Stratford Westfield-review

Since its opening in mid September, Westfield Stratford City shopping centre has been widely talked about, and on visiting this shopaholic’s paradise, it’s easy to see why.

Some shops still unopened

The centre is home to almost every high street retailer you can imagine, from Primark to John Lewis, Armani to H&M, making it easy to do all your Christmas shopping in one foul swoop. However, it’s disappointing that two months since the centre opened, several main high street retailers such as Disney Store, Oasis, Vodafone and Hawkins Bazaar are still yet to open.

As well as the everyday and designer shops, there are some less well known brands, such as

 French Eye (men’s suits), Pulp (not entirely sure) and Puzzle Club (more calendars than puzzles by the looks of it). Perhaps the most surprising of all is the presence of a full size Waitrose supermarket at one end of the centre, giving more than a brief nod to the target clientele of the centre, and adding a very French twist to it.

Designer labels...

The initial problem on entering the centre, particularly for a first time visitor, is the lack of printed maps that you normally get in such places. Although this is no doubt beneficial for the environment, it does little to help those with a poor sense of direction, and there are not as many of those new fangled touch screen maps as you would expect either. Even coming over the bridge from Stratford station, you are faced with the choice of heading inside or browsing the outside shops first, with little signposting to aid your decision. The centre as a whole was less open plan than the Westfield centre in White City, adding to navigational problems.  Whilst this is fine for browsing, it is not at all helpful if you are looking for a particular shop. The Concierge staff are very helpful, although you get the impression that they have learned directions to every shop, cafe and restaurant off by heart and have been trained to regurgitate such information to you in a robot-like fashion.

The centre is organised much the same way as Westfield White City-all kids’ clothes and toy shops are located in the same vicinity, making for an easier shopping trip that all parents will be grateful for come Christmas Eve.

Champagne bar, anyone? I'll stick to McDonalds thanks.

As with all modern shopping centres, seating areas seem to be few and far between. There was quite a bunfight for a seat in one of the several food courts at lunchtime, a situation that is no doubt going to require nerves of steel for visiting any closer to Christmas. For a more peaceful lunchtime, head to the area near Waitrose, where there are more unique (and hence more expensive, but also less rammed) eateries, such as ElCantara, a Moorish deli and tapas bar. Outside of food courts, seating was also lacking, although a couple of strategically placed armchairs offer lovely views over the outside walkway and towards the Olympic park.

Christmas in John Lewis...no sign of the kid from the ad though!

Staff in all shops are very helpful and attentive, hardly surprising considering the centre has only been for less than two months; their nerves may frazzle entirely during the Christmas period.

The centre is attracting celebrities too-just last night Danni Minogue attended a book signing in the newly opened Foyles book shop, and Justin Bieber switched on the Christmas lights recently.

 Overall the centre is impressive, not least for the fact that they have squeezed so many shops in under one roof. And if you do run out of stores inside, there are further shops outside in the area named “The Street”, plus a cinema, bowling alley, casino and soon a Christmas ice rink too.

The centre is dwarfed by the adjacent casino

The Young Apprentice-Episode 1

Overinflated public school egos, oversized suits and irrelevant shots of London skyscrapers, just for dramatic effect. It can only be a new series of The Young Apprentice.

This mini-spin off of The Apprentice relaunched on Monday, with another group of adolescents keen to impress Sugar and his homies, and it seems the contestants are as egotistical as ever. Their opening statements were all going so well, if cliched (although you get the impressions that whoever scripted them neglected to inform  Mohammed of the relevance of the words "I have a dream") with one young lady proclaiming within the opening sequence "No-one intimidates me because I know I am better than them." Little charmers.

Either Sugar is going soppy in his old age, or he really does have a soft spot for the youth of today. In his opening speech to them he declared "I love you lot" and throughout the episode went on to joke with them more readily than he usually does with the more mature contestants of The Apprentice. It was good, if slightly unnerving to see a softer side to the man behind The Finger.

The task turned out to be making and selling frozen treats for maximum profit. Fairly simple you would think? Yet the girls ended up disposing of a large proportion of their ingredients before they'd even left the factory and fluffing their maths entirely. It was shocking to see Sugar's aide Nick supporting their unethical selling method of putting toppings onto ice creams before customers had the chance to protest, then charging them for the privilege, not to mention charging for the cones.

The boys, on the other hand, opted for the more straight forward method of press ganging passers by into buying ice creams. A couple in particular were overly aggressive in their selling tactics, resembling an East End market stall. Most ingenious idea of the day was offering deliveries of ice cream to sunbathers on the beach.

Both teams ended up slashing their prices at the end of the day to sell off their stock, a move which did little to impress Sugar.

Back in the boardroom, amid a frenzy of shouting and squabbling, it was revealed that the girls had won. Off they went to frolic down hills and leave James and Mohammed to squabble over whose idea the pirate theme was, a scene which became painful and cringeworthy to watch, particularly when Mohammed refused to back down despite there being footage attributing the idea to James the bulldozer.

As it turned out, the words Essex and entrepreneur didn't bond together as well as Mohammed had hoped, as he was on the receiving end of those immortal words "you're fired". Ah well, back to satellites for you, my friend.

My early prediction at this stage would be for Harry Maxwell to win, or at least to go far. He was kept quiet during this episode, mainly drowned out by the immature squabblings of his peers, but he was seen in the background working on the maths for his team with more success than the girls. One to watch, perhaps.

A tiny bit marvellous-book review

A tiny bit marvellous is comedian Dawn French's first dibble in the world of fiction writing, following her autobiography Dear Fatty.

Rather than relying heavily on plot to retain readers, as the majority of fiction writers tend to do, French's writing style alone carries the book. Adopting three entirely different writing styles for Mo, Dora and Peter (Oscar) Battle allows their individual world view to be understood in no uncertain terms. However, in places Dora's chapters are sprinkled a little too liberally with "like" and other such teenage markers.

From the start you very much get the impression that the matriarchal character of Mo is, perhaps subconsciously, based loosely on French herself. Her quick witted ways have strong echoes of Dear Fatty 

French's admirable versatility and extreme talent as both a comedic and serious writer are well showcased throughout this book, which is perhaps not as gripping as French's autobiography, Dear Fatty, but equally well written and deserving of a read.

For more Scribbling Lau book reviews, click here, or to read my review of Dawn French's 'Dear Fatty', click here.

The Exmoor Emperor

I've just rediscovered this article I wrote this time last year as a satirical take on the story of the Exmoor Emperor (for a reminder of the story, click here). Unfortunately the article never got published in the satirical magazine I wrote it for, so I thought I'd share it here instead. All comments welcome.

As the mystery deepens with regards to the disappearance of the ‘Exmoor Emperor’, more and more witnesses from the country village of Rackenford are coming forward, excited at the prospect of appearing in a newspaper, or even better, this new fangled device called a ‘television’.

“Well my lover” said Jim Newit, local farmer and token country bumpkin, when questioned on his knowledge of the subject, “all I knows is that I was sitting here, watching me sheeps, oh they’re me pride and joy they are, when out of the sky came what can only be described as a very modern vehicle, horse drawn and all it was, and in it sat a portly gentleman wearing a red velvet jacket. I don’t know what language he was speaking, all ‘e said was ‘oh oh oh’ and then muttered something about needing to find the bugger before anyone realised the mistake over ‘Rudie’ at the abattoir. Now my lover, I’m not too sure who Rudie is, but if you’re asking me, it sounds like one of those gangster names from old London Town.  Before I knew what was ‘appenin’ he had bundled the emperor into a giant sack marked ‘toys’ and instructed his herd to fly to B&Q. He said something about needing some red paint to make this cover-up work. Anyway he flew back off into the sky. It was all very sudden, and to be quite frank, I’m not sure I like it.”    

So it appears that the search continues. Local police are puzzled by the description of the thief. “ ‘e must been an outsider” commented head of local police Frank Merton “for ‘e was seen wearing a red jacket and everyone around here is a die hard fan of the tweed look.” When asked whether any forensic tests had been undertaken on the scene of crime, Merton looked confused and muttered something about the criminal’s friends being unlikely to give any information to the police. This is the largest crime ever committed on Rackenford police territory, the full scale police investigation involving all two and a half police officers of the Rackenford force (and a Hereford cow named Bessie, who does the paperwork for the force.)

When Farmer Jones was asked if he had anything to add, he simply asked “Will I be on a television now? We have one in the village pub now and everything, it’s all very exciting, although we’ve yet to work out how to switch it on, like”

Talking clock-Product review

A recent visit to one of my favourite shops, Give the dog a bone, resulted in a rather spontaneous purchase on my part.  A talking clock. How exciting. And in the shape of an apple too!

"What does it say?" I asked the befuddled looking shop assistant, who thankfully is also one of my closest friends, and therefore used to my crazy ramblings, "Does it dish out infinite words of wisdom and inspiration in your darkest hours? Or can you record your own utterances and have them played back to you?"


Actually, the clock tells you the time and the temperature when you press the little stalky button on top. As it happened, I had just relegated my old clock to the drawer, battery-less, for being too noisy, and so I took this as a sign that it was meant to be and purchased the clock.

In theory a talking clock is a grand old idea, one that Wallace and Gromit would have been proud to come up with. In fact they're probably kicking themselves right now that they didn't. Calm down lads, and have another piece of Wensleydale, I see some flaws in this product.

As well as the talking setting, where you press the apple stalk to hear the time, the clock also has a silent setting. If you press the stalk, the screen lights up, showing you the time and temperature. It's one of those colour changing screens, that stays alight for 20-30 seconds going through several colours of light before turning itself off. Either setting is great for people who can't sleep easily with the light of a clock glaring down at them.

The more sharp minded reader will have already noticed the problem with this. In order to see/hear the time in the middle of night, you have to drag your arm out of it's lovely warm position under your duvet, s-t-r-e-t-c-h across to the other side of the bed, possibly across anyone else who happens to be in your bed and press the button. Plus, if it's on the speaker setting, it is liable to wake other people up, resulting in angry housemates. The possibilities are endless.

Some of the instructions are written in questionable English. This isn't an English language student and aspiring writer being pernickity over the odd misplaced apostrophe. Oh no. I quote one paragraph from the instructions

           "when the alarm unseal, it will play the music ring 

when the alarm time arrive the setting time, music will 

continue one minute, it will talk time one time 

when the music talking at last second."

Resultingly, the alarm hasn't successfully worked yet, so no comment on what sound it may or may not make. Not a problem if you're a student who rarely has anyway to be before 11am. Slightly problematic if you're a businessman who must be up at 6:32:23 each morning to catch an overpacked train to a bustling city in order to do a highly-important-yet-top-secret job.

Another annoyance is the voice. It's an American woman, and a highly annoying one at that. There is nothing wrong with American women, or indeed their voices, except that this particular one happens to be annoying. On reflection, maybe that'll make an effective alarm. Maybe we'll never know.

If you're in the market (or indeed, in Give the dog a bone) for a serious clock, then this fruit themed wonder is probably not for you. If, however you're looking for something a little bit quirky, then this clock is unusual and definitely has it's benefits. The annoying American woman is not one of them.

Dear Fatty-book review

Dear Dawn French,

I have just finished reading your fabulous autobiography "Dear Fatty". My, you are a funny lady, aren't you? I mean, we all knew that. Who could forget you puddle-diving, gate-hopping, chocolate-munching antics as the lovely Geraldine in The Vicar of Dibley. But who knew that under your smiley, cuddly exterior (I hope you don't mind me calling you cuddly. I don't think you will) there is such a fiercely protective mother, such a devoted wife, such a caring daughter and sister?

It makes such a refreshing change for a celebrity autobiography to not be all me, me, me. Obviously it is largely about you, it wouldn't be a very good autobiography if it wasn't now, would it? But how clever of you to address it to members of your family and your friends, who have helped you to become who you are today. It adds a certain poignancy, don't you think? But so laugh out loud so funny at the same time. Genius.

And of course, it was good to finally learn where your love of Terry's Chocolate Oranges comes from.

May you keep entertaining our nation for many years to come. You and Fatty. Although I've just seen her on the tellybob. Anyway anyway anyway, fab book, keep being funny.


Laura Reynolds (not a nickname)
(age 20)


P.S  I hope you gave Official Tin Voice from the Athletics competition hell. I'm sure you did. That's why so many people like you. That Madonna lady wouldn't have done, she would have been pleased for the attention, and for everyone to see her new face stretching.


                                                                  ***


Dear Fatty is the fabulous autobiography of Dawn French, Vicar of Dibley, comedienne extraordinaire and all round seemingly lovely lady. She has always been a celebrity to admire, both for her refusal to conform to the stereotypes expected of celebrities nowadays, and for the way she has managed to keep her successful career and family life separate, leading an apparently normal life away from the limelight, and allowing her daughter to do the same. However, Dear Fatty sheds knew light on the amazing strength of this admirable woman, in the face of personal tragedy, blatant racism, and of course mothering a teenager.

If you are familiar with any of the work of Dawn French, you will be able to hear her brilliant comedy voice throughout as you read Dear Fatty. Her brilliant letters aimed at Madonna provide a brilliant comedy angle

Velcro factor: 7/10. There is no specific drama making you stick to reading the book, but as with all autobiographies, you kind of want to fast forward to the bit where she gets famous. And of course, the next punchline is always just over the page.

Humour score: 9/10. Well, she is a comedian, y'know.

Overall rating: 8/10.  Probably not good for reading on a packed train, or anywhere it would be considered unacceptable to chuckle out loud. Oh hell, try it, spread the joy.

Look what I found...

No really, look!

YES! FROOT LOOPS!

For the uninitiated, (and shame on you) Froot Loops are a breakfast cereal hailing from the grand old U S of A. They're like Cheerios, in that they're round, but with added colour, flavour, sugar and, best of all,  E-NUMBERS!

Stumbling between Covent Garden and Leicester Square yesterday I came across a wondrous little shop called Cyber Candy, selling all sorts of foreign sweets and snacks, mainly from America (Hersheys, for example), and British sweets that you can no longer get elsewhere such as Wonka Nerds, Dweebs and Runts.I actually went in the shop with hopes of encountering Fizzy Jerks, so if anyone reading this knows where I can get some, PLEASE let me know. I had a quick scout around, and was about to leave when I saw them. Froot Loops. Glittering down at me from the top shelf, begging to be bought.

So that is how I came to be walking through Leicester Square with  two beautiful pots of this holy grail, amassing a total of, well, of 84g of the fruity wonderness. I contemplated eating them then and there, but you can't have Froot Loops without milk, so decided to wait until this morning at breakfast. I was, however, extremely worried that they wouldn't be as good as I remember and I would end up with another disappointment of a childhood memory. Mountain Dew was bad enough.

Honest to God, I've never been so excited about getting out of bed. They were literally begging to be eaten!

I peeled back the lid and sniffed, the sweet e-number crammed smell transporting me instantly back to America. Actually, Canada. I closed my eyes and was instantly back in July 1998, the basement restaurant of the Holiday Inn, Toronto, where my lifelong love affair began. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the pot was quite full too, having feared that I had been ripped off with pots full of air, a token loop of each colour at the bottom.

Somehow, it didn't feel right putting this holy grail, the epitome of the American Dream, next to a good old British cuppa, so I did away with my breakfast brew. You know it's a special day when that happens.

Once the milk was poured, I was faced with the age old quandary that all dedicated Froot Loop fans will identify with; do I eat fast, as is my tactic with normal cereal, to get to the bottom before the cereal has gone soggy? But you forget, dear reader, that this is no ordinary cereal. The other option was to linger, take my time, enjoy the moment, and wait for that magical bit at the end where all the milk is colourful. Being as indecisive as I am, I took the middle road and ate at an average pace. I successfully finished before the cereal went soggy but was thoroughly disappointed to see the milk had resolutely stayed white. Is the beautiful rainbow coloured milk I remember from my youth nothing more than a figment of my imagination? How saddening.

My conclusion? These bad boys are like America in a pot. Milk colouring aside, they really are as good as I remember, fruity, sugary heaven. I've been bouncing off the walls all day as well. Actually can't wait for breakfast tomorrow!


PS. If you want to find the shop where I bought these and are having difficulty, it's next to a bright pink shop called 'Snog'. Enough said, really.

A sandwich short of a prawn.

You've been good enough to take the time out of your busy schedule to click on a link in some obscure corner of the interweb to get here, so I'll get to the point. M&S have changed their prawn sandwiches, and one is not amused ('one' being me. For all I know, Her Maj is rolling around with joy on the floor of her local M&S food store as I write this, with Philip shouting "Liz, Liz! Has one lost one's marbles?"  If only he'd had the prawn sarnie, he'd know...)

I digress. Prawn sandwiches. Well, for a start, some clown has started putting pepper in there (the condiment kind, not the vegetable kind, not that either is acceptable.) For the joy(?) of this extra pepper, you can add on an extra 25p to the price thank-you-very-much-and-goodnight.

There is also extra mayo. "Extra mayo?" I hear you cry, "What a delight!" and yes, I was tempted to agree with you at first, but having delved deeper into the issue, it seems that this extra mayo is covering something more sinister; fewer prawns.

'I see what's happening here' I thought to myself as one of my few remaining prawns slid inelegantly out of my grasp and into the clutches of a lurking pigeon. They have decided to remove some of the prawns, no doubt to please a certain Mr. Fearnley-Whittingstall, and tried to cover it up by adding extra mayo, and the elusive pepper. By the time they were done, they were so pleased with the more wholesome looking final product that they realised they could add an extra 25p for the pleasure of it.

Beware the wrath of the prawn sandwich, my friend. And also the pigeon who watched me eat it, he was kind of big.

The truth about GHDs-product review

GHDs; Misunderstood by men, worshipped by women. And until recently, misunderstood by me, too.

Never having been the most feminine of teenage girls, it was always beyond me why anyone would spend over £100 on a pair of hair straighteners.  The hype that surrounds them has always gone over my head, no pun intended. What makes them different from any other pair of straighteners (except the price)? Surely your hair can only get so straight, regardless of whether you spend £30 or £100 on straighteners? Even now, I can sense pampered and primped women everywhere shaking their heads in despair at my ignorance as I write this.

My limited use of straighteners has always been reserved for special occasions and very bad hair days, however I seem to be very accident prone with them (although on reflection, that is a sweeping statement that can be applied to most areas of my life). I've got through several pairs in my teenage years; Babyliss, Remington, Vidal Sassoon- hell, one pair even exploded in my face, mid-straighten. I've still got the scars from that one, but it didn't deter me in my search for controllable hair. I bought another pair, and kept straightening, hoping for some sort of miracle. All these other brands did an OK job-my hair was always straighter when I finished than when I started, but nothing amazing happened. I guess, then, that it was curiosity more than anything that made me bite the bullet and splash the cash on a shiny new pair of GHD gold max stylers.

Even the process of buying them was daunting; Having seen the adverts full of gorgeous goddesses with naturally amazing hair, and even looking at the sort of people I know who already own GHDs, I felt as if I wasn't good enough to own them, that I didn't have a right to, a fear that I may be laughed out of any one of the overpriced salons I could purchase them from.  I had looked on the website before, so that I knew exactly which model I wanted and didn't make a fool of myself when asking for them, and tried oh-so-hard not to wince at the price as I handed my credit card over, still feeling the need to prove myself worthy of the 'in-crowd' for whom such purchases are normally reserved.

The whole way home I was dying to know- did the secret of good hair now lie within my grasp, my life long search for the holy grail over, or had I just been conned out of £100 for a distinctly average product?

My conclusion? GHDs are different, they do seem to work better, and they leave your hair feeling softer and shinier than other straighteners I've used, although whether this is a short term effect that will wear off remains to be seen. It may even be psychological , just knowing that I have bought a more expensive and highly coveted product. I don't know what the GHD secret is, but I'm amazed they've kept it under wraps and away from competitors for so long. Worth the extra money? In my case, definitely; my hair has become so long, thick and generally uncontrollable that other straighteners were having little effect. GHDs make it more manageable within minutes and, on days when I'm willing to put the extra time in, presentable, which it hasn't been in a while!

In short, I'm a convert.

Thrift shop buzz #2

I've been at it again. I was merely walking past British Heart Foundation this morning, and BAM, next thing I know I'm in the changing room armed with two jumpers and a dress. Fortunately for my bank balance, the jumpers didn't fit, but I did end up with this rather elegant tweed effect dress, a bargain for £3.75!

It's perfect for interviews (which I hope I will get some of soon, or else I'm doing this job hunt thing a bit wrong), or work experience etc. The thing I love about it most is the length. I've always loved dresses like this, but I normally find they are way too long on me and I end up looking even shorter than my already challenging 5ft1. But this one is the perfect length for me, finishing just above the knee, as most dresses of this type should. Lovely.