In the beginning, there was the (lemon) curd…

1244e7ed0b406ae110cdc9257ef3d3e2261232d9 (2)So, here we are. Upper Street, that elusive North London mistress running between Angel and Highbury, trying to hide from its humble roots by distracting us all with myriad boutique coffee emporiums (but without ever quite shaking them off because there’s still a Nando’s).

The above picture shows how it looked in the 1800s, back when the pastos (that’s the official historical term for people from the past) were in charge.

There are fewer sheep these days, but more overly trendy cafés with décor inspired by industrial warehouses – so it all balances out in the end.

I’m only living in this bonkers locale for five months, having scored a sweet deal to house sit for a friend in a flat with a kickass roof terrace. With London prices as mad as a box of very mad frogs and getting more loopy by the day, I fully accept that when this brief summer sojourn is over, I will never again be able to afford to live in this area; so I thought I’d go out in style. In a blaze of glory.


Ahem. For what else should one do when on Upper Street, but try and eat/water one’s way from one end to t’other? The time frame is, I’ll grant you, something of a challenge – not once have I managed to leave the house without seeing a restaurant slash bar slash coffee shop slash tea room slash ice cream parlour which prompts me to go, “Hey, was that place there yesterday?”

Could be that every establishment is imbued with magic and is only in town for one night, and one night only, before it must return to the parallel realm from whence it came. If so though, it would be good to know once and for all; and I’ll have the watertight, blog-based evidence to prove it.

So, I’ve already wandered off topic. But the point is… What was the question?

I’ve already fallen at the first hurdle. It’s too overwhelming out there, and it’s late, and I’m tired, and I’ve got a jar of lemon curd to keep me occupied. But tomorrow is another day.