August is often a cultural wipe-out for anyone chained to British shores. This year though, it’s been the weather that has been the wipe-out. Otherwise things are pretty lively thanks to media obsessions, whether it’s the (at last named) UK recession, American electoral shenanigans (currently immobilised on Palin’s strident note of “hockey-mom”, whatever that is), the Russian foray into Georgia, or endless English bravura with regard to that rain. Yes it’s bucketed down almost non-stop since my last post three weeks ago. Luckily, there’s loads on the arts agenda to compensate.

So there I was innocently strolling through bucolic Highbury Fields (that’s a plane-tree packd park near where I live in London), when suddenly I landed in the middle of Outer Mongolia. There were yurts, people in pointy coloured hats, men in brocade gowns and turned-up boots, though I’ll admit it, most women were in jeans and sunglasses.


The USP was that they were all Mongolian, gathered to support a charity rally from London to Ulan Bator. Obviously Brits figured too, a few of them particularly fearless when it came to attempting Mongolian wrestling. This was the exciting bit, though thanks to a fast expiring battery in my little compact, I have no great visuals of it. But here comes a champ…

Anyway, Mongolian wrestling goes like this: two very muscular (and I’ll say it, often pretty paunchy) men in tiny bikini-bottoms, big leather boots and a kind of half-bolero tied with strings at the back, take to the ground. Warily they circle round each other before finally bending forward and locking arms in combat - just like fighting bulls locking horns. Rules are not complex - basically the first man to hit the ground is out. So round they turn, gripping each other’s jacket strings, sometimes for 10 minutes or so, until finally there’s a jerk, a twist, action takes off and one of them, inevitably, hits the dust.

I’ve just spent a foodie afternoon in the middle of Regent’s Park which, in a quick floral aside, I’d like to note is looking stunning. Colour-coded flower-beds no less and zingy green lawns. Thank you rain. But back to affairs of the palate, Taste of London (an annual food fest) has certainly gone into overdrive with a line-up of over 40 top restaurants beside an army of food and drink producers. All these have escaped from their usual settings to man swish little stands under huge tents. One stand even housed repro Chesterfield sofas, maybe a sop for the exorbitant £25 entrance fee.

As usual, London seems to go into over-drive before putting on the brakes for the long, inevitably cool English summer. I’ve had an inspiring past week, from seeing Akram Khan’s Bahok, with dancers from the National Ballet of China, to the brutally moving documentary on torture in Afghanistan, Alex Gibney’s Taxi to the Darkside. In between there was the opening of the brilliant Cy Twombly retrospective at the Tate Modern (that reminds me of a successful Italian gallerist I met the other day who seemed to think retrospectives are only for dead artists - “shame on you” to borrow la Clinton’s words) and the extraordinary play, The Pitmen Painters, at the National. And here’s the sleek Tate Modern exit just to whet your appetite…

Like a rocket, Viva la Revolucion! is now out there, not exactly in outer space or the ether, though it is on a few websites, but certainly in the public eye. Last night, on a balmy summer’s evening, the launch party kicked off at the Mexican Ambassador’s residence, a consummately chic mansion on Belgrave Square. It was an exhilirating send-off, nourished by trays and trays of delicious Mexican morsels and flowing margaritas. (Now I’m going to cheat a bit for this post & insert pics from Mexico itself - as you can imagine, I had no time to snap last night. This one is of a divine chilli and prawn ceviche)

With the rain tipping down and London snuggling down into post-christmas blues, with underground trains delayed due to suicides on the line and a surfeit of sociability, it’s the perfect moment to catch up on cinema. You can’t beat those moments of pure escapism in front of the big screen. So this last week I’ve really indulged, enjoying vicarious travel to Afghanistan (The Kite Runner), Shanghai (Lust, Caution), the American south in the 1930s (The Great Debaters) and Rumania (4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days). The week before it was a quick hop to Mexico in the mesmerising Silent Light.

Sometimes a blog is not really on the cards. Since returning from Colombia 10 days ago, my overworked mind has been otherwise engaged - mentally scooting round the globe from Spain to Muscat to Mexico plus a few other places that I’ll keep under my hat for the moment. Some had a slot in the ongoing work on my desk, while others remain hazy projects, still in abstract email form. So, just occasionally, it all gets rather disorientating and the last thing I’m capable of is writing a blog. This wing represents my rather unilateral mind.

I’ve been out intensively tasting again - in tune with the crackling leaves, blue skies and increasingly crisp air of autumnal London. As always, our capital’s food isn’t always of these shores nor is it always inside walls. While going at my usual accelerated pace through Islington the other day, I rounded a sharp corner and almost fell headfirst into a giant paella pan. This is it.

Serendipitous indeed, as the saffron yellow and fishy-chickeny aromas seemed pretty genuine to my alerted senses. This was going to make up for the paella I missed at the recent Taste Spain event at Borough Market (which incidentally while generous and delicious also came up with some great product discoveries). The rub came though when I started chatting to the behatted gentleman wielding an outsized spoon while his paella gently simmered. He turned out to be French, not even from the Spanish border but from deep in la France profonde of the centre. Ah well, no matter, globalisation bounds on. I made sure to pass by again an hour later when the paella was ready. Despite its Gallic origin it hit the spot - creamy with a good dose of prawns, chunks of chicken and that unbeatable saffron backtaste.

Hah! tricked you! Anyone who thought my blog would be about far-flung travels better think again. Just a year ago, even 6 months ago this was the case. For the moment though I’m in a serious gestation period and that, coupled with a string of inspiring happenings here in London, is keeping me firmly grounded. My ‘green’ friends approve of course, having repeatedly ticked me off for my heavy carbon bootprint. But, as usual, you can travel widely within the M25 so why take to the skies? This week for example, I’ve been to Turkey, Szechuan, Afghanistan and Rwanda.

As a writer I often complain about long hours spent working solo - or rather just me and my computer (if only it would talk back when I rant - get that sorted you Apple-boffins). So it’s been a change experiencing other more sociable media while promoting my latest book, Medina Kitchen. By chance, a few weeks ago I also underwent what was euphemistically called an ‘on-camera chat’ to test my presenting abilities for a TV series on women explorers. A wonderful subject, right up my street, but alas the long years of working & playing hard are etched deep on my visage. It was not to be. But for my book promotion, they have no choice, so, spirited away from my desk I’ve been confronted with dealing with OTHER PEOPLE. Help.