For no apparent reason, I am sitting in the front row of Virgin Atlantic premium class, sipping bubbly, reading The Independant, and casually resting my feet on a leather pouffe within the gulf of space in front of me. The stars have surely aligned because most of you well know my Mulligan sensibilities would prevent such decadent living via actual monetary outlay. We just got a free upgrade, period. 

  
It does feel rather fitting given the memorable week we have just experienced in celebration of 10 years of marriage. We have traipsed the length and breadth of this city, observing its customs and people, falling into its tourist traps, and trying to keep up with its frenetic pace. A week is just about enough to comfortably do most of the major highlights, whilst also arriving at its close before you might begin to feel overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. 

It’s a privilege to be able to get on a plane and visit other countries, but I must confess to anticipating the homecoming as much as the departure. I love the familiarity, the sense of belonging that accompanies a return home, even if only after a short trot across the ocean. I find I never quite get over the sense of dislocation that comes with visiting foreign lands, a feeling that only the sight of chequered green landscapes from 30,000 ft and overcast skies can properly dissipate.

As the wheels hit the Tarmac I feel grounded, safe, often with a little surge of emotion to match the rushing noise of the plane coming to a halt. And I always look forward to my first cup of British tea. 

Our last day in New York today and my (Malkie/husband) first time as a guest blogger…here goes.

I like having a book to read on holiday, I find it much easier to absorb myself in a good story when I have the time to read large sections at once. It’s also a much better option than checking Facebook et al on the regular 30 min subway rides. This holiday the choice was easy and inspired by a certain Tim Higgins who let his Instagram followers know he’d been reading Open, by Andre Agassi. He quoted form the first page of the book “I play tennis for a living, even though I hate it, hate it with a dark and secret passion, and always have”. I was hooked – and as soon as the opportunity arose popped into the nearest Barnes and Noble to buy it.

The opening chapter is set in New York on 31st August 2006 when Agassi played an epic 5 set match at the Arthur Ashe stadium, Flushing Meadows against Marcos Baghdatis in the US Open – his last tournament. And there we wear, exactly 9 years later; 31st August 2015 watching Serena Williams and Rafael Nadal at the Arthur Ashe stadium (preceded by Josh Groban and Vanessa Williams no less). Serena went through extremely comfortably but Nadal had a fight on his hands losing a set to an 18 year old Borna Coric; a Grand Slam champion of the future – you heard it here first. So in terms of reading something which related to the holiday, this was as close as it gets. I finished the book yesterday and thoroughly enjoyed it. A fascinating insight into the world of tennis and the uncompromising childhoods almost all tennis champions seem to have had. It also brought back fond memories of watching Wimbledon as a teenager during the 90’s. Sampras, Courier, Becker, Edberg, Agassi et al. Thanks Tim.

It’s the morning of the last day of our holiday. Tonight we’ll be on a plane back to the UK. Right now we’re making the most of a 12 noon check out time from our hotel. I’m thinking back over some of the things we’ve done this week, some of the things which Lucy hasn’t mentioned in the blog so far. On Monday we paid a visit to the Natural HIstory Museum. I remember as a child when we went on holiday (mostly in the south of Ireland) we’d always visit museums, or castles, or other places of historical interest. I must admit I was often bored and usually amused myself by messing around and climbing on things (the history just didn’t sink in). Now here I am in my mid thirties and on holiday I love going to museums, reading and learning. Natural history is of particular interest.

When Lucy and I were in New Zealand in 2009 we found this terrific museum in Wellington (Te Papa Tongewera). We ended up visiting it twice, once on our way from North Island to South Island and once on our way back. It was visually stunning. The natural history of New Zealand is fascinating. For example, there was no human presence on New Zealand until the 13th century (when Maori’s arrived from other south sea islands) – the last country to be populated by humans. There were no predators on the island until they were introduced by man allowing diverse and unusually species to evolve many of which are now sadly extinct. Enough of New Zealand, back to New York.

Lucy and I agreed that the Natural HIstory Museum in New York wasn’t quite as visually appealing or engaging as Te Papa Tongewera. It felt a little bit dated but what it did have going for it (apart from Liam Neeson doing the voice over for the history of the universe show) was the incredible collection of original artefacts. We saw the first T-rex skull ever discovered, the largest meteorite in the world (the size of a small car but weighing 34 tonnes) and Lucy. Lucy is the oldest fossil record of a hominin, the grandparents (in evolutionary terms) of homo sapiens. She is estimated to be 3 million years old. There were also all kinds of dinosaur fossils and beautiful displays particularly of African and North American mammals. What captured my imagination was learning about the human migration from Africa. The first humans to cross the Bering Straight 15,000 years ago and discover North and South America. And most remarkably of all the Aborigines who crossed at least 90km of ocean to reach Australia 60,000 years ago. Incredible.

Equally full of stunning originals was the Metropolitan Museum of Art situated on the other side of Central Park. Simply the quantity of pieces was breathtaking, from ancient Egyptian tombs, to elegant French armour, to stunning Roman sculpture. We wandered through halls and rooms and corridors stacked full. But most impressive was the 19th and 20th century art. We feasted our eyes on original works by Picasso, Monet, Renoir and Van Gogh and they just kept coming, hundreds and hundreds. It was too much to take in at once. Like any feast no matter how good the food is it’s only a matter of time before you’re full.

It was strange to see people brush past these works of art, or just move from one to the next taking a photo without really looking at it. By my 20th Picasso I found myself moving on swiftly as well with a greater desire to sit down in an air conditioned room with a glass of water than to be present to the stunning art around me. Which I guess is similar to my experience of New York as a whole. There is so much to see, to absorb and take in but everyone is on the move, on their smartphones, distracted. I realise I’m on holiday and lots of people around me aren’t but it’s striking none the less. To be in a place where we can stand face to face with the oldest human fossil, eyeball every contour of Van Gogh’s sunflowers, watch the best Female tennis player ever to play the game but are more interested in how my people liked our latest Instagram photo.

The south-west corner of central park, where we sat and ate dinner last night out of cardboard boxes from the Wholefood Hot Food stand, reminds me how strange this place is . It’s known as the Columbus Circle, an array of fountains surrounding a statue of the man who discovered America. And beside it Trump Towers, part of the empire of a man who has built a fortune in this country and it now running for president. It’s a strange topping and tailing of the history of America in 2015 in one place.

I’m struck by the disparity between rich and poor, by how wealth is idolised, by how we seem to have lost touch with human values and the ability to be present to our experiences and one another. I think about what a strange country America is with it’s contradictions and then I realise that the UK is no different. Perhaps in visiting a less familiar place we’re able to see more clearly how things are in our own land.

It’s been a good week. A celebration of 10 years with a wonderful woman, a series of privileged experiences, an absorbing story and a reminder of some of the things which are important in life and many more which aren’t.

It’s inevitable. When in New York, you are duty bound to follow the tourist hoards and tick off the big ones. Being our 10th wedding anniversary yesterday, we felt it therefore excusable to make our way to an over-priced cocktail bar on the 65th floor of the Rockefeller centre downtown. For the view though, it was most definitely worth it.  

Our feet and energy levels are showing signs of wear now that we have reached the penultimate day of the trip. Welcome, therefore, is our retreat-in-midtown hotel which celebrates top spot on my list of unique and restful places to stay. Their decorative theme is wood and foliage, with plants throughout and chunks of responsibly sourced American cedar furnishing the lobby and bedrooms. The smell is divine, the toiletries are lush, the bed is made from hemp…..I could go on but I imagine you aren’t checking in with our New York progress reports to find out about our lodgings. 

We’ve taken a slower pace today and headed down to Greenwich Village, formerly where beatnik poets might gather but slightly disappointly, where the high end shops have now infiltrated. Gratefully, the humidity has eased, so ambling around has become easier, or, where Malkie is concerned, reading Andre Aggassi’s biography in the park is no longer sweat-inducing. 

We pretended to be locals at The Village farmers market. It is good for the conscience to eat soft, sweet fruit grown not far from the city. 

Apologies for relentlessly returning to the subject of food, but I must note here that sadly the high standards of the suburbs isn’t easily found here in the city. Allow me to retract my earlier statement about all the food in New York being amazing. It isn’t. However this sage realisation has led us to a heavenly food Mecca called Wholefoods nearby, a huge organic supermarket with a salad bar, hot food section, and juice counter that made my eyes pop. Americans do supermarkets in a way that makes the UK look positively lazy. (Yes, even Waitrose).

I continue to find this city an odd and delightful place. Take, for example, the following occurrences on our recent travels. 

Sitting at Columbus Circle, a girl takes off her overcoat to reveal and fairy-lit ballerina tutu. She starts a graceful dance along with her boyfriend in front of the fountain, and the gathered tourists. This continues for 10 minutes or so, then she dances off down the street. No money exchanges hands. It’s just for fun. 

There are dogs everywhere, the oddest canine collection I’ve seen. Little bald wiry ones, dogs with outfits, packs of 4 or more towing glamorous sheer-faced ladies down Fifth Avenue. Most shops on said avenue have doggie bowls of water outside. I didn’t know Vera Wang was concerned with animal welfare, but so it seems. 

The buskers here are terrible. I would think it appropriate for the city to consider some sort of interview process. Flat saxophonists in Central Park playing ditties to passing tourists on garish white horse and carriage. 

On Madison Avenue, a man in a wheelchair with no arms or legs sat begging outside Louis Vitton. It made the whole glitzy, exclusive street that we had just walked along with fascination seem immediately ridiculous and stark. 

I’m drinking an orange juice right now that has turmeric, ginger and cayenne pepper in it. Spicier than my taco on Tuesday.

The Staten Island ferry is free. Running every 30 minutes, carrying 75000 passengers per day, passing right by the Statue of Liberty, and it’s FOC. I mean, why? Though I’m not one to complain about free stuff, I assure you. When you’ve just paid 90 bucks for a toastie and a Caesar salad with drinks on Madison Avenue, you’ll take all the gratuity you can get. 

Speaking of gratuity, this I have never seen before. On each bill comes a little table with 3 levels of tipping. ‘Below standard, expected, and generous’. The first tier is 18%, which seems adequate to me but leaves one with a feeling reminiscent of having performed poorly at the school spelling bee.  

Even the tennis is weird. We went to the U.S. Open earlier this week to watch Williams, then Nadal, knock out their first round opponents. But it wasn’t like the decorus English tennis we know and love. It was like baseball-tennis where songs like ‘Eye of the tiger’ happen after points, everyone eats hot dogs, and the players are dressed like they might be heading on to a disco afterwards. It was all very disconcerting.

We have a couple of days left to explore the centre of town from our avante garde hotel in Central Park, where everything smells intensely of cedar and pine, and the lights go on using an in room smart phone.   

Finding that balance between ‘doing stuff’ and ‘relaxing’ on holiday is a tricky one. Here were are in The Big Apple and I’m lying in bed drinking tea and writing a blog pos, which feels very wrong. Today we move from our funky apartment in Brooklyn to a hotel on Central Park, from where we plan to check out more of the hot spots downtown.    Up until yesterday the quintessential American brunch had eluded us, until we ended up finding it, ironically, down The Rabbit Hole. Face puckeringly sweet French toast with strawberries and marscapone, and perfect eggs benedict with hash browns blanketed in salt. Delicious and naughty.    

We continued the food trail in the evening with a meal inspired by my recent reading of Michael Pollan’s latest book, Cooked. A wonderful book exploring the origins and development of bread making, fermentation, barbecue, and braising, neatly captured under the banner of the four elements. Note that barbecue refers exclusively to the use of charcoals to cook pork over an extended period, usually overnight, with the word having been commandeered over time to describe the use of mere grilling in general. Mable’s served us 14-hour grilled brisket and pork shoulder with the customary sides of beans, potato salad, cornbread, and slaw. No feast for the eyes I grant you but this veritable feast was a slice of Southern traditon and we were satisfied. Furthermore, what a novelty to eat food from ugly receptacles. No slates, buckets or chopping boards in sight.  

   
We caught our first glimpse of the Manhattan skyline last night over cocktails at the rooftop bar in the Whythe hotel. Quite magical. Not content with such viewing pleasures, we made our way to the Highline, an elevated ‘park’ on an old disused train track running above the west side of the city, where stargazers gather weekly to share tips and telescopes. Saturn in all its celestial glory was in full view.    

It’s our 10th wedding anniversary and, being young free and single, we felt it appropriate to take flight. Thus we have ended up in this fascinating city, so good they named it twice. 

I haven’t blogged for a while which is usually a direct correlate with levels of inspiration and creativity. So it is interesting that this place seems to be connecting me again with a somewhat muted sense of artistry of late. Don’t get me wrong, New York is to me an overwhelming place full of intense, tech-addicted, people and expansive, expensive spaces. But it is also beautiful and fun in a way that makes me want To see more. 

We have a week to spend here, and after ironing out the standard early holiday tensions surrounding who was in fact expecting what, we are beginning to feel increasingly more at home. My starting point has to be the food, which offers itself in such vast quantities of quality that we are simply compelled to eat out constantly. Never mind the waist line or the bank balance, one simply cannot look past a towering Reuben sandwich, or a perfectly served eggs Benedict, or a Michelin-starred 4 course meal for 35 bucks. A trip to the local supermarket reveals square meters of interesting grains and pulses, local beers, and taut vegetables bathing under a fine mist of spring water. As we speak I am munching on bacon and maple syrup flavoured chips and a local Brooklyn brew of the finest quality. Partly, it’s the area we are staying in, which contains more hipster per acre than anywhere else on the continent (apart from Portland, perhaps). So it follows that the food reeks of trend and modernity, but I certainly don’t object to my inventive cocktail being served by a dude in ironic 80s get-up. 

But it’s not just the food. The architecture is amazing in its variety and scale, the weather is balmy, our light filled loft apartment is cool, the subway is cheap and cheerful. On the other hand, people shout at each other a lot, we have walked for miles, and it isn’t going to be the kind of holiday where one emerges feeling in any way revived or restored from the daily grind. However we shall embrace both sides of the story.  

Such a visual feast demands to be captured, which has resulted in a very uncharacteristic impulse purchase of a point and shoot camera. For those interested, the compact camera market turns out to be a veritable feast of options and I find myself rather impressed with the outcome despite my better judgement, being hitherto a DSLR camera purist. The problem with such puristic tendencies is that one comes home without any good holiday snaps. I’m hoping to add some curated shots to my next post once I figure out the tech but meantime the iPhone does the job…

Productivity has diminished of late in direct correlation with dog-owner general happiness. We embarked upon getting a dog after many years of deliberation and research. Morse (an inquisitive little chap named after the Inspector series that has meaning for us both) came to us via a Belfast family who should have known that a dog is for life, not just for Christmas. No matter, because we profited by gaining a beautiful, good natured pup who had been taken through the difficult early months of toilet training and night-time whining, arriving with us ready for proper training or, as Gemma seemed stated, boot camp. Naturally, all our best laid plans were abandoned regarding the dog’s use of furniture, but we remain gratefully dog-free in the bedrooms, and with most belongings intact and relatively chew-free, slippers aside. Some project work has continued however. A few drum lampshades have been upgraded using these handy little kits on eBay. I think this 50s vintage print teamed with the retro base bought for 50p at the salvage yard is rather charming. My thoughts will soon turn to the redecoration of ‘Lucy’s Grotto’, a box room piled high with all manner of creative accoutrements, but not yet. Whilst the paintbrushes lie fallow in the drawer, I decided to turn towards the skills of others for inspiration. I had once spotted on a Nigel Slater cookery show a mighty fine mortar and pestle; a wide, capacious article within which he was swirling all manner of exotic spices and botanicals. A brief search revealed it had been hand made by a sculptor as a gift to the chef. Well, chance be a fine thing, we happen to know a very fine stone sculptor, who kindly accepted the commission. Carrera marble was shipped from Italy during his latest sabbatical, and several months later this marvellous piece arrived in my kitchen, ready for active culinary duty. 

Ali and I decided, much to my great advantage, that a skill swap would occur rather than a financial transaction. So far, this has involved the fruits of my pestle’s labour on a frequent basis, some decorative assistance, and an armchair partial re-upholstering. Like me, you’ll be thinking that I’ve lucked out in this particular deal. But we got to thinking, the skill swap is a form of egalitarian commerce that could be the next big ‘hug a hoodie’ initiative. Think about it – society could be transformed! I’m not clear how (a sure sign that I should henceforth never consider a career in politics) but we should all be thinking about it anyway….

Over the course of 2014 I managed a blog post a month, which seemed about right for a hobbyist like myself. Early 2015 and that seems to have slipped a bit (but not as bad as my fellow contributor who hasn’t posted since Margaret Thatcher was PM.) Suffice it to say that diminishing blog posts equates to a reduction in creative energy and productivity of late. Gratefully, I don’t make my living from self-directed creative endeavours, so I can lay off the gas without repercussion. It seems my output is usually inversely proportional to work pressures and emotional state, the latter of which appears to also be inversely proportional to consumption of The Good Wife on Netflix. Not very hipster or self-actualising but we all need to regress sometimes.

I have been mostly working on Wednesdays over the winter but last week managed to pop into the local Conservative Pop-up Charity shop on Gilmore Place. Tollcross has attracted such enterprises over the years and i have learned that they are heavenly little hot-beds of vintage and retro. There must be a whole troop of elderly Torys around this area, bin-bag in hand, clearing out their attics and garages to within an inch of their lives. And then there’s the pricing. And the friendly bargaining. The commercialisation of the charity shop ‘chain’ means such things are frowned upon in your average Oxfam these days. (Wow, check out my anti-capitalist sentiment there.) So I enjoyed my little trip there and of course, came away heavily furnished with goods.

The first, somewhat random, purchase was this vintage Viyella dressing gown (or ‘goonie’ if you live locally) for a few quid. It was the fabric that did it – so dainty, so 50s oppressed housewife. 

You can’t go wrong with a vintage case. Put it anywhere for another nook to store something important and then forget about it.

Melemex has become another collectable for me. In my mind’s eye, i envisage this ‘breakfast set’ going rather well in the VW camper that I believe I will one day own…Vintage pyrex seems to be on the rise. And why not, with those marvellous mid-century tones such as this baby pink salad bowl.
And the list doesn’t end there. But the photos do. One of my other acquisitions, a fabulous Fisher Price Jack-in-the-Box, has already been gifted to the latest kid in town. Any 80s kid will know exactly the one i mean. Scary clown face with quirky illustrations on the side, and a sort of bag-pipe noise when Jack emerges. I also got a few navy striped canvas garden chairs for £1 each. Again, any 80s caravaner will know the ones. All in all, a highly successful raid, and all for a great cause (I think?!)

Ah, December. Such ripe opportunity for creative indulgence, which, by December 24th, will increasingly feel like creative purgatory. Or as I’ve heard it said, ‘death by Pinterest’. For me, it started in November with a secret source of winter berries. Secret not only to deter potential resource competitors from my more local readership, but also due to the questionable morality of pillaging naturally-growing foliage in the city. These berries provided an early flourish of winter on my dining table, and continued to feature on mantelpiece, wreath and table piece alike throughout the month.

My wreath was assembled during a ladies gathering over cocktails and crafts in early December. This provided a fuel-injection of festive cheer at an early point, but had the unfortunate disadvantage of resulting in a dead wreath by mid-advent. Not to mention the tree, which by Christmas day required a wide cordon lest a carpet of needles obscured entirely the unopened presents beneath, rendering the tree itself a skeletal impression of its former self. On a positive note, I abandoned the 1000 outdoor LED lights from last year, making this year’s decorated tree infinitely more pleasurable to share a living room with.

We mooted the idea of having our first Edinburgh Christmas this year, which was consolidated when duty called at work. Since 1999 we have been making the annual pilgrimage by boat to the homeland to celebrate the festivities in our family home(s) of origin. Hosting family here afforded me the luxury of additional creative extravagances. Of particular pleasure was decorating the dinner table. There is no greater decadence than crisply folded linens, place names, candelabras, centrepieces, table runners, all of which, as it happens, featured on our tableau.

Even Malcolm could not escape the creativity and volunteered to assemble the handmade cracker kit from Waitrose. No one actually likes any of the plastic nonsense that emerges, usually dangerously, from a cracker so it was good to do away with that part of proceedings and move directly to jokes and silly paper hats.

Christmas wouldn’t be complete without dietary indulgence. My chicken liver pate was an unexpected success. One does not expect such gloopy organs to transform into a pleasant appetiser, but such was the case. Or maybe it was just the champagne cocktails we were washing it down with…. There were other homespun elements to our Christmas, but in the end I failed to document them pictorially. Illustrated wrapping paper, some sewn gifts and a few last minute handmade cards were distributed.

January, with its depressing weather and in my case full time working, may diminish creative opportunities somewhat. Seville orange marmalade will certainly feature, but I’m not hopeful about any additional blog-able activities. See you in February!