A Second Attempt at Arson

By the second night, Ollie had decided he wanted pancakes as well and I still had the jug of batter mix in the fridge from my failed attempts the previous evening. So after a successful session of cutting his hair without the loss of limb, he entrusted me to make some more pancakes without setting the kitchen on fire again. 

I used a large pan, and decided to make smaller scotch pancakes to avoid any disasters. Despite this, I still managed to drop a lump of butter onto the stove AGAIN, but was able to wipe it away before it caught fire. The pancakes survived, and Ollie was delighted with his stack of belling-style nutella and banana pancakes. I flicked the induction hob off and did the washing up and that was that.

Or so I thought! The next morning Ollie headed into the kitchen and suddenly I heard the same 'CONNIE' my Dad would growl when I was 6 and had stomped on a sieve. I leapt out of bed and dashed to the kitchen. 'You've left the hob on ALL. NIGHT.' he said. I just can't believe it... Apparently this had been the one time he hadn't obsessively checked all the hob switches before bed, and I'd gone and left it on. I can never tease him about his OCD again. In my defence, the hob switch had been resting between 9 and 0, so whilst it was still hot, I don't think it had been on really hot...? I hope. And the good news is I haven't 'burnt the element out' or whatever technical term it is. I think for not I'm just going to sit with my hands in oven gloves and rock in the corner of the sitting room, as far away from the kitchen as possible. I'm starting to feel like Edward Scissorhands with my culinary expertise rapidly going down the drain. All I can do is be thankful that pancake day is a year away and in the meantime I need to work on not setting fire to the kitchen! 

How Not To Make Pancakes

Hallelujah! It's pancake day again. I've been craving pancakes since I realised Shrove Tuesday was upon us again... yesterday.

I raced home this evening, dreaming of all the guilt-free Nutella I could eat, with bananas all chopped and folded up in a gloriously stodgy yet fluffy pancake. During dinner we had a small incident with some questionable pasta sauce, but I didn't let that deter me. After I'd tidied away I set about making pancakes, using the three vital ingredients that every cupboard has: an egg, plain flour, and milk.

I take pride in the fact that I do not require a recipe for a batter mix - it's all about getting the right consistency. If it's too thick, you add more milk; too sloppy: more flour. So I popped my penultimate Clarence Court Burford Brown egg into a pyrex jug, and started pouring out the flour. There were a lot of large crumb-like objects in the packet which I assumed were just larger clumps of flour, and among the noise of the butter sizzling in the pan and the extractor fan, I said to my boyfriend 'I didn't know flour had a best before date?' after seeing that the packet in my hand read '2012'. Then, after giving the nearly-empty bag a good shake and more 'crumbs' falling out into a heap on top of my beautiful (and expensive) egg, I looked down and realised that the flour was spotty... and had weird seeds in. All this was done with a narrative to my boyfriend, until I suddenly realised that these 'seeds' were grey and wriggling. In an instant, I shoved the jug into the sink and ran into the bathroom in terror to wash my hands and make sure I hadn't accidentally inhaled a whateverthatwas or had one crawling up my arm.

By the time I returned (in washing up gloves and outdoor boots) the boyfriend had disposed of the flour and egg contents, so I spent the subsequent half hour emptying out our food cupboard and binning anything in open packets or that we hadn't used in months (lentils, pearl barley, paella rice). I also interrogated the boyfriend who insisted that the rice, icing sugar, raisins and dry pasta would be safe as weevils (what a disgusting word) don't like dry or sweet stuff and they don't have the amino acids that flour has. I then phoned my Dad for secondary guidance who advised that if I got the pan hot enough I wouldn't have to worry about weevils - they'd provide extra protein, followed by a call to my mother for some sympathy - who suggested SIEVING out the weevils. Sometimes I think I'm adopted.

So back to square one, feeling traumatised and seriously considering living a gluten free lifestyle thanks to the flour fiasco. After deciding that I really did want pancakes and that it was worth using up the last posh egg, I dug out a Kilner jar of flour - probably even older but with a trusty seal to deter any creepy crawlies - and started again. Making the batter went smoothly this time, sans hiccups, and it was all starting to look quite promising... until I set fire to the kitchen.

I added some mixture to the hot, buttery pan and swirled the mix around. The first pancake came out quite thin and crispy, so I added a bit more mixture on the second go. As I was twirling the pan around - very gently - half the pancake suddenly stuck to the pan so I gave it a small nudge and before I knew it, the other half had slopped right over the pan and across the entire hob, like pancake vomit. I let out a short scream, prompting the boyfriend to check from the safe distance of the sofa if I was alright. So far, things were still under control if a little messy, so I replied 'no, no.. It's fine' whilst scraping the batter mix off with the spatula. Then suddenly, the melted butter used to grease the pan - which had also slopped onto the hob - set on fire in such a comical way, and all I could do was scream a bit louder and stand there waving an empty frying pan madly at the hob as the flames quivered on the glass hob - leaving me utterly speechless, and remembering something about using a damp cloth to put it out. Thank goodness the boyfriend had sense to take on board the seriousness of me becoming speechless with stifled yelps and rushed over in time to guide the pan directly onto the flames to put it out.

The pancake mixture lay in a horrible splatter across the stove and there was now a giant burnt crust forming on the stove and bottom of the pan. If you had been there at that moment, you would not have believed that in on a 'good' day, I am quite the talented chef. The remains looked like a pancake slaughter session or the aftermath of a food fight, and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I ended up doing both. At the same time.

It took the boyfriend a while before he could see the funny side... He was more bothered about the glass stove, our security deposit, and scraping off the gloopy mess from the hob, whilst I was sad about wasting my last two Clarence Court eggs. We opened the kitchen windows for the first time in months to rid the room of the billowing clouds of smoke that would invariably set the fire alarm off (fortunately we were relieved of that calamity), and attempted to scrape the burnt batter off the hob ring which arguably made the damage look even worse. Boyfriend then got annoyed because I'd promised to cut his hair that evening and pancakes had taken priority (duh), and if I couldn't cook a simple pancake without setting the house on fire, why would he let me go near his head with a pair of scissors? (Like cooking, I am extremely skilled in the art of men's hair cutting... just not this evening it seems.)

Suffice it to say, there was no hair cutting this evening... And I ended up skipping the lonely cold and crispy pancake and having a banana with Nutella instead, feeling like I had the opposite of the Midas touch. I am also mentally scarred at the idea of any form of cooking now, thanks to the culinary catastrophes I experienced in the space of two hours, leading me to believe that maybe I should have given up and gone to bed after the pasta sauce debacle. There is a lesson to be learned here about flour, the importance of Kilner jars, and the dangers of making pancakes.

The remains of the second pancake.

A Day in the Life of a PA

Recently I attended an evening for ‘influential PA’s in Mayfair’. This doesn’t necessarily mean I am influential on my boss (although I’d like to think it does), but rather that he is an influential person and I'm the one who controls his schedule. This isn’t the only thing I manage, however.

My morning starts at whatever early time CEO calls to ask me to pick up some medication for him or book a table at a certain place. Often these things require being written down and taking action immediately – not the sort I can put off in favour of a lie-in. My journey to the office takes 40 minutes, but getting out of Oxford Circus feels like hours! CEO is currently in America for a month over Christmas followed by a business trip causing a friend to say ‘that’s great! Don’t you have less work?’ Oh no. I have work but it’s running 5-8 hours behind UK time, so at 3am I’m getting calls from him to cancel a dinner reservation, add a trip to Mexico to his flight schedule and book a car for 5 minutes time. There are days when I feel like Andrea Sachs from The Devil Wears Prada, running around like a headless chicken whilst trying to locate an unpublished manuscript or help plan an A-list event without paying for any of it. At 6.30pm at the end of a long working day, in the same tone as Miranda Priestly, he might mutter from his desk: ‘Get me Patrick’.

I sit at my iMac imagining all the other PA's at the receiving end of my emails to be snooty and judgemental, in black sleek outfits, towering Louboutin’s (what else) and hair pulled tightly into a bun. I feel inexperienced with all I’m expected to handle - I’m trusted with insurance forms, car MOTs and tax renewal forms, when I don’t even do my own! This is how I’ve learnt to pay overdue road tax, fix an engine light after he forgot to fill his beautiful Bentley with fuel, sort mobile phone bills and pay daily parking fines. 

A dreaded call seconds before his flight takes off (literally, MOMENTS) and I fly into a panic. CEO is the sort to regularly miss his flights, and I immediately visualise my evening spent with my phone glued to my ear, liaising between our flight company and CEO, who will call me up in between the airline calls to check on progress, and then once a new flight is in place, announce he will stay in an overly-expensive hotel for another night instead and to move the flight to the following day. With a HUGE sigh of relief on my side, he instead tells me he has lost his kindle somewhere in Japan. The week before it was his iPhone in Milan, and his iPad in the magazine pocket on Eurostar Paris. And it’s my lucky self to call up every airline, lost property office, chauffeur, and hotel concierge to see if it has been handed in. In the list above, the only successfully returned item was the iPhone 6, which required verbally guiding CEO around the streets of Milan like a comedy spy escapade using the ‘Find my iPhone’ app on my computer to locate his other phone. It truly felt like a ‘Misson Accomplished’ once he was reunited with his phone. The story of his old PA receiving a baffled call from him one time: ‘Nora, why am I in Brussels?’ after boarding the Eurostar to Brussels instead of Paris quite by mistake - and without realising this error until arriving at the wrong destination - sends the office into hysterics each time it is recalled. I am still trying to come up with a way to glue CEO’s personal effects to his body… 

Plenty of times I end up rescheduling rescheduled meetings, and every so often - to keep me on my tippy toes - he creates his own agenda without my knowledge until he instructs me to cancel all meetings I have carefully manoeuvred into his tight schedule for that day - and often last minute. Other tasks include sourcing and wrapping up birthday and Christmas presents for family members, and keeping a steady supply of Badoit: the only water CEO will drink. 

Most evenings I am able to leave the office at a reasonable time (provided CEO has left the building), much to the annoyance of the 'sloggers' who find some form of satisfaction in staying in the office until 9pm. All I need is an internet connection and my Blackberry, in the event that CEO throws a crisis at me - without the need to be glued to my office chair.

I dream of getting mugged and acting terrified, whilst joyfully handing over my work Blackberry instead, and perhaps wine intake has increased since taking over as PA - something I aim to combat as a New Year’s resolution much to the disappointment of my gin-distilling boyfriend. I am learning to combat the trauma of this 24/7 job by regular blogging and heading off for an evening run where I can leave my Blackberry at home. Or just having reeeealllyyy long showers - I’m not so highly-strung that I take my phone into the bathroom with me. Yet. 

A Big-Foot Problem.

So here’s the issue. I have big feet. Not ginormous, but big. Big as in, an 8.5 to 9... or in more universal terms, an EU 42. I come from a family of big feet, with my brother coming in at an astounding UK size 15.

I cannot go into a shop, point at a pair of shoes and know that they will have my size... or even that my size will actually exist. I will never be able to buy a pair of Kurt Geiger’s – or worse – Isabel Marant and Manolo Blahnik, as they only go up to an EU 41 (UK 7). When I’m buying a new pair of running trainers, there is no point going to the women’s section of Nike and selecting a pair of coral trainers with blue laces. It’s to the men’s department for me, to purchase some depressing grey and orange trainers (why can’t men wear pink?!) in a men's 42. There is some good news though... Jimmy Choo have attempted to accommodate for big-feet: they go up to a 42 AND they’re generous in sizing (I take a 41.5 shoe there). This has resulted in a wardrobe full of Jimmy Choos... and not much else!

I do not want to go to the equivalent of ‘Jacamo’ for women with big feet - It's not that there aren't shoes out there. But I want to walk into Selfridges or the Shoe Heaven in Harrods, and walk out with a new box of beautiful shoes. Setting up my own brand of shoe is not the solution – but making brands and manufacturers more aware of the target market they are cutting out will be a step in the right direction. 

People’s feet are getting larger as each generation gets taller. The average height of women in the 40s was 5’2 with a 3.5 sized shoe (UK), and by 2012 women were on average 5’5 with a size 6 shoe. Please can we admit that by 2015 the average shoe size might have hit a size 7? And let’s just point out that by average, I mean the MIDDLE. The number expressing the central or typical value in a set of data. This does not mean that a UK 7 is the highest size – it is the middle size, meaning that out of all the people with feet smaller that a 7 – there are JUST AS MANY PEOPLE with a size LARGER than a 7.

So why are shops still refusing to order in shoes sized 8 or higher? I’ve got money that I want to spend on shoes. Shoes that fit, and where I can wriggle my toes in the inch of space at the end. Shoes where I can try on a larger size if need be – and not have to debate whether I squeeze my feet into a size 7 and risk a life of curled up, deformed hammer toes or to never own a pair of Isabel Marant Bekket Trainers, or Manolo Blahnik Tayler Pumps.

I almost considered surgery to shorten my toes by a centimetre until I read a woman’s personal experience of hearing surgeons sawing through her toes while on local anaesthetic. I think I’ll just stick to Jimmy Choos and handbags until designers realise that big feet aren't necessarily ugly.

Home Time...

Our train was due to leave at 1.15pm, not giving us any time to explore another area of Paris except for shop for some charcuterie pieces and special beer for Ollie to bring back.  We felt we'd covered a large amount though and there wasn't much else we felt we needed to do. I'd also spent the previous day stocking up on sachets of Ketchup from the cafes we visited... so I finally got my scrambled eggs and bacon with ketchup for breakfast!

I felt nostalgic and quite sad at being at Gare du Nord - but not for the obvious reasons. As my Dad helped me move all my stuff out of the house during my gap year and drove me home via the ferry, the only memories I have of Gare du Nord (except from arriving there) are seeing off all the family and friends that came out to visit me during my gap year, and wishing I could jump on a train and go back with them. My experience in Paris definitely wasn't horrendous, but au-pairing can get lonely at times and I missed my family and my little dachshund who was probably about 15cms in size and two months old when I left. It was a delight to be able to get on a train hand in hand with my boyfriend, and go home. 

I've had a fabulous time over the last four days and enjoyed showing Ollie 'my side' of Paris - of course we did all the touristy things but there were various shops, squares, and eateries very much off the beaten track and out of sight from tourists with cameras glued firmly to their palms. I am relieved that there were no awkward moments where I bumped into Florence or William - the scatterbrain parents of my au-pairing family; we were not mugged or conned (although I would happily have handed over my work phone); and despite people saying how expensive Paris is, we came home with a surprising amount of euros (which I subsequently spent on Clarins at the duty free shop on Eurostar).

We did experience an 'attempted con' on Rue Rivoli when a man bent down to pick something off the floor (which we both saw there was nothing) and then tried to offer us a shiny ring he'd 'found'. As I am already an owner of one of these brass rings, we were both prepared and continued walking. 

You may wonder if I experienced anything new on my holiday to a place I know like the back of my hand (even after 3-4 years). Showing it to Ollie meant I could finally share this magical city with someone else - and not just my camera. We went up to the very top floor of the Eiffel Tower at a dizzying 300 metre height, something, surprisingly, I'd never done - it's only 4€ to the second floor, or 10€ all the way to the top, which is only accessed via lift. We also visited Jardin du Luxembourg, something else, shamefully, I'd also never done, and I also spent more time around the artists square behind the Sacre-Coeur, as I remember I only discovered this buzzing place during the last week of my gap year. We ate at fantastic recommended restaurants and drunk carafe after carafe of Beaujolais wine (usually I am not a red wine drinker but this...).

An extra day in this city of lights would have probably consisted of a trip to Sainte Chapelle, with its breath-taking starry ceiling (I would have had to drag Ollie in however), Musee Picasso, possibly the 284 steps up the Arc De Triomphe, shop for fur and vintage in the Marais and eat at my Granny's favourite restaurant, Le Verre Volé (67 Rue de Lancry, 75010, www.leverrevole.fr) although booking is highly recommended - sadly we were turned away on Friday night as it's so popular. 

À bientôt Paris - Until the next time!

Sky-High Views, Van Gogh, and another food incident.

Saturday morning we were knackered from all the walking we'd done the previous day, so after another ketchup-less breakfast (I mean, what the hell??), we hopped onto the metro straight into Trocadero, and walked along the bank to the Eiffel Tower. The queues are slightly intimidating, but pick a queue that's for the stairs only and it moves relatively fast. Entry to the 2nd floor is 5 euros and 10 to the very top, so we splurged and made the most of it. I'm not scared of heights, but travelling up the thinnest part of the tower in a glass lift would make even the most airbourne-accustomed person to tremble ever so slightly. The view is incredible, but by god is it cold up there! You can see for absolute miles, and still pick out the (tiny) Arc de Triomphe and (tiny) Place Vendome and (tiny) ferris wheel on Place de la Concorde whilst shivering away. 

 

The queues were worse on the second floor - packed with thrill seekers wanting to go to the top, and then a queue for the lift back down. All this took us about 4 hours, but it was a good start to the day (and a good leg workout climbing all those stairs!). 

Later on after exploring a bit more of the left bank we went into Musee D'Orsay at about 4.45, and were delighted to find that they were letting everyone in for free (possibly an hour before closing). Ollie, being the frugal worry-guts was overjoyed, and me, not a fan of spending too long in a museum or art gallery was also pretty pleased. We ran round all the rooms in the old-station, pausing to look at works of Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec (a favourite , and explaining to Ollie about pointillism (dotty paintings) with my GCSE knowledge of art history. 

Ollie had done a bit of research before we went on holiday to see where all the craft ale pubs in Paris were, so we headed over to 'The Frog & Rosbif' (116 Rue Saint-Denis, 75002) for a pint of beer. Upon arrival, I realised he'd lured me in under (nearly) false pretences as this was basically a sports bar with every English-person in Paris (known to the French as 'le rosbif's', as apparently we all like roast beef), crammed round several screens to watch the rugby. We stayed for a pint (and wine), but we did not stay for dinner which had been Ollie's plan. Instead we walked around Chatelet, a place where I spent a large portion of my gap year and found a little restaurant to have a meal at, called La Fresque (100 Rue Rambuteau, 75001). The decor is very 'French' - tiled walls, pictures and posters plastering every inch of wall space, and tables crammed in. The wine was delicious, we shared a board of delicious and thick salmon gravlax to start, and MY meal of beef was amazing... I think you can tell where I'm going with this... 

Oliver thought it would be wise to attempt another bit of 'traditional' French cuisine, by shunning the Magret de Canard (tasty duck breast) for Steak Tartare. We were both aware of what steak tartare is, but perhaps not what it actually tastes like. It turned up looking like they'd tipped a pot of raw mince meat onto a plate and cracked a raw egg on top... and voila! I tried some, and whilst I can see why it's a 'delicacy', it really has no flavour however much you try and disguise it with the onions, gherkins and other bits of pickles provided. Poor Ollie!

Back to where it all began...

For those who have been dipping into this blog now and then or have randomly stumbled across it within the last three years, the first year of this blog (2010) documents tales and adventures from my gap year in Paris, au-pairing for a crazy family with a horrendous dirty dog called 'Speedy'. For those die-hard fans who began my journey with me, car-booting all my belongings and signing up with an au-pair agency, thank you for your support...and you'll be pleased to know (or at least find this fact mildly funny) that about a year ago, Speedy went missing (I obviously didn't try hard enough during my stay there).

Anyway, this is not a blog post about animal cruelty/ enjoying the misfortune of flea-ridden pets. This is actually quite a special series of blog posts coming up as I am on my way back to where it all started, in the form of a long weekend in Paris with my boyfriend of three and a half years.

Walking round St Pancras is quite surreal, noticing the metal chairs outside Le Pain Quotidien where I sat with my brother and my dad with an obscene amount of luggage awaiting my Eurostar to independence. Oliver and I arrive in Paris at 5pm on Thursday and after dropping off our baggage at the 'Eurostars Panorama Hotel' (9, Rue des Messageries 75010, www.eurostarshotels.co.uk), the place my Granny treated me to when she came to visit me one time. We then walked straight into the centre of Paris to the Louvre Rivoli, where the glass pyramid of Musee du Louvre was beautifully lit up with a red lightening bolt feature running down the centre. A romantic stroll along The Seine, and a gawp at the horrific mess that is Pont des Arts - opaque with mountains of padlocks, once a romantic gesture and now a terribly sad site. You can see certain parts of of the bridge which have been boarded up after huge chunks of the metal bars have fallen away into the water under the weight of the padlocks. We walk on via the opera house, which I once read in a book being described as 'a hippopotamus taking a bath'. I don't see it, but the building is absolutely beautiful in both daylight and dusk. One day I'd actually like to go inside it. 

After a bit of reminiscing and showing Ollie the free and beautiful riverside and streets of Paris (I love how you can just 'walk in' on a monument... in the centre of a roundabout or outside a metro station) we head over to Chartier, a traditional French experience serving traditional French cuisine (Chartier, 7 Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, 75009, www.bouillon-chartier.com/en/). I'd been there before, but it wasn't such a great experience and after checking out the menu before leaving for Paris we decided it'd be foolish to miss out on due to it's extraordinarily good prices - 1-4€ for an entree and Plats du jour at 9-11€. On busy nights you should expect to queue down the alley way outside (booking not available), although it's 'Wagamama' style in seating arrangements ensures that smaller groups of one or two people have a better chance of skipping the line. Chartier's approach is 'bums on seats' so be prepared to be stacked to the rafters and on the laps of other people you're sharing your table with. Don't let this put you off - the atmosphere is just incroyable and our waiter was surprisingly friendly and helped decipher the menu. I strongly recommend the celeriac remoulade in particular, but the tomato salad and foie gras are also very tasty and make a delicious starter (to share), and my steak saignant (rare). 

Le Petit Incident. 

There are two types of veal on le menu de Chartier: Cote de Veau (shoulder) and Tete de Veau (head).  Through our discussion with the waiter about the difference between the two, there may have been a slight error in the ordering process, when Ollie said 'cote' and the waiter wrote down 'tete'. And whilst Ollie thought that 'head' most likely meant 'cheek', neither of us were prepared for the huge plate of offal that subsequently arrived. The part that has stuck most in my mind was the large piece of tongue which curled round the back of the bowl - with a large furry white side, looking like tripe. Fortunately, the waiter found the funny side of Ollie's face of horror, and returned it back to the kitchen to replace it with a more tastier looking dish of veal shoulder. Meanwhile I tucked into a juicy, bloody steak and haricot-verts (green beans).

Oliver looking much happier once he'd got his veal chop!

 

Chartier is very much a hidden secret, and if you're after an efficient, delicious and traditional experience for 50€ for two (three courses, 2 carafes of house red), then add this one to your list. 

Hello, Blondie!

To brighten my spirits up in this miserable English weather I decided to dye my hair blonde - a colour I've always wanted to try. May I take a brief moment here to inform you that my life doesn't evolve round shopping and beauty, but when you’re a busy woman doing a dissertation in neurolinguistics, it’s nice to indulge in a few hobbies and interests. And as Carrie Bradshaw said in one Sex and the City episode, “Shopping is my cardio”. 

Going blonde was a first for me (I was born with a vibrant shiny blonde mop of hair, which over the years vanished into a dull (dare I say it) 'mousey brown', or 'ash blonde' as I prefer to call it. Anyway, it looked dull and some days was verging on grey, and as my copper/auburn tint was growing out and turning more into a 'dip-dye' effect, I decided to take the plunge and go Barbie blonde. 

Another first, was trying out a new hair salon. I've been to the same salon in Warwickshire since I could chose where to have my hair cut, and am terrified of trying anywhere new in case they attack my hair with scissors and charge me an extortionate amount for the nest they've created on my head. Then quite by chance, my landlady gave me a business card for Beach hair offering 50% off the first appointment. I had already trawled through a few hair salon websites all based in Brighton, but they seemed impersonal and I really didn't want to be hunting round Brighton trying to find the place. I set up an appointment with Beach hair, and then spent the week wondering if I should cancel it - should I really go blonde? And don't you just hate it when hair has a habit of looking perfect a day before you're due for a hair appointment? 

I turned up to the salon, with help from my trusty SatNav and the joys of free online street parking (never would have got that in Brighton centre). When I produced a photo of Cara Delevingne and announced I was 'going blonde' (despite mentioning this when booking the appointment), the whole room stopped and everyone gasped, immediately causing panic inside. Oh god, was I making a huge, terrible mistake? 

Turns out Michelle, the hair stylist, gasped as she thought I was booked in for a tint, which definitely wouldn't have worked on my hair. The lady being roasted under the hair heater gasped because... Well, it would be a dramatic change and she added I already looked lovely, and the hair assistant gasped as they were on a very tight schedule and doing a full head of highlights is a very long job. Turns out, it's a 4 hour long job. 

We had to do a practice test on a strand of hair as I'd already got red tint in my hair, and Michelle was worried the peroxide would turn out pink. Fortunately that wasn't the case so we ploughed on. As I didn't have anywhere to be, the time it took didn't matter - I sat catching up on a mountain of trashy gossip mags (Jordan's trip to hospital, Chanelle hitting a size 16, Kate Moss in a bikini) with my hair in a tonne of foils, and Michelle juggling other clients in between checking the status of my hair. 

When it was time to rip out the foils, I started to get rather nervous as what was slowly appearing looked like I was channeling Cruella de Ville, with silvery white streaks in sparse places on my hair. Anyway, after a gorgeous head massage over the basin followed by a hair mask, and complete with a back massaging chair for 30 minutes (pure luxury), I sat back in the chair and watched them blow dry it to a fabulous multi-tone blonde. I think I was still in a bit of shock, and not ready to believe that it wasn't a wig, but at the time they loved it more than I did. I am pleased to say that my hair condition stayed in it's soft and silky form, although a tangle brush has become a necessity. 

With the voucher, I paid far less than I would ever have imagined, especially considering the time they spent on me! A week later and I have just about got used to my new colour, and able to share knowledge on a few things every fully-fledged blonde should have, to stop your hair from crying out (I still feel bad for bleaching it). 

  

Perfectil Hair, Skin and Nails tablets 

I mentioned these in my November Recommendations, but these are incroyable. I just can't put the condition of my skin down to coincidence. I have so few spots now that it's practically one-a-month, and as a result I'm using less concealer under my foundation. My hair has always been in good condition but I feel these pills limit hair breakages and encourage growth, thickness and volume, and my nails are shiny and strong, seeming to grow millimetres in my sleep, and chips/ breakages are far and few (if at all, actually). 

Mark Hill Heat Protection Spray

I never used to use a hairdryer - or any heat products on my hair (not intentionally), but thought with the right products to protect hair from heat, drying my hair would increase volume, boost shine, and save me going to bed with wet hair. Plus, with my new bleached hair, I'd probably end up with a matted tangle. I bought the TRESemme 2200 power dryer earlier in January, and with tourmaline-ceramic and ionic technology for frizz free hair, and it's amazing. Lightly spritz your hair with two or three pumps of protection spray - do not douse - and then style or blow dry with a good quality heating-item that will not cremate your hair or attempt to sauté the ends. FYI, the TRESemme hair dryer is light, quiet, dries my hair pretty damn quickly, and doesn't attempt to eat my hair up through the fan. Another recommendation! The Mark Hill spray is great as it's a light, non-greasy spray, and doesn't leave residue.

John Frieda Sheer Blonde Shampoo/Conditioners 

Is there any other brand of hair that's designed for blondes? I cannot think of any other. I did a mix and match bundle (Boots - 3 John Frieda products for £10), and bought the Everlasting blonde colour preserving conditioner, containing safflower oil and bergamot extract to work as a colour-preserving formula, and the JF Highlight-activating moisturising shampoo/conditioner, with jojoba oil, sunflower and white tea complex. The everlasting colour seems a good one to add to your shampoo/conditioner combination for the obvious reason of getting your money's worth in your hair-dying session, by keeping the colour brighter for longer, along with the ‘highlight-activating’ which just sounds magical. I’ve always found with all the John Frieda products that they keep hair soft, they’re not foamy or chemical smelling, and they leave my hair with such volume it looks like I’ve back-brushed the hell out of it. I think this is an obvious choice for anyone with coloured hair, particularly a light blonde to stop if from fading into a dull shade (incidentally, the ‘Luxurious Volume’ range is very good if you’re on the hunt for a regular shampoo/conditioner).

Tangle Teezer hairbrush

BUY IT. Do not think twice, do not pass go, do not collect £200. Just buy it. My two paddle brushes remain unused and at the back of my drawer ever since I brought this snazzy gem into my life. Particularly after dying your hair, hair tangles together more easily (before I never had knots... ever!), so invest in a brush that isn't going to just rip clumps of hair out from your scalp. Retail is £10, but oh-my-god it's a piece of heaven on earth. Mermaids brush their hair with these. When you emerge from a shower, and no matter how much conditioner you use, you're left with a shocking matted knot of bleached hair. It's a sorry sight. Even running my fingers through my hair is a no-go, I'm telling you, this is the ONLY brush that will save your hair and leave you with smooth, soft, knot-free and fluffy-looking locks. There's even a range of colours to choose from, and doesn't take up much room in your handbag either. You know you need it.

MoroccanOil Oil Treatment

And I’m still harping on about this stuff. IT’S AMAZING. It should be an essential to anyone with hair. I even run it through the boyfriend’s hair if I’m feeling particularly generous, for soft and shiny hair. If you’ve dyed your hair, you will get split ends. You’ll get split ends regardless of whatever situation, unless you have your hair cut weekly. So invest in a pot of Moroccan Oil to maintain the bottom of your hair, reduce spilt ends and keep it in top-notch condition without clogging it up or weighing it down with grease. I think out of everything I’ve recommended in this post, the top two must-haves for dyed hair is a Tangle Teezer brush and the MoroccanOil Oil Treatment. The others are just to help keep it in good condition!