the fashion only looks good on thin people. After all, it's just a magazine. Or is it? I decided to follow its recipes, fashion and lifestyle advice as closely as possible, to see if the aspirations promoted therein can really be achieved by the average reader who is not especially wealthy, not necessarily model thin and is obliged to work regular office hours. This blog has no affiliation whatsoever with the Guardian but I link to the Weekend magazine website for the purposes of illustration. 
Guardian Girl 
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