Dunn's: Fabulous Baker Boys (And Girls)

It is a truth universally acknowledged - I love cake. Big fan of toast. Love a bit of crumpet. All about the baked goods, me. Living in Crouch End affords ample opportunity for buying this stuff. Over the years, I've whittled down the places that are worthy of my hard-earned for all things cakey and floury, and right at the top of the list is a local institution and treasure - Dunn's bakery.

When I heard an outlet of Gail's (of Hampstead fame) was opening in Crouch End, I was pretty anxious for Dunn's. According to my friend Massimo at The Haberdashery, the opening of Gail's actually caused huge excitement among his clientele. Yup, the Bugaboo Brigade were all hysterical over Gail and her forthcoming goody attractions.

Needless worry. Having done a taste test experiment with the Brummie (test consisted of bread and butter - what else?), it can be confirmed that the spelt and honey loaf from Dunns, weighing in at £1.70, knocks the wheat-free socks off a loaf half the size / almost twice the price (£3.20 for a tiny loaf I could eat at one sitting? Are you off your rocker, Gail?) from Gail's. This loaf from Dunn's is bread nirvana, wheatless ambrosia, bread fit for a Queen. Gail's had just opened when the taste test took place, and The Brummie and I also carried out a cuppa test. The coffee was good, but the staff seemed a bit clueless and the café layout was cramped. I wasn't surprised, only a few weeks later, to see they had closed down while shopfitters rectified what was obviously a bad bit of planning. In the interest of fairness, I know Gail chucks out a lovely pastry - when the NYC massive were over, they brought some back to Disgracelands, and I happily polished one off (ancient proverb: always put a gift cake in the mouth).

I had a lovely Dunn's experience today. Running my errands, I'd popped to buy a puncture repair kit to fix my wellingtons for this coming weekend. I refuse to buy new wellies, I'm a resourceful girl and will be thrilled if my make-do-and-mend capabilites are inventive enough to give my old rubber boots another lease of life. Re-cycling indeed...sorry, I digress. So, I've spent some cash in the bike shop, popped to M&S to buy flowers, and on the way back, I pop into Dunn's for some of that lovely bread. Imagine my dismay when I realise I only have 85p left in my pocket. I'm in a bit of a rush, so I asked, slightly red of face, if I'd be able to pay by card. "Oh, of course, no problem" replied the sweet young thing behind the counter. I laughed, saying I'd thought it a bit ridiculous, and also lazy of me, not to just run to the cashpoint. She assured me she didn't mind. "I had one man ask if he could pay for a bread roll with his card", she confided in a conspiratorial tone, "for 26p. So, really - don't worry", she added.

She took my loaf off to cut (medium sliced, if you're wondering), then came back to pick up another loaf, and cut that too. She put them both on the counter. "I didn't cut that first one very well, you can have them both for the same price". I was overcome with joy at this point, and the rather handsome male staff member standing next to her wanted to know what she'd done to make me so pleased. Not wanting to drop her in any sort of bakery shit, I just said "she's done a very nice thing and she'll probably go to heaven", to which he replied "I doubt it, she's my sister." The customer next to me laughed at this, and it was yet another reason why Dunn's gets my spends - the staff are absolutely lovely. A big thank you to Imogen and Lewis for making my day - I came straight back home and had two slices toasted, heavily spread with slightly salted butter. Perfect.

http://www.dunns-bakery.co.uk/

Debris

Many moons ago, when I was a wee thing, barely out of the school gates, and long before the birth of my second-hand empire, I used to sell stuff on fleamarkets. I'd amass stuff, then sell it on to other folks who could give it a lovely, new home. There was no car or driving licence for me back then, and so car boot sales were a thing to visit for fun, with a view to buying more crap. I loved it and still do. So, getting a call from The Brummie on Friday evening, suggesting a team-up to expunge old tat from the back of a motor seemed like a sterling idea.

Having been a good girl on Saturday evening (a short visit to Aces & Eights at Tufnell Park to catch up with pals consisted of me drinking lime and soda, admiring the excellent 70s porn adorning the walls, and approving of the luxurious pubic hair the ladies had back then), I was up at the crack of dawn (really, if even one of you uses this phrase at me, you're history) to load Betty Ford and head off into the breaking day with Brummie in tow.

The Princess May School car boot sale on Kingsland Road (Stoke Newington end) is a jolly good little affair. Well organised, run by friendly proper Londoners, good tea stall (I had a delicious bit of carrot cake for £1.20 - bargain), arrive by 6.45am, all over by 2pm. Worth getting up for, and a pleasure to spend half a day in good-humoured Brum company. Of all the boot sales I've actually stood at in London, this is probably one of the nicest. Not too big and cheap at a tenner. Others I've parked up at are:

• Kilburn/Maida Vale St Augustines - if you want to feel thoroughly hassled by people wanting to steal your old life for 5p or less, go ahead. One conversation I took part in went a little bit like this: Buyer: "How much for these shoes?" Shoes in question, brand new orange suede sandals, still with tag on, worth £40. Me: "£3." Buyer "Will you take a pound?" Me, patiently and quite brightly: "Oh...er, no, they're new and current season, well worth £3." Buyer: "Hmmm. Well, I have a pound." Me, less patient: "The sandals are £3." Buyer: "Won't you take a pound?" Me: "No, I'm sorry." Buyer walks away. Buyer comes back. Buyer: "Will you not take a pound?" Me, actually looking at Buyer now like she is unhinged, and with a disdain I might reserve for David Cameron or that pasty, pudding-faced chap who sang for Keane: "I'm afraid I'd rather give them to Oxfam than let you have them for a pound." And she didn't mind. Or, in fact, stump up the asked-for £3. Maybe she was mad. But then, I smiled, because I should have known it was all Part Of The Game. That said, if you're going as a shopper, it's worth a nosy. I've had some right laughs standing there, but never made much cash.

• Battersea Car Boot (Battersea Park School): this is in a different league. It was my venue of choice to rid myself of virtually everything I owned pre-Oz trip. I made a small fortune over a couple of weeks. If you've got good stuff to sell, particularly old stuff / collectibles, this is the place to go. It's expensive, though - if you know your goodies are likely to appeal to a broad crowd, book to be among the first lot of cars in (about £35) and you get to set up before the dealers can start hounding you. All very civilised too - Sunday trading and you don't have to be there until 10.30am to set up.

If you fancy doing a car boot, this list from Time Out has others I've shopped at, all worth a bit of a jaunt:

http://www.timeout.com/london/feature/1193/londons-best-car-boot-sales

I was sitting here in the late afternoon sunshine, on my sofa, tip-tapping away, and suddenly, The Faces "Debris" filled the room. Is this what 'serendipitous' means? Whatever. It's perfect. One of my favourite songs from "A Nod's As Good As A Wink...", with the wonderful Ronnie Lane (my favourite tiny Face) singing lead, backed by Rod The Mod, written about his Dad shopping on a Sunday morning market. I'd named this post something relatively witty, but Ronnie has inspired me with a much sweeter title. Brought a tear to my eye, as Mr Lane often can. Or perhaps it's the effect of that early start...

Love him. RIP.

Post-Holiday Funk

No, it's not a lost album by Sly And The Family Stone. It's a nasty malaise I seem to have picked up. There's no instant remedy it seems (so, no haranguing the patient, thank you). Imagining myself as Doctor Quinn (I said Quinn) Medicine Woman (chamois leather top / lot of hair / cowboy hat), or Hattie Jacques as Matron (that's more like it), I prescribed the following:

Mmmm. Nice, tasty medicine.

(The chips and a lovely vodka tonic, not Lady Married's rack).

Further pick-me-ups included self-administration of a large bollocking and an early night. Now on the road to a complete writing recovery. Thank you, well-wishers.

(Postscript: part of the recovery process was aided by cross-Atlantic Skype. Evil Hurricaine Irene is NY bound. Please leave Brooklyn alone, Irene. It contains a smashing brewery, some nice music venues, and two people I love dearly. Remember - if you're reading, write that inky letter, LouLou. Could be your last chance to write with a proper nib. I am now officially a monger of doom.)

The Plimsoll Line

Three stripe heaven.

There's something you don't know about me. Obviously, there's a lot you dont know about me. Some of you know this particular thing, though - school friends, old friends, old-skool friends. I have a lifelong love of trainers. Don't be so shocked. Us high-heelers can have a shady flat past, y'know.

I'm prompted to write following my usual mosey through the Guardian Guide this Saturday. Blogroll this week gives us a whole heap of blogs dedicated to trainers/sneakers (much as I like the word 'sneaker', I don't feel qualified to use it. I'm not American). It offers up a roll call of the great and the good pumps (love that word too) throughout the decades, and made me think about a chronology of my own hi-tops, lowcuts, runners and various other canvas, rubber and nylon variations on a theme. On one of the listed blogs, I'm completely taken aback to find there's a man living in Liverpool who trod the same footwear path as me in his youth. Uncanny - it's like reading about myself. (I've only read his blog properly since writing this, and it makes me realise how on a footwear wavelength the whole country was back in the late 70s / early 80s - truly filled my heart with joy to read his musings.)

http://shoeclassics.com/index.html

For me, must have all started with plimsolls (another corker of a word). They'll have been black. Elasticated gusset. At some point I'll have begged for white. And no doubt, Mum will have let me have them. Early junior school, I got my first proper trainers, but they were unbranded. Some odd brand, not even Hi-Tec (I have never owned any Silver Shadows, the trainer of Dads everywhere). Aged about 9, I got my first pair of branded running shoes. They were emerald green, suede and nylon, made by Gola. I loved them - they coincided with the first time I was captain of a school sports team (rounders - I can still throw a ball as far as most men I know, overarm, not some girly pussy underarm shit).

Dunlop Green Flash. Relatively cheap and not too cool back then. A resurgence about 10-15 years ago surprised and cheered me. I had about three pairs of the Gola trainers. They saw me through to high school. First pair of boy's footy trainers - Mitre Memphis. I had a pair of monkey boots too. Not trainers exactly, but worth an honourable mention, because this little tomboy loved them way back when.

Brand of champions (and me)

And then I fell for Mr Dassler's brand hook, line and sneaker. It started with Adidas Kick. Cheapest bottom-of-the-range black leather, classic three white stripes. Perfect for playing hockey on a gravel pitch. I had pair after pair of them. Also had a black vinyl Adidas sports bag with the classic trefoil. Then, I went traitor and got some Patrick Kevin Keegan endorsed footy trainers (and the matching shin pads - I am a girl, really, I am).

If they were good enough for King Kev, they were good enough for me

Now, don't be thinking I come from money, folks. I don't. But I was good at sport and my Mum was a cool bird who knew it was money well spent. If I'm busy playing hockey / netball / tennis for the school, I can't be off snogging boys and getting into trouble, surely? (I was, but don't shatter the old dear's illusions). And the second I could get a job, I did. In a sports shop. In the trainer department. And then my tastes got fancy. I had John McEnroe's Nike Wimbledon. My first pair of Nikes (Adidas will always rock my world). As soon as Adidas brought out the Los Angeles trainer, replete with a shock absorber system in the heel (what utter bollocks), I bought them. I had one pair of SL80s. Around this time, I went a bit sports casual - Fred Perry (navy, sky blue 2 stripes), brown penny loafers, blue Pods from Italy.

Give good shoe, them Italians

But once the totter of high heels took over, my buying habits abated a little. My love, however, has never abated. I currently own: Adidas Superstars (an all-time favourite - classic white, bought in LA 12 years ago), Adidas Stan Smiths (white, Velcro fastening - annoyingly, they still squeak, no matter how much leather feed / dubbing / Vaseline I rub on the fittings), Nike Air Rifts (originals, white, as soon as they launched in the UK - I had 3 pairs, sold 2), Adidas Supernova (pale blue - I thank my lucky stars when fitted for these, my style of running suits a pair of running shoes that look good, not some mental day-glo nylon madness). I recently bought some tan leather PF Flyers, but took them back the next day, knowing I'd bought them because they are a great looking pump, but would just never get the wear. I'm considering some Superga canvas in cream, to replace Converse. And unsurprisingly, I've had umpteen pairs of Converse over the years (thanks, Ramones). The Ex still laughs that my opening gambit to him all those years ago was "those Converse have the same colour rubber sole as the canvas" about the latest royal blue Jack Purcells he was wearing. My finest chat-up line ever (after "get your coat, you've pulled". I really did. And it worked.).