Welding Poetry

New Orleans is a magical city. Everything you've heard about it is true. There's voodoo, public nudity and too much water. There's also art, and lots of it. When we went a few weeks ago, there was a late-night festival with all the city's galleries open, free booze flowing and people of all ages in the street, absorbing it all. It reminded me of the Liverpool Biennial - or at least, how it could be around Jamaica Street if the weather was clement.

Sculptor David Buckingham trawls Southern California gathering scrap metal. He uses bits of old buses, oil drums, tractors and cars for his work - which is big, bright and laugh-out-loud funny.

We saw his work at Jonathan Ferrera's gallery. Emboldened by gallons of free wine, we got chatting to him and told him how much we liked his work. I love it when artists talk to strangers - even when it's their opening night - and David talked to us so enthusiastically and openly, introducing us to all his friends. His work is based in typography (I think he worked in advertising before becoming a sculptor) it's brash and immediate and references pop culture. He has a series based on lines from films, song lyrics and Americana. I think it's saved from being obvious and cliched by its 'found' element. David doesn't repaint the metal, so everything has a patina which tells the story of its previous life. I'd happily have taken it all home for my walls. (Aside from the gun stuff, but hey - this is America).

Fly Flea

I am almost reluctant to share the location of my favourite NYC Flea Market - but as most of you delicious readers are in the Uk, I guess my secret will be safe.

The Meeker Avenue Flea Market nestles under the deeply dirty and rumbling Brooklyn Queens Expressway. It's two floors of heaven for those of us without much cash but with a love of things from the olden days. The ground floor is a little hit-and-miss (videos without cases, hairbrushes clogged up with hair, that kind of vibe) plus it smells of cat wee. Your best bet is to cover your nose/mouth with a scarf and head up the stairs, past the litter tray to the top. This place is crammed with mostly mid-century furniture and household items.

If you lust after 1950s chrome or early 1960s modernism, then this is the place to pick up chairs, tables, Tvs, lamps and toys. Plus, they have some cool old school (I mean stuff that used to be in the classroom) ephemera - like chalk boards and desks with lids that flip up. Now, I don't know what I would do with one of those, but I'd like it anyway. And did I mention the prices? This place is CHEAP.

Floating in Space

Spiritualized's Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space pretty much sound-tracked my final year at University. From the moment Kate Radley's dead-pan and dreamy announcement kicks off the album, I am soaring amongst the comets.. and so it was when we went to see Jason Pierce (and some people who might or might not be official members of Spiritualized) play the whole record from start to finish. Live. At the Radio City Music Hall.

A splurge on the most expensive tickets was the best credit card purchase I've ever made. We were so close to the stage, and the gospel choir, and the Spaceman himself. The sound was phenomenal. It felt like we had climbed inside the record. It's a heart-break album, but it's also a survival record - with Come Together's galvanizing power, and the indestructible swell of I Think I'm in Love.

I cried at least three times and had goose bumps throughout. Sometimes I wish I had the power to slow time right down. Then I could have enjoyed every note a little more.

Dearest Hen

The best family in the world (after my own of course) is the Mitfords. Having read everything I can get my hands on so far about these incredible women, I am so looking forward to 'Wait for Me!' the autobiography of Deborah, Duchess of Devonshire - the youngest of the clan.

Hearing her on Woman's Hour this week made me sigh with happiness - particularly her love of Elvis (she has Jailhouse Rock as her ringtone!). So many of our aristocrats have done nothing to recommend them except live high on the land - and other people's hard work - but the Mitfords (fascist tendencies not withstanding) have given us so much to enjoy. From Decca's investigative journalism in America in the 1960s, to Debo's radical farm shop at Chatsworth there is something inspirational about these sisters.

I imagine it's because Debo is still alive (thankfully) that no film has yet been made of their lives. When the time comes, it has the potential to be truly magical... but PLEASE don't let them cast Keira Knightly or let her anywhere near it - Hollywood, I am talking to you!

Losing the battle

If you've ever been appalled by a female friend telling you she's been to a strip-bar, then told you to 'lighten up, it's only fun' when you show your displeasure, this book will validate your unease.

In Female Chauvinist Pigs, Levy investigates why - after decades of women fighting against being classified as pieces of meat - some young women today are perfectly happy to be represented as such. These young girls enter wet t-shirt competitions (which should rightfully have died with Jim Davidson's career), take pole dancing lessons, go to topless bars on a works night out, and buy Playboy pencil cases for their pre-teen daughters. They say they're doing it because the battle for equality with men has been won - and they are free to represent their sexuality in any way they choose. The fact that they choose to do it in the same way Page 3 and Hugh Hefner have been doing for years seems lost on them. In this book Ariel Levy interviews young women from various different backgrounds to find out why they are happy to be valued for their breasts rather than their brains.

Reading the book, I felt so angry that women have allowed themselves (ourselves) to be manipulated into believing that public nudity is empowering and that anyone who refuses to laugh along is some kind of prude with no sense of humour. The women who fought so hard for equality must be wondering what went wrong. I am.

Crack Caramel

Sonic Youth are an amazing band, but I'm afraid their feedback-fest was over-shadowed for me this weekend by something far sweeter. My friends and I queued up to see Kim et al rock Prospect Park in Brooklyn for a FREE show. The waiting was worth it not just to have our ears expanded, but because of the best ice cream ever being sold from a cart inside the arena.

I've come to realize I love ice-cream more than any other sweet treat, and could eat one a day if funds allowed (n.b ice-cream - like everything else - is super expensive in NYC. sigh). Anyway, I've eaten plenty of gelato since arriving stateside, and Saturday's cone from Brooklyn's Ample Hills Creamery was just divine. I think the flavour was called something like "salty crack caramel"(I may have added the crack part). It had chunks of crunchy caramel or honeycomb in it, plus hunks of chocolate. It was so delicious, I failed to take a picture - hence the one above, from Ample Hills own web site!

(p.s In typical best/worst style, I managed to drip ice-cream on my favourite bag, which earlier had been shat on by a bird. Ah, them's the breaks).

Best Book Ever!

OK, so I make that claim regularly.. but this time, reader, you'd better believe me. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay is a Pulitzer Prize winning epic by American writer Michael Chabon (who might be best known in Britain for Wonder Boys). In my quest to only read American novels during my year in New York, I was excited to be able to pick this hefty tome up for just $1. In fact, only the previous week, a gaggle of shop assistants fell upon a customer who'd come in clutching the novel. I'd never seen that before. Now, I can see why they did it, as this is a Gotham adventure which has truly stayed with me.

It's the story of two cousins who meet one night in Brooklyn. Both harbour dreams of becoming artists, and through the nascent comic-book business, they become the creators of a character to rival Batman and Superman in their prime: The Escapist.

That's the back drop, but the real power of the story is far deeper than that. The two have complex emotional lives - which almost destroy them. The sweep of the novel is epic - across several decades and continents. It's ambitious, beautifully written, and not a word is wasted.

Arias under the stars

Reasons why New York is an amazing place to live #100,000 .. free outdoor music.

This city is full of the stuff - this week, I could have been to free shows every evening if I'd had the energy. Monday's treat was the Metropolitan Opera's concert at Central Park Summerstage. We spread a picnic out on a blanket, and along with thousands of other people - were treated to spine-tingling singing. I am no opera buff, so the programme of excerpts from different operas was a perfect taster. Susanna Phillips singing 'Can't Help Lovin' that man' from Showboat brought tears to my eyes, and her partnership with Nathan Gunn on 'La ci darem la mano' from Don Giovanni was magical. I loved it so much I am off to see the Met again at Brooklyn Bridge Park on Tuesday!

A home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls

I've just seen Sex and the City 2, and what a waste of $12.50.

I might have known it would be awful, but I couldn't help myself. After all, I am living in New York and whilst a lot younger than Carrie et al, they've been in my life for 12 years and I was curious to find out what happened next, and if she stayed with the decrepit and dull Big.

But this film is truly, truly terrible. It's had some horrendously misogynistic reviews, and it's no worse than the crap Judd Apatow churns out (and his stuff gets lauded - so work that one out), but the missed opportunity to celebrate female friendships and develop the rarely seen on screen lives of middle-aged women really let me down.

Aside from the casual racism, OTT gay stereotyping and vulgar materialism, my personal least favourite scene (and there was a pretty long list) shows Charlotte and Miranda self-pityingly blabbing into some cocktails about how hard motherhood is. Oh yeah - how hard motherhood is when you have no job and a live-in nanny. "How does anyone do it without help?" they burble. At this point I gave up caring. Please, please don't let there be another one. If you want to read more on this topic, check out Bidisha's excellent essay in the Guardian, and this review by Linda West in The Stranger. (p.s the latter was the source of this title post. Neat, eh?)

London Kills Me!

The British press is obsessed with London. Weekend after weekend, I hurl my weighty broadsheet across the room in fury as yet another restaurant/play/shop in the nation's capital gets reviewed, whilst most of my 'locals' never get a mention.

Now, BBC Radio 4 has joined this metropolitan love-fest with their London Season. Don't they realize most people in Britain DON'T live in London, and that the huddled masses outside the M25 couldn't care less about the city?

I wonder why they have embarked upon this season, featuring a debate entitled 'The Greatest City on Earth' and programmes about the history of London, and how it got to be so.. um.. great. YAWN. I would rather a series about Birmingham, Fife or Swansea. Hell, even Gloucester. There are so many rich seams to mine with the stories of Britain's other great conurbations ... whose legends might not be as stitched into the fabric of our national curriculum as London's.

Most irritating of all is a programme, not yet broadcast, called There's More to Life than London, in which apparently "Stuart Cosgrove explains why not everyone wants to live inside the M25". What? really? so the 50 million people who don't live in London have the same reasons for not doing so do they? Blimey, they must be a crazy lot. Perhaps they like the countryside, want a safer environment to bring up their children, don't want to basically burn 20 quid every time they step out of the house, want that house to cost less than two hundred grand, want to buy a pint for less than a fiver, want to know their neighbours and be smiled at in shops. That kind of thing. Yes, there's museums and restaurants and all the smug glee of knowing you're in London, but we know all about that stuff Radio 4 - how about telling us something we don't?

The most appalling part of this programme is the blurb on the website which accompanies it.

"this will be a timely look at how and why, despite political and institutional devolution, we still allow London to dominate British life, and what price we pay for the largely unexamined assumption that everything happens in London".

No BBC, we don't assume that everything happens in London, only those that live there do, and that's the problem!

Can't you keep your mouth shut?

Almost every time I go to the cinema or theatre, I have to ask a fellow member of the audience to shut up. What is it about these people that makes them unable to keep their mouths closed for any period of time? The worst incident happened at a screening of 'Good Night and Good Luck' in Liverpool a few years ago, when my neighbour repeated every single word of dialogue to his non-English speaking girlfriend. When I nudged him and whispered 'shhhh' - he actually responded 'She can't understand the film'.. begging the question - why come to the cinema? Get the Dvd and watch it at home - then you can talk all you want - and I won't hear you.

I think most people who talk at the theatre possibly don't go very often. They are so used to sitting on the sofa, conducting a one-way conversation with Simon Cowell or Jeremy Kyle or whoever's on the box, they don't understand that the big screen / stage isn't just an enlarged version of their Tv, and that there are other people present who don't need or want their moronic commentary. I know people who no longer go to the cinema because of this bad behaviour - what do you think?

Pure grace and beauty

Dance rarely moves me to tears, but the pas de deux Fix Me Jesus by the Alvin Ailey dance company at BAM last week made me cry. Its sheer, simple beauty combined with the spiritual music was unlike anything I had ever seen. Plus, being brought up on European Classical ballet with its tradition of being singularly unimpressed by the dancers until the curtain falls, I loved the audience in Brooklyn whooping and cheering individual steps - these dancers have incredible strength and control and deserve props like break dancers and musicians!

Whilst she wasn't dancing this particular piece, I have to single out Briana Reed (pictured above during Wade in the Water) - one of the best dancers I've ever seen - so strong, joyful and expressive. Wow. Made me want to start dancing again and push my body to extremes.

You can see Fix Me Jesus on youtube, but I am almost reluctant to post the link - as I think seeing it online loses so much of the impact of being immersed in the soaring music and the intimacy of two people dancing barefoot.

Best Food EVER!

My favorite place in all of New York is Pates et Traditions in Williamsburg, a french creperie where the sun is always shining and the conversation is always tres jolie. I always stick with the same dish when I eat here - Le Popeye. Can you guess what its main ingredients are? The service is amazing, the other diners are almost exclusively French and the Prosseco is delicious and not too pricey - hurrah! Sit outside under cherry red umbrellas and feel the best of French cuisine and laid back Brooklyn come together in glorious gluttony.

Plus, last time I ate here a fellow diner turned out to be James Murphy of LCD Sound System!

Mr Big Stuff

Thankfully, it's many years since I needed a good heartbreak song, but today walking along with my ipod shuffling, I was struck by the important role music played in my youth, when I'd been treated appallingly by some indie boy with good hair and a half decent record collection.

Jean Knight's Mr Big Stuff was always a firm favorite back in the mid 90s when I always seemed to get hug up on the wrong sort. Luckily, I went to clubs where I could belt out the words to this classic - typically followed by Aretha, socking it to us R.E.S.P.E.C.T style. Listening to Jean all these years later, I am still bowled over by the power of music linked to memory and how I am suddenly transported from the streets of Brooklyn to a sweaty nightclub in Liverpool in 1996. Also, I still get the same feeling of being ten feet tall, surrounded by my girls and completely empowered - who needs stupid boys and their black polo necks/chain smoking/ philandering ways when you can dance? Plus, I defy you to listen to Mr Big Stuff right now and try not to walk with a self-confident swagger!

My ipod helpfully gave me the male perspective next with Lee Dorsey's Get Out my Life Woman. Of course, McAlmont and Butler brought the 'screw you I don't need you' up to date (for my late teens anyway) with Yes.. and it's immortal line "I feel well enough to tell you what you can do with what you've got to offer". Take that indie boys!

The tipping point

Ok, I have been told by several readers to actually start venting some spleen on this blog about the worst things in life.. and so now's the time.

Tipping in New York city is painful for a Brit. This very evening I was chased (literally) down the street by a waitress who felt short changed by the cash we had left. No, there was nothing wrong with the food or the service, but the meal and the wine were severely over priced, so with a small tip added to the meal - which we left on the table, I had exceeded my daily budget and that was that. The 'when in Rome' guidelines state that 20% is the typical tip for a meal in NYC. I left less than that - but still left what I could afford. The service was adequate and the food Ok. That was that- or should have been. Now I am going to lie awake worrying about money AGAIN and that I am a bad person for leaving so little. Arrrgh.

As it is food in this city is so expensive, every meal out is a bank breaking experience. Every single check we ever get is a shock - far more than expected, more tax, more tip. Why don't they just add $1 per dish or something and then it wouldn't feel as if I am being robbed at guilt point every time I venture outside my own home for food. I accept that in Britain we give a tip for good service and in America the tip is the waiter's wage - but I didn't sign up to be their employer and I don't see why I - who am earning nothing at all - should suddenly be responsible for all these people.

I won't sleep tonight until I have resolved to go back to the bloody restaurant with $10 and an apology. And that is the worst thing about today by a long chalk.

By the Grace of Vogue

Again, I am late with the news here, but I only recently saw The September Issue - the documentary following the production of - yes - the September issue of Vogue being put together. I loved every single second - and what I loved most of all were the two British women at its heart.

Firstly, the ice-queen/edna from The Incredibles herself, Anna Wintour.

Since watching the film, I've taken in times of crisis to asking myself 'what would Wintour do?' - here is a woman who would never cry at work, never care if someone didn't like her, and would certainly not worry a jot about being seen as cold or uncaring - as long as the job got done. I am just sad she chooses to wear so much fur. It's unappealing. However, I don't doubt she could catch, slaughter and skin the animal herself, so she probably isn't scared of the animal rights brigade.

The other star of the show is Grace Coddington, the ex-model who's been the creative pulse of Vogue for 20 years. Anna describes her as a creative genius - and watching her style a fashion shoot at Versailles is breathtaking - she has an incredible feel for every detail. Plus, she is a hilarious woman. I would love have afternoon tea with her, or visit her house in the Hamptons and meet all her cats.

As a Brit in New York myself, I am fascinated by their success - but not surprised. Their Britishness makes them seem more assertive and decisive somehow, compared with the airy fairy attitude of some of their colleagues. People in New York always say how 'smart' they think Brits are because of the accent. Team that with a no-bullshit attitude and some glowering, and you've got a killer combination ready to dominate fashion publishing.

A friend of mine said she rushed out to buy British Vogue as soon as she had seen The September Issue - only to be bitterly disappointed by its contents. I have to say I think American Vogue has the edge - there are even articles in there with words and everything - real journalism in between the pretty pictures. I love love love fashion and people like Grace Coddington who inhabit it so completely and purely and with a sense of humor inspire me no end.

My guitar hero

It's probably the most obvious thing to say at the moment, bearing in mind the Jett-mania which seems to have swept the world since the release of the Runaways film, but I am still going to dedicate today's best thing to Joan Jett. Watching the film, I was completely in awe of a teenage girl who could live the rock n roll dream to its fullest, who dressed so completely her own way and who really did beat the boys at their own game.

Women in rock is thankfully a well-worn path now, but there are still shamefully few female guitarists who compete in that Hendrix/Clapton/Slash league. In fact, Joan Jett and Joni Mitchell were the only two women featured in Rolling Stone's 100 greatest guitarists poll a few years ago. Is this because women aren't inspired to play the guitar in that very male tradition? Or is it because women's pop music is more collaborative - not allowing for the attention grabbing geeeetar solo favored by their male counterparts? Maybe it's because guitarists are a bit geeky and all that obsessional stuff about types of guitars and pedals doesn't appeal to many girls. Lita Ford played lead in the Runaways - but Joan played rhythm guitar - and always seemed to be the beating heart of the band.

I wonder if this film will encourage young girls to pick up the guitar and learn to play - and I mean really play. I always dreamed of being in a band when I was 15, but I completely lacked the discipline and confidence needed to take it to any level beyond after school pub discussions. What impresses me the most about the young JJ is that she took Bowie, T-Rex and the Pistols and rampaged head first into the dirty music business taking no shit from anyone. She never once seemed to think she couldn't do it. Her stance, her sneer, her raw power unlike any other female musician before her - she made the blueprint. My favorite bit of the film, incidentally was the beautiful Crimson and Clover segment which I won't discuss in more detail, in case you haven't yet seen the film. It's probably one of the most romantic (lesbian) moments in 21st century cinema. Hmmm - there probably haven't been that many admittedly - but let's start a list!

It had to be you!

I've come to terms with the fact that When Harry Met Sally is one of my favorite films. This has recently been confirmed to me as I've listened several times to an amazing Radio 4 documentary celebrating 20 years since the film's release. It shames me to note that I cried both times JUST LISTENING TO THE DOCUMENTARY not even watching the film itself! Of course, when I watch the film I laugh and cry in equal measure. I had a copy on VHS which (together with Gone With the Wind) got me through 9 months living in one of Britain's most depressing places. I am an unabashed romantic - and also someone who has often questioned whether men and women can be proper friends - and I mean friendships in which there has never been ANY attraction on either side. Now, I think it's possible - but it's a lot rarer then people would have you believe.

Another reason for my renewed love of When Harry Met Sally is it's New York setting. It's never classified as a 'New York' film, but living here now I feel it couldn't have been set anywhere else - especially at the tail end of the 1980s. Harry and Sally relocate from Chicago to the big apple at the start of the film. They are young, upwardly mobile and dead set on independence - a big theme of the era.

An interesting point made by one contributor to the documentary: even though WHMS is so popular, we have seen a degeneration in romantic comedy movies since its release. The film was aimed at both men and women - the wise cracking relationship between the couple appealing to both sexes. Sally's character in particular was complex and real - a world away from the dumb 'anywoman' characters in Judd Apatow pictures for example. Nowadays we are force-fed bland rom-coms starring Amy Adams - and they are exclusively aimed at women. I wish the documentary was still online for you to listen to - but alas no. You'll just have to make do with the film itself.

P.s geeky fan fact alert - When Harry Met Sally was the first time the phrase 'high maintenance' was used to describe someone!

No Fleas on Me!

My favourite place in the world to be (other than in bed) at the moment is the Brooklyn Flea. This adventure into a world of antiques, vintage clothes and hand-crafted wonders, takes place every weekend in Forte Greene, Brooklyn.

All winter I have enjoyed travelling to the handsome former Williamsburgh Savings Bank Tower at One, Hanson Place for several hours of truffling for treasure! As of next weekend, the flea market will be outside on Saturdays, and stay indoors on Sundays. Personally, whilst I love the great outdoors - you can't beat the breath-taking splendour of this building.

It was constructed in the 1920s, when banks liked to show off their wealth (before they started stealing ours). The sheer scale of the place is incredible - a soaring, vaulted gold dome would be more at home in a European cathedral than a bank, and there's an incredible mosaic map on the far wall, which I presume shows Brooklyn, with Manhattan in the far distance! It's amazing to imagine what it would have been like to be a bank teller working there in the 1930s and 40s. As it stands today, it's one of the best flea markets I have ever been to. Actually, I'd call it an antiques fair as the prices are on the steep side, particularly for clothes. But the stuff is great quality. My favourite finds so far - a 1950s picnic set (a snip at $20), a gorgeous 80s silk summer dress and a book from 1972, entitled 'What Makes Men Tick'.. more of which to come in a later post!

The Best Edition Of Desert Island Discs yet!

That's a bold claim, I know - and I also can't believe I am four posts into this project, and I haven't mentioned Radio 4 once. That's all set to change - and as you'll soon learn, Radio 4 is my church. I listen to almost every programme it throws at me.

Desert Island Discs is one of the best - and this week the castaway was Frank Cottrell Boyce - screenwriter, playwright, novelist and all round good egg. I've had the pleasure of meeting him a few times - and a more twinkly man it's hard to imagine. He's another of those people whose sheer output can make you feel humbled. 24 Hour Party People and Welcome to Sarajevo would be the pinnacle of most writers careers - but for him, they form only a small part.

Unlike most guests on D.I.D, he didn't have a tough upbringing or any sort of family problems - he loved school, going to church and his parents. He and his wife have seven children because they started having kids and liked it so carried on, and he obviously misses the older ones who've flown the family home. Kirsty Young - often a little restrained - cracked up a couple of times, and succumbed to his charms. I did groan when she asked that tired old chestnut "why do you still live in Liverpool?". But aside from that, the programme was a delightful listen from start to finish, and an inspirational kick up the arse to anyone who's writing anything be it a blog, novel or film script. I loved most of his music choices too - could have done without Big Country, but Noggin the Nog is always welcome - and David Bowie, well as Frank said, his music always seems to tell you that 'life can be a lot more' - what a great philosophy to live by.

You can read Frank's music choices here.

Spun out by a great New York novel

I have just finished Colum McCann's colossal New York novel 'Let the Great World Spin'. Several different narrators weave in and out of each other's lives against the back drop of Philipe Petit's infamous tightrope walk between the twin towers of the World Trade Center in 1974.

It's one of those books which is so beautifully written you have to keep putting it aside just to digest the use and choice of words. I loved the idea of taking that incredible walk as an underlying theme - the idea that Petit did something so audacious and creative and made something put of thin air - yet that walk, that view doesn't exist anymore. As McCann writes, "The tightrope walk was an act of creation that seemed to stand in direct defiance to the act of destruction twenty seven years later".

The book isn't explicitly a 9/11 novel, but Colum McCann was inspired to write it after his father in law escaped from his office in the north tower, and walked to the family home covered in that grim dust. It's true too that every time you picture the tiny figure balancing between those two towers, you can't help but think what came afterwards, and how New York as a city was united by those two episodes in very different ways. It's definitely story which feeds off New York city - from the Bronx projects aflame to a Park Avenue penthouse.

We went to hear Colum McCann talk about the novel a few weeks ago at the Powerhouse Arena in DUMBO, and it was refreshing to hear someone talk honestly about the length of time it takes to write a book - and the difficulty of speaking in voices which are not your own.

My New Favourite Artist (for today, anyway)

There are few things finer than wandering into a gallery to see the work of an artist you have never heard of, only to discover he or she is actually one of your favourites! This happened to me at MOMA in New York city last week, and as a result of my conversion I advise you to make William Kentridge your new number one.

His exhibition Five Themes is a brilliant, multimedia swoop through drawing, torn paper, animation, film and theatre design. Taking themes from the history of his native South Africa and mixing them with avant garde film history and Russian literature - this exhibition will appeal to those who like an artist who can really draw/paint and those who seek to be gobsmacked that one person is capable of creating this immense body of work over just 20 years. My favorite section was an auditorium where we sat spellbound as a mechanical theatre starring motorized puppets and an animated rhino performed Mozart's The Magic Flute. I can say no more than that as I would love you to go and see it for yourselves. Magical. I can truly say I have never seen anything like it. The mechanism reminded me of a toy theatre I had as a child.

This week I have been thinking about the marriage of 'art' and music - and how people who are adept at one often are extremely talented at the other. Check out Iannis Xenakis at the Drawing Center in New York for more. Made my head hurt.

Liberty Targets Me

I am a complete sucker for collaborations between high end brands and high street stores. Way back in the olden days (just checked - it was about 5 years ago), I went faint over Bella Freud for Miss Selfridge, and my heart raced for Luella at New Look. Since then, I fell in love with Celia Birtwell all over again - and her dreamy dresses for Topshop. I've even swallowed the hype by dabbling in Kate Moss for that same store. So I didn't surprise myself by joining the hordes in Bryant Park, New York city for the launch of Liberty of London for Target.

As soon as I heard those two brands in one sentence, I got palpitations. I could never afford a Liberty pencil case at their normal prices - so the idea that some of those fabrics could end up in my wardrobe had my heart beating faster. For a home sick English rose, the shop itself was a slice of everything that's good about Spring in the mother country - daffodils, hydrangeas and tea pots were the right side of twee - and created a sense of nostalgia akin to a Lula magazine photo shoot. Despite the empty shelves (well, I am always late so of course I missed the queues, the stampede and consequently a lot of the good stuff) it was still a beautiful space as you can see from these pictures.

The clothes were lovely - though I could have told Target that five changing rooms wouldn't suffice. Being broke, I left with nothing for myself - but clutching a present for a friend (baby clothes). It doesn't actually matter to me that I didn't buy anything for me, I think the anticipation of seeing the collection and knowing I could afford it if I wanted it is enough.