Come and have a go if you're creative enough...

As a hunter-gatherer of all things arty, I try to visit as many art events as my schedule and budget will allow. Tent London, Pullens Yard and Ceramic Art being must-attends imho.

The creations I see, and aspire to own, are jaw-droppingly beautiful. I know exactly where they'd go, how I'd hang them, and how much pleasure they'd bring to my daily life. But some of the prices are jaw-dropping too. Out of my range, as it were.

And as I wander round, dreaming of the day I'll own that Art Deco house, with its ample hanging space, I get thinking. The artists know what it took to create that one individual piece. They remember those long nights, crossing their fingers by the kiln. They have earned the right to put a price on their creativity.

In the world of creative agencies, things can be somewhat different. Our clients have allocated a budget, set KPI's and objectives have been agreed.  We work with fantastic brands, who value our work highly and who are impressed with the ROI we achieve. Difference is, there's a framework. A finite budget. A fixed deadline.  But what if we could take these boundaries away? What then could be achieved?

We're looking for creative people to work on a blank canvas with us. View our work at www.psprare.co.uk. Come to us with your ideas, as outré as you like. Let's see how a fresh eye views our products, unfettered by a schedule or diktats from Apple.

Email grahame.lake@psprare.co.uk with examples of your print and online portfolio, plus your CV. This opportunity starts on an intern basis, but could lead to a permanent role.

Come and have a go if you think you're creative enough...we look forward to creating some beautiful work together!

This isn't just any pie blog...

This is a lubbly jubbly, knees up Mother Brown, cor blimey Guvnor kinda pie blog. For National Pie week, I celebrate the creme de menthe, the pie of all pies, the mighty Pie and Mash.


Had it? Enjoyed it? Never tried it? You haven't lived. I like a steak and kidney pud, a chicken, leek and mushroom pie, my fancy schmancy braised lamb and redcurrant creation as much as the next woman but for the Goodes', a pie craving can only really be fulfilled with a double helping of the good stuff. Here you go Reader, something to drool over

A 'Single'

Started off in the East End, as all good things tend to, as an economical, portable lunch brought from a cart, before the shops popped up. And thank god they did. Where would Lou and I be without our Saturday fix? It was my first solid meal as a baby, and I'm pleased to say that this tradition has been continued, and dare I say, improved upon. Aged nine, he's not content with just a single pie/single mash...devours a double helping, no sweat.


My childhood was filled with Saturday's at these marble-tabled palaces. A beef pie, 'hold the eels', a portion of mash, scraped onto the slide of the plate, liberally covered with liquor. Liquor as in a heavenly mix of eel stock and parsley.  The rush for the table before it got cold. The grabbing of the spoon and fork. Never a knife. We laughed at those with a knife. So unaware of the traditions...


Visits to the now-closed shop at Ridley Road Market with my beloved grandparents are a memory never to disappear. The Bond's did not dine out regularly; for them, nothing could beat a family meal at home; a portion of Ridley Road's finest almost lived up to their scrutiny.  It was dissected and discussed with a fervour not known to many, before or since. How's the pastry, Emma? Liquor ok? Mince minced adequately?


This was accompanied by a running commentary of one or another convos: "How pies used to be in the good old days" and "Our Friday night dinner". "So, we'd have the soup, then the chopped liver, then the chicken, then a pudding, then cakes if we were peckish". No wonder I am the way I am!


Tearing myself away from nostalgia, and back to 2012, am pleased to report the Pie and Mash shops are still going strong in the heartlands of Essex and the East End.  For a full list and ratings, visit http://www.pie-and-mash.com/index.shtml and start planning those visits now. If you can't wait that long, get your order in at http://www.pieshop.co.uk/


Seems us easties just can't get enough of it. Lou and I jumped for joy at seeing the lovely Phil Thompson snazz it up for Great British Menu. He woz robbed. Loved seeing this blushing bride's wedding reception too http://www.london24.com/news/dagenham_couple_turn_to_pie_and_mash_after_tying_the_knot_1_1219618 and of course, not forgetting the Towie peeps' Pie and Mash pool party, god bless them.  Just take a butchers at those bad boys!

A 'Double'

Don't let the bed bugs bite...

My poor little man has been in the wars this week. And as usual with us, there's a story to be told.
He hadn't been right all half-term. Bit snotty, bit flu-ey. A bit off-colour as your mum would say. Couldn't finish his football training on Saturday - an early substitution had to be made.  Went off to his dad's, with this mummy fretting for the weekend.  Sometimes they just want their mum's, don't they...
He came back Sunday evening. It was an OMG moment. Absolutely covered in bites. Bedbug bites. Now I know I'm no clean freak but I can assure you, Reader, that his room had been cleaned that month. Turns out he'd slept on a mattress without a sheet at his grandparents and ye gods, the bugs had got him alright. So bad, I'm worried they'll scar and he thinks he's turned into 'Scaramanga'.
No school on Monday. And so the whole 'childcare' issue raises its head. Anyone else have this problem? Both parents working full-time. My schedule's busier than your schedule...blah, blah blah. Normally it would fall to me to be at home, but this mummy had to be at work on Monday so Husband took up the reins. The guilt really set in when Louis relunctantly said goodbye with a "Don't go. Don't leave me." Oh the guilt. The SMS* mode had been switched on...
Visit to the doctors confirmed a virus and so for the next couple of days, my little boy took up position on the sofa. He just about mustered the energy to put in his orders. I was deluged with a fairly constant stream of "Drink". "Apple"."Remote". Typical male really. Got me thinking about all the different roles us women have in our households. Cook, cleaner, dry-cleaner,teacher, banker. A 21st-century version of butcher, baker and candle-stick maker. Dammit, almost forgot the sex goddess role. 
And no-one asks if we're ok... As my friends and I were discussing recently, we can't afford to be "off-colour". The wheels of England would fall off. Our day doesn't finish until the kids are in bed. And then we get to do something for us. Usually the tidying up, washing up and tackling the Mount Everest of ironing.
I'll stop moaning now. Back to Louis. Day 4 saw him getting a little better. His food intake now included all four of the main food groups. Chocolate, ice-cream, sweets and crisps. He was on the mend. Getting a little cheeky again. He knows the way to this mummy's heart. "Mummy, if you don't have anything on your schedule, could you get me a biscuit". Started trying to tell me that the doctor had advised him that he only needed medicine twice a day, and not the prescribed four. Bless his cottons... 
And funnily enough, X-Box was on the approved list from the doctor. As he bravely made his way up to the games room, this mummy restored her control. "Don't exert yourself too much, Louis. You've got school tomorrow."
That perked him up no end...


*shitty mum syndrome

Me and my mate Hev

Seems like Tuesday was a bad hair, bad body and bad clothes day, all wrapped up in one.  A single tweet triggered a chain of events which led to me being compared to a soap star...and not the fit type.


The tweet in question referred to recent research which said that "looking in the mirror does make people anxious". 
Who knew? http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2097717/Looking-mirror-DOES-make-anxious-looks.html


38 times a day?? Tell me who. Seriously, who would look in the mirror every 40 minutes on average? I do a quick toothpaste check, then I'm outta there. 


So this research got me thinking.  On a good day, I don't think I'm too shabby. No need to respond, Reader.  Trouble is, there's been a few situations lately that are making me think a little more effort is required.


Situation one. Picture it in your head. School run whilst wearing my "slouching" trousers aka "nocturnal" trousers aka pyjamas. You'll be relieved to know I didn't get out of the car. Lou was. 


A modicum of self-respect forced me to change clothes and go to my Tuesday club. We all know what a Tuesday club is, don't we.... Walked in, and they asked me if I'd just got out of bed. Err, no... Made up some crap about not feeling well, but I'd got the message, loud and clear.


Situation two took us to my bestie's house. The townies were off for a brisk walk in the countryside. Lovely. The Sandringham forest was delightful, the snow-covered landscape picturesque and then there was me. Me and my borrowed wardrobe.  A pair of trainers from my sister, a coat of my brother's, and a scarf we'd found on a Tube once. Hugo Boss scarf, mind. But still Stig of the Dump.


Now, a thrown-together outfit can look great on some people. But the clothes need to be clean. Ideally ironed. And with a semblance of colour co-ordination. Not some hotpotch of items chosen on the basis of whether is it too horribly stained and if it fits or not. I'd ended up looking like a sack of spuds. The bestie doesn't judge, I know....but still. Not a good look. 


These thoughts were playing in my mind, when the ritualistic viewing of EastEnders started.  My son, knowing the way to Mummy's heart, gave me his version of a compliment. "Mummy, you are more beautiful than Heather Trott." You know Hev, but for non-'Enders fans, here she is  http://eastenders.wikia.com/wiki/Heather_Trott 


Really Lou? Really? Don't you see me as a Jane, a Tanya? Hell, even a Zainab. But not Heather. Purlease.


But actually, my boy may have a point here. I have more things in common with Hev than I initially realised. 


We both love Wham and Mr George Michael
I had a cat called Pepsi; she's got a mate called Shirley
Us two like our grub
And we both live with a man called Andrew.


Meet my sister from another mister, Miss Heather Trott!


*This post is in no way meant to be critical of Cheryl Fergison, just my dress sense!

A day in the life of a working mum

Let me tell you about the last day of January. Hopefully it will make you feel a lot better about anything that's going on in your world today...

The day started badly. Meant to be up bright and early at 6.30 but that arm of mine kept reaching over for my friend, the snooze button. Running late from the off.

My little man downstairs was now desperate for breakfast. What would Sir care for this morning? An toasted English muffin, with cheese and ham. Of course Sir, a very good choice. Well, it would have been if the muffins hadn't been tinged with that furry green colour. Sir might just need to make do with a bowl of coco-pops I'm afraid.

Fast forward an hour, and I had one at school, one at work and a holiday to book. We're counting down the weeks till the arrival of Baby Rostom, and a ticket to Dubai has got my name written all over it. Half-term, Easter, a balmy 30 Celsius and more bling than you can shake a stick at. And here beginneth the start of what would prove to be a very tricksy day.

I could fly Azerbaijan Airlines very cheaply. Hell, Aeroflot was proving to be the steal of the century.  I played safe and went to the airline of choice's website. Emirates. Now the day before, the site was overflowing with £400 fares. Today? You've guessed already; nothing for less than £500. Quick Family Goode discussion and the purchase button was pressed. Sorry, going to correct myself, I attempted to buy them. Time out error. And so the process starts again.  

Made the schoolgirl error of choosing a flight which didn't return back to where my car was parked. And so the process starts once more.

Finally.  Two hours and third-time lucky. Correct flights chosen and now to redeem some Frequent Flyer miles. I've earned that reward. I was a Blue; I needed to be a Silver member at a cost of 40,000 miles. Don't panic Emma, you can purchase miles online. But only 25,000 per year. They'd got me. Cash it was then. For cash, read credit.

My flexible friend located, I typed in those accommodating digits. Whoa there Emma, you need a credit card in your maiden name. Something about a third-person rule and a passport. Everyone's a bit nervous these days aren't they?  Second flexible friend located, and the expiry date read. 2008 you say? Bugger. 

I know, I'll phone my friends at Tesco Finance. They know me well. They'll help me out. Have you actually lost your card, Miss Goode? Have no idea, could be anywhere. All I need today is for you to tell me my new expiry date. Oh, I'm awfully sorry Miss Goode, we can't disclose that information. Strict security protocols, you understand.  Nope, I don't really understand, and no, there isn't anything else you can help me with today.

So...I reviewed my options. Solution found. I can pay online via Paypal. Result. Flights booked. And breathe Emma.

Next, a trip to the post office. Proofs had to be at the printers for 9am the next morning. I can do that. Oh really? Forgot my mobile and so had no said printer's address. Don't worry Emma, the Post Office have online postcode finders. They'll help me out. Sadly that service is no longer available. Kinda sums up this era really. 

Got back into the car. I have a mate down the road. She's online. She'll help me out. A plan. 

It was then I noticed the yellow sun come on in the car. The one that screams "you're just about to run out of petrol". Flashing. Consistently and insistently. I reckoned I  could make it to my friend's and back.  Friend's car was in the drive. Bingo. Close, but no banana. She was out. Now I had a dilemma. Risk driving back home for the printer's address or direct to the petrol station. Played it safe. Petrol purchased, package posted. 

Feeling slightly more buoyant about the day now, my breathing returned to normal and so did I. Sir returned home and we got ready for swimming. 

As he's just moved up a grade, we had a new teacher to meet and greet. Her first question was whether I'd brought along the blue transfer form? Well, that would be a no, wouldn't it. Does Mum know where the blue transfer form might be? Mum has absolutely no clue whatsoever. The observant teacher noticed the start of steam rising and wisely let it lie. The lesson commenced.

Lengths completed, talc dispensed and dinner ate, my mood was ok. Not great, but ok. And then it arrived. The email from Paypal.

We regret to inform you that you have exceeded your annual purchase limit and therefore we have declined your recent payment today. And thank you, Paypal! 

Shake what ya mama gave ya....

Never thought I'd find myself in a room full of sweaty women, shaking my tush with all my might. But here I am. At a zumba class. And I'm loving it. I'm hooked. If you haven't had the pleasure yet, here's why...

There was a time I used to go to the gym three times a day. Past tense. Whole 'nother blog. Last year I paid a monthly fee for a shiny membership card. Didn't go inside once. Something needed to change.

With nervous trepidation, I signed up to my first zumba class. What to wear? Could I manage it? Would they laugh?  Needn't have worried; I was met with friendly faces and a warm welcome. And nobody laughed at my outfit. Always a bonus.

Everyone thinks they can dance. Normally, I'm a shimmying mix between Ginger Rogers and Beyonce.  But it takes half a bottle of vodka to get there.  But I thought I'd be semi-ok.  I also thought I knew my right and left before zumba. Seems I didn't. As the dulcet tones of Ricky Martin started, my co-ordination ended.  "Single, single, double" was an instruction too far.

Fast forward a few months, and you'll find me actually keeping in rhythm.  Knowing which way to shuffle. Attempting to shimmy. Mastering the art of the body-roll might take a while longer.

The lovely women in the class are my zumba-buddies now. We're all perspiring together. No judging, just smiling. Which in a predominately female environment is wonderful, albeit rare.  I think it's all down to our instructor. I hope she knows just how inspirational she is. It doesn't matter when I fluff a move, or when my toes just won't fit into my hand; she continues to support and encourage us as a true mentor should.  I look forward to my Sunday class as much as my Sunday roast, which tastes that much nicer knowing how many calories I've just burnt. The Mad Fitness Crew's classes can be found at http://www.madfitnesscrew.com/default.html

The thing about zumba is that it just doesn't feel like a traditional gym workout. No counting down the reps, no willing the minutes away and no manky showers. You can see the results week-by-week. Does wonders for your posture, weight loss and confidence.

It feels like dancing with your mates in a club. Now that I CAN do.

And the award goes to...

Were you a winner in 2011? I'm reminiscing on the evenings spent at industry awards last year. Oh what fun some of us had...

Funny things, award do's. The nervous anticipation of a nominee. The highly-visible anxiety of a nominee with a client in tow. The smug dead-certs. The “couldn’t care less, no, honestly, really” of the peeps sans nominations.

Much of the fun of awards is spotting the “characters”. I always seem to get stuck next to the “My wife doesn’t understand me”. I’m normally stalked by the “NFI”, seeking their after-party invite. I try to avoid the “I’ll drink my allocated half-bottle of wine as quickly as I possibly can, cause I didn’t get nominated”. Normally end up commiserating with them later.

I’m remembering some great nights out with my mates now.

The night where we won five on the trot. Our feigned embarrassment of having to go up to the stage yet again. Industry recognition of fantastic work, carried out by a strong team, with a happy client. Nice night.

Another happy night when we won Best Public Sector/Government Title. 3am found us at Bar Italia, doing the fandango. Fun night.

The lock-in at a Sarf London pub. Desperate for “one more for the road”, I took up the landlord’s challenge. If I could tell a joke which he’d laugh at, I could pull my own pints for as long as I liked. Bosh!

And my awardmances. High and low points. Was seated next to a nice chap one year, who’d just won an award for his marketing work on a customer magazine. He shall remain nameless. Seemed a nice guy. He had a certain je-ne-sais-quoi. I liked the way he extended his brand. Conversation flowed (as did the drink) and we arranged to meet up the following week. The evening went well, he paid for the meal and I was a happy bunny.

Wasn’t so happy when I bumped into a mutual friend the following week. Asking after said “new friend”, found out that all was well in his world as his wife had just given birth to their first child. Wife. Child. Epic fail. Phoned him to tell him exactly where he could stick his trophy.

Higher success rating when a burgeoning office romance was unveiled at an awards do. Poor man had no choice but to marry me after that.

And the highlight moment of the 2011's awards? Being invited to two very different kind of clubs for the after-party. Both designed for men, if you catch my drift. I politely declined and headed home at a very respectable hour. A first, being home before 3am. I should give myself an award...