Clooney and me

This week I went to see my consultant Clooney, aka Dr Lanvin, for the dreaded six monthly check up to make sure tout va bien. Much as I like him, it’s not a rendezvous I look forward to but I had been so stressed about whether or not my Indian visa would arrive in time for my trip to Kerala that I didn’t have the time or energy to get as worked up about the appointment as I usually do.

I’ve had amazing feedback for Breathing Out since it launched last spring, from friends and family but perhaps more importantly, from perfect strangers, cancer patients and the medical profession. So it was wonderful to hear that Clooney is sending copies out to his fellow oncologist colleagues in Canada, where he worked before arriving at the Tzanck. He told me it is the perfect tool not only for sufferers who don’t know where to turn but also for doctors as a window on the world of their patients. High praise indeed. I think I blushed.

With a snazzy new reprint just out thanks to Urbane Publications, the promotional wheels are rolling once again and my publisher Matthew and I have grand plans in mind for how to achieve world domination so watch this space.

In other news, I got the thumbs up after all my tests (corks popping) so that’s three and a half years down and 18 months to go until the magic five year remission wand can be waved. Following the arrival of my passport and visa JUST THREE DAYS AGO, today’s blog needs to be short and sweet so I can finish packing and get on that plane. Shanti.

The Over 40s Guide to Surviving Teens

Yesterday morning, I was rolling up in bed reading the funniest myths on new baby motherhood busted by the very talented and acerbic witted Zeena Moolla.

Allow me to continue the case for not having children, sorry I mean surviving the teenage years.

1. You will never be right again. Remember those dinner table discussions when they were going through that fairly irritating phase of asking why, why, why to everything? Well, you taught them so well to question the status quo and form an opinion that they can now whip you into knots of contradiction on any given subject from exam revision to Islamic State.

2. They are prolific liars. They will only be ill around 15% of the time they convince you to keep them off school. Don't try and cuddle them or fuss around them. Having royally duped you, all they want is to sleep til noon, Snapchat their mates, Instagram their mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows 15 different ways and catch up on back to back episodes of CSI and MIC under the covers on their iPad.

3. Your new name is Ladycabs. Pick-up time from a party (referred to as a gathering in order to lose the alcohol connotation) at 11pm is not cool, only post-midnight pick-ups are acceptable. Whatever you do, DO NOT get out of the car, speak to any of their friends or perish the thought, ring on the doorbell. Just sit in the car pressing redial until they finally deign to pick up. Bang goes your bottle of Gavi in front of Friday night telly but if you dare to complain, they will just ask for a Vespa instead.

4. Everything that goes wrong will always be your fault. Not to be confused with point 1. So if Jane makes you take a wrong turn on SatNav, someone crashes into the back of you in traffic, they need to start wearing a brace or Sainsbury’s runs out of chocolate coated Krispy Kremes, you will be to blame.

5. Imagine your wardrobe as a kind of free shopping experience where no money changes hands, no permission is asked and your most coveted pieces go missing for days, nay weeks at a time before resurfacing in a screwed up ball under the bed, covered in hot chocolate or the bottom reaches of their wardrobe along with old biscuit wrappers and dirty PE kit. If, however, you dare to borrow so much as one pair of bobbly tights, you will be branded the bitch from hell for not asking first.

6. Your precious little collection of make-up and skincare that has taken years to fine tune will start to go missing, a mascara or brow liner at a time, around the time they hit 13. It doesn't matter that you spent a fortune buying everything they needed from Rimmel London, they will still prefer your ancient old Lancôme Hypnose mascara and the brand new Laura Mercier tinted moisturiser that a PR has just sent you. Try not to lose the plot when they use your Creme de la Mer as aftersun.

7. When it comes to anything technical, accept that you are just a loser from another century while they became proficient on a PC before they knew the words to Pat a Cake. Expect a dramatic eye roll and a demand for hard cash if you ask them to a. Download photos from your phone, b. Make you a playlist or c. Make you a cup of tea while you try and fathom it out yourself.

8. Around 80% of the time, they will be hormonal, moody and have a face like a slapped arse. Smiles are index linked to being paid to walk the dog they begged and pleaded for, a trip to New York and getting everything on their Christmas list (even though they stopped believing in Santa at least five years ago).

9. Do not leave loose change or chocolate on any surface. The bottom salad drawer below a large stockpile of kale, broccoli and celery should work as a hiding place. They don't touch or eat vegetables in any form.

10. That 30 minute run they have suddenly started going out for on freezing cold dark winter evenings is a sneaky smoking break, snog/flirt or both with their latest crush up the road. Note the lack of sweat/red cheeks when they return, although in truth you will be grateful for the lack of sweat/red cheeks.

The Upside? Just as you have gotten used to being public enemy number one, at around 16, they suddenly realise that you're actually not that bad after all.

Je suis Charlie

It’s hard to put into words the devastation and sickening fear I felt watching Sky news this afternoon as they showed footage of the extremists who massacred a newsroom of journalists and cartoonists at Charlie Hebdo in Paris.

War correspondent friends of mine have talked before of the deep dread and impending sense of doom that they feel 24 hours a day when they are on assignment in dangerous places around the world, notably the Middle East. They get used to expecting something bad to happen but nothing can prepare you for the war coming to your own front door. As a journalist in a Western capital, the idea that you might be shot dead during morning conference while discussing ideas for an upcoming magazine issue is simply beyond belief.

Observing the two gunmen as they fired rounds of ammunition in a deathly quiet Parisian street before virtually ambling back to their car as they gloated loudly at the bloodshed they had caused, I was struck first by their almost comic insouciance. No sense of urgency, they looked bungling and one even paused to pick up a shoe and throw it into the back of the car before they headed off at a relaxed rather than breakneck pace into the anonymous city traffic. I guess it’s easy to be brave with a Kalashnikov in your hands.

It’s a sad day for journalism, freedom of speech and the right to an uncensored press when a group of talented professionals is gunned down in cold blood in their place of work for daring to have a sense of irreverence. Will we now see armed guards stationed at the entrances of PA, Reuters and the BBC?

I remember feeling a sense of excitement when I started training as a journalist, almost 30 years ago. Whether doing the bacon sandwich run at 6.30am for the rest of my office, taking copy (long before PCs and email) or being sent to cover my first major trial at the Old Bailey, the pure adrenaline buzz of starting my longed for career in newspapers was unforgettable. Would I advise my daughters to embark on a career in journalism now? I'm not sure, much as I still love the job I do.

Writing a blog to stand up and be counted and say this is unacceptable is a small thing to do. What we all need to show now is solidarity in the face of such unimaginable tragedy. Anger, yes, action, yes, acceptance, never.

Happy

I'm going to keep this short and sweet. We have had a mega Christmas with lots of visitors, Christmas markets, champagne, card games, Perudo, even charades. Oh, and lots and lots of food. It's at this time of the year that I think how lucky I am to have such amazing friends and family. Christmas saw 11 of us Kershaws, Hockneys and Bradleys around the same table....amazing.

Tonight we are heading to my favourite restaurant (of all time) Ecole des Filles for a gastronomic New Year's Eve celebration with a few great friends. In a minute I am going to put on my make up to the sound of Nihils Help Our Souls, the Urban Contact Remix. If you are feeling a little party pooped and in need of a little lift or a second wind, play this track, it is an infectious disco tune that I promise will make you want to dance.

Then I am going to pour myself a glass of this little beauty and raise it to the year that was 2014. It wasn't perfect but it certainly had its moments. My wish for 2015 is that everyone I love has a brilliant, fun, healthy, laughter filled year. I'm not going to waste time worrying about things I can't change. I am going to embrace and enjoy every moment of this wonderful life. No, I haven't been drinking but that is about to change in a matter of minutes.

Bonne annee tout le monde and here's to the next 12 months.

xxx

She's leaving home

Actually, she left two months ago. It seems surreal that after all the years of being there whenever I was needed, wiping grazes, helping with homework, organising fairy themed birthday parties and refereeing many sibling spats, suddenly Child Number One is living 1,000 miles away and getting on just fine without us.

Why wouldn't she? She is in London, relishing the ease of jumping on the tube to the West End, going to see a film on a whim or going clubbing when student funds allow but with a safety net of family and friends who look out for her, cook her the occasional Sunday roast and to whom she can turn in a crisis.

That said, letting her go is the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. Dropping her off at the airport with Handyman so that he could settle her into her halls, I somehow managed to stay chirpy and chatty until we said goodbye. Back in the car, I turned on the radio and on came a song she used to play on the piano and sing along to. I cried all the way home.

It brings into sharp focus the wonderful things about parenthood that we are all guilty of taking for granted sometimes.....the piano practises that make you stop whatever you are doing and sometimes bring a tear to your eye, the stupid jokes and banter at the dinner table, even just sitting down together to watch a TV drama or I'm a Celebrity. Working from home and not having the banter of an office, I really miss our after school chats, coffees and lazy weekend breakfasts. Her room is permanently hotel standard tidy, and I hate it.

We have got used to skype calls every few days and Whatsapp for saying good night, good morning, love you and showing each other what we're having for supper. I was expecting an alarming overload of pot noodles and pasta to be honest, but she is whipping up soups, smoothies, curries and shepherds pies like a mini Nigella. My dinner time rants about the evils of junk food, which I was convinced were in vain, have clearly paid off (although she did confess to a Pot Noodle/Gossip Girl marathon with Beaux, her best friend from primary school, recently. And she does have a fridge full of cider and Baileys in her room.)

We went to visit three weeks ago and I filled her fridge with M&S, manna from heaven for an impoverished student. I really think it takes distance, a tight budget and a bit of struggling for kids to realise what they also take for granted when they live at home. I now have a brilliant reason to flit back to London more often for a catch up with the girl who is embracing the next chapter of her life.

Vancouver

It's Saturday, it's raining and there is a low rumbling electric storm which even Talullah and Oscar do not want to go out in so I don't feel remotely guilty about lying in bed reading the papers, supplements and all the news stories I've missed this week until 10.30am. Yes, not a misprint, 10.30am. I have not had a lay in like this since my teens (correction, since the night after amFAR in May, but the less said about that the better.)

On a rainy miserable day, not that we get many, it seems only right to talk about sunnier days. The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster of lovely assignments in Monaco, Saint Tropez and Cannes for OnboardOnline. The competition for top highlight is fierce...breakfast on the Superyacht Ulysses, cocktails at the new Yacht Club in Monaco, champagne at Byblos, riding at James Bond style speeds in a military rib used by the French SAS across the gulf of Saint-Tropez...but the prize event of the last month has to be my trip to Vancouver on a rather lovely TV job.

Arriving at The Loden, a chic, friendly hotel which even had yoga mats in the rooms, and knowing I was heading back home in little over 48 hours time, the best way to fight mid-afternoon jet lag seemed to be to go on a bike ride. The hotel had an assortment of bikes ready and waiting in the lobby and within minutes, I was cycling the couple of blocks to the waterfront. The skyline reminded me of a mini Manhattan but with the welcome addition of cycle lanes threading around the harbour, marina and into Stanley Park.

That night, we ate at Cardero's on Coal Harbour Quay, a buzzing bistro and bar with a suspended terrace over the water offering phenomenal views across the Pacific Ocean. Blankets were provided in case it got chilly but the late summer evening sunshine kept temperatures high enough not to need one. They bill themselves as all about fish and this is no idle boast. The West Coast fish tacos were sublime, only eclipsed by the roasted sablefish, a lot like cod, in a miso-sake marinade. This dish gave the black miso cod at E&O a run for its money, it literally melted in my mouth, no chewing required. I am drooling as I write this. We ordered some wok broccolini (tender stemmed broccoli with a fancy ending) and the way it was served has revolutionised broccoli chez moi. Steamed and then finished lightly in a wok in the holy trinity of red chilli, garlic and ginger along with soy and honey, it was delicious and is now the only way I want to eat it.

Interviews done the following day left us a day to explore so we walked to Gastown, the city's oldest quarter with a quaint Soho/boho feel downtown boasting some rather lovely boutiques including oak + fort, where I chose not to leave empty handed. A walk along the coastline, fringed with pine trees to The Cactus Club Cafe on Beach Avenue brought more culinary joy, although it has to be noted that their fish tacos, while good, were not as good as Cardero's.

I could go on but the storm has stopped, the sun has just shown its face and Talullah is now staring at me with what Issy used to call poppydug eyes so needs must.

Bye bye Eel Pie

After two months travelling around Europe, we are almost at the end of 2014's epic summer road trip. Biarritz was a blast but surfing in July feels like a long time ago now. Next stop was Spain and a journey that took us through Breaking Bad style arid wilderness skirting the Pyrenees and heading through the centre of Spain to the coast near Alicante.

The weather was scorching, the beach beckoned as did the beautiful medieval town of Guadalest, above, and we had some great nights at El Paripe, a cool little tapas bar on a whitewashed rooftop which served amazing calamari and padrons every bit as good as the ones at Bar Jean. Another favourite was La Paletta, a modest little restaurant where the delicious food and friendly service ensured it was packed every night and impossible to get a table without booking. And La Mary in Alicante would give the coolest bistro in Soho a run for its money (and charge you less than half the price.)

Next stop was the UK and a two day drive back up through Spain and France was borne with such patience by Oscar and Tallullah, who were cosily and tightly ensconced amongst cases, toiletries, a new set of kitchen knives, teaspoons, books, wine, sunglasses, you name it. They were amazingly well behaved despite queues caused by the tail end of Hurricane Bertha putting paid to ferry crossings that evening.

We have spent the last three weeks in not so sunny Herts...naturally we missed the UK heatwave by about 24 hours...how typical...but there has been something quite cool about being wrapped up in jeans and boots safe in the knowledge that it won't be for very much longer. Having not lived in the English countryside for several years, the novelty of seeing cows at the end of the garden did not wear off, nor did Fizz Friday at the Five Horseshoes, where they found a friend for life in me given that the Prosecco was half price.

The last couple of days have been spent in one of my favourite places of all time, Eel Pie Island, where we have pottered around on the river, run the dogs and their new pal Stan off their feet and waved to every passing boat from the terrace. Pretty cool to have the Thames at the end of your garden and this view with your morning coffee.

To Gary and Phil, Mel and Bill, Karin and Paul, Jean, Fiona and Steve and Clare, thanks for being such excellent hosts. And to Sarah, whose house we are descending on in East Sussex today for the final few days before la rentree, remember, we don't travel light so it may take a while to unpack!