Slipping off the wagon and Roman Road in the rain

I’d stuck ruthlessly to the diet for two weeks solid, but demob happy, and in anticipation of the long weekend ahead and a friend’s party in the evening, I allowed myself a big cheat – a vodka fresh lime and soda, stood in the sunshine on the cobble streets outside my Shoreditch workplace and a typical street corner pub. And then I had another one.

Dropping my Pashley, Prudence, off at the bike shop for a facelift, I felt great, booking a t-zone touch up and trim at Beau. But then, dashing for the number 8 bus like I’d never run before, my heart ached and low sugar levels left me  lightheaded all the way home.

Having orchestrated a playdate for Jonah, then Scouts and our lovely old childminder, now a successful singer in a band, to take the kids for the evening, with a takeaway and a 10pm curfew – not to mention planning half terms activities and childcare to within an inch of its life, I felt I deserved to let my hair down a little. So Tom and I took an Uber to London bridge to a cocktail bar, Grind, for a night on the tiles with friends. Service was slow, but cocktails, when they arrived, were good. I had a tart, tequila based Tommy Collins while Tom had Slow The Beet, a beetroot and sloe gin concoction that tasted earthy and delicious. But after that, I hit the vodkas like a deprived alcoholic, making the mistake of discussing politics with a Tory party member hoping to be selected as his local candidate. We ended on friendly terms, but not before I’d launched into one of my rants on free will and space time that noone but me ever understands.

One p.m. was pumpkin hour, so we arrived back home, and watched the remains of the History Boys, which I’d seen with the original cast back when I was a student, before stuffing my poor deprived cakehole with the remains of the kids’ poppadoms and then pieces of naan bread in cold Korma sauce, which I then dropped facedown in it’s plastic tub on the floor, while Tom looked on with his habitual expression of bemused acceptance. This preceded me crashing out on the sofa, and waking up there again at dawn. I fumbled my way to bed, in last night’s makeup like the classy piece that I am, and woke up at 9ish hazy and repentant.

The thing about falling off the wagon is it’s quite easy to fix. You just get back on it. I breakfasted on homemade coconut kefir, several cups of tea and some coconut water, before cleaning up the mess I’d made last night in anticipation of my recently reconciled sister visiting to escape the building work in her ginormous new house; getting the kids washed and up, taking Jonah to his mate Ronnie’s for the morning, and then pootling up the Roman Road from the bottom where the market starts for a spot of browsing and shopping.

 

 
I love the Roman Road – a little piece of ungentrified East End, it still has all the character of a pie and eel shop and the robustness of a four egg fry up – both of which are naturally available in this, the true heart of the East End. The presence of Superdrug, Poundland and recently, Costa, do little to detract from its charm, offering a rare opportunity to go downmarket for some cost effective essentials. But the real reason I go there is to see Sarita.

 

 
Sarita’s is about halfway down the market, is one of the East End’s best kept beauty secrets  – an unfinessed  secret beauticians run by this charming woman and her coterie of capable handmaidens. Men are not allowed in, and it’s little wonder, as these deft and quick handed girls go about their business of threading the facial hairs of the Roman Road’s diverse population of the hijabed and the false nailed. I’ve been going there for years. Sarita can take off ten years with a tweak and a twizzle and can remove those “embarrassing strays” with n’er a second glance. She’s a legend, and for years, her three pound threading was the cheapest in London, although prices have risen along with the area’s gentrification, as well as snazzy new pink tunics for the staff which are a sign that Sarita, like the rest of the Roman, is on the up.

The other reason I come, of course, is the clothes. The Roman has never failed to disappoint for good quality bargains from the likes of Top Shop and asos with their labels cut, and prices slashed. Back when we were poor, this place gave me an opportunity to splash out a tenner on a new frock, and I find the gentle still cockney banter and haggling with the traders-done-good, and the ease with which I always seem to find things I like, far preferable to a stuffy trip to a shop any day. Today was no exception and I came home in the pouring rain laden with bits and pieces – a three pound frock that looks designer, a Topshop piece that was a steal at £20, all sorts of tee-shirts – as well as bunch of beauty essentials from Supadrug.

Of course, you have to check the seams, I try to avoid the nylon if I can, and you have to do a number on the hacked off labels when you get home, but it’s always a good morning out, even in the rain, as the crowded streets clear, and traders are easier to bargain with.

And thus satiated, at least from a shopping perspective (and how nice it was to buy a size ten again), I caught the number 8 bus home, to GAPS stage three nutbutter and courgette pancakes and a nice cup of tea.