The bleak midwinter.......

The view from the bridge was not good in London on Friday morning .............

Three and a half hours ........

and four trains later........

I had made it to sunny Worthing where despite the sub-zero temperatures, it was a lovely day at the beach.......

As I headed toward the tube to meet him the snow began to fall, like white foam from an over-excited washing machine, it fell fluffy and white and settled on cars and railings and the pavement where I walked. I didn't have a hat on, I wasn't wearing the hideous..... water-proof.... puffy jacket. The snow fell on my face, stung my eyes and wiped away my artfully applied make-up. In ten minutes everything had turned white. This is all a bit Richard Curtis, I thought.

"Hi" he said, kissing me on the cheek, "this is all a bit Richard Curtis......."

Next to champagne and oysters, the snow proved a worthy aphrodisiac......

Top tip: 'Laughing-Boy' Leonard Cohen's new CD, Old Ideas, is so divine it will get you through the bleakest weather February can muster.....

Thyme on my hands.......

So......guess what time I got to work today?? The thing is I was away this weekend and yes, I did put my watch back and I did make the most of my extra hour....drinking homemade Sloe Vodka as it happens.....but when I got back to London I failed to adjust my alarm clock (even though I'd remembered to remind the 20-year-old-son) and so it was, I arrived at the churchyard I usually cross to reach my designated bus stop (sounds like I live in some Austin-inspired village rather than central London doesn't it....) to find the gates chained. Wonder why that is, I thought. Perhaps because it was half seven and not half eight in the morning? However, so smooth was my journey to East London I have vowed to get up an hour earlier every Tuesday......we shall see how long this lasts....

So, the weekend away........ having enjoyed my recent sojourn in the French countryside so much, I thought I'd give equal opps to the English countryside, and I headed off to the Isle of Wight, where a friend with a birthday has a beautiful converted barn, nestled in a leafy hollow, deep in the south, that looked suspiciously like the French countryside. Having arrived late the night before, and feasted on holiday-flavoured fish & chips, birthday-celebration Prosecco and cakes I'd cleverly sourced in London, from Ottolenghi's outrageous selection of fancy goods, I awoke to the sound of rain lashing the roof and not one but two text messages informing me that the weather in London was ........ wonderful.

But no matter the weather, this was the country and we had activities planned ....... mainly involving the outside. So, after a much-bigger-breakfast-than usual, involving eggs, mushrooms, muffins and lots of coffee, we set out on 'The Walk'. I have discovered that going for a walk in the country often starts with a drive and this walk was no different as we had decided to go along a the coastal path. Parked up we set off and it was epic, the dense clouds fought for space, hanging low over a dull ocean, then suddenly sharp shards of sunlight cut through the grey and turned the sea silver. As we walked, the sky turned brighter and bluer and I sucked in the salty, fresh air, feeling fitter by the minute. Then it began to rain. Big, fat, exceptionally wet rain. The kind of rain that would be accompanied by a potential love interest if it were a Richard Curtis movie, to wipe away the rain drops that splattered my sunglasses and dripped from the end of my nose. So we sought refuge at the cafe in Steep Hill Cove and had a pot of tea and a Colin Firth to go.

We collected wood for the fire, went to a movie, won a pub quiz, picked sloes from the hedgerow and bought chicken fresh from the farm where the turkeys were already gobbling nervously, and roasted it with garlic from the island and thyme from the garden and ate it with my favourite new discovery: Ottolenghi's Mejadarah, a delicious dish of rice and lentils that's oh so easy to make. I'm lucky, I live practically bivouacked at the back of this fine emporium of exquisite cuisine but for those of you who live further a field, here is the recipe:

250ml sunflower oil

4 medium onions, thinly sliced

250g green or brown lentils

2 tsp cumin seeds

1½ tbsp coriander seeds

200g basmati rice

2 tbsp olive oil

½ tsp ground turmeric

1½ tsp ground allspice

1½ tsp ground cinnamon

1 tsp sugar

Salt and black pepper

350ml water

Heat the sunflower oil in a medium-size heavy-based saucepan. When very hot, carefully add a third of the sliced onion. Fry for five to seven minutes, stirring occasionally with a slotted spoon, until the onion takes on a nice, golden-brown colour and turns crispy. Use the spoon to transfer the onion to a colander and sprinkle with salt. Repeat with two more batches of onion.

Meanwhile, put the lentils in a small saucepan, cover with plenty of water, bring to a boil and cook for 12-15 minutes, or until the lentils have softened but still have a little bite. Drain into a colander.

Wipe clean the saucepan in which you fried the onion and drop in the cumin and coriander seeds. Place over a medium heat and toast the seeds for a minute or two, until they release those distinctive aromas. Add the rice, olive oil, turmeric, allspice, cinnamon, sugar, half a teaspoon of salt and plenty of black pepper. Stir to coat the rice with oil, then add the cooked lentils and water. Bring to a boil, cover and simmer on very low heat for 15 minutes.

Remove from the heat, lift off the lid and cover the pan with a clean tea towel. Seal tightly with the lid and set aside for 10 minutes. Finally, tip the rice and lentils into a large mixing bowl. Add half the fried onion and stir gently with a fork. Pile up in a shallow serving bowl and top with the rest of the onion.

Yotam Ottolenghi is chef/patron of Ottolenghi in London.

Top tip: check out Sloe Gin or Sloe Vodka...... utterly delicious

Rock of ages............

And then a man in drag with the glossy-lipped head of a female manikin strapped to this his chest, teetered slowly but deliberately in his high heels, across the makeshift stage, in what was definitely the weirdest show of the night. The best: a woman performing an hilarious 'drunken' striptease, while simultaneously keeping 7, yes 7, hoops moving independently around various bits of her body. Extraordinary. I was standing in a wood, drinking a Mojito, at about half one in the morning having accidentally come to Latitude..........

Continuing my pop-up summer, I had only discovered that Saturday morning, that instead of caging a day pass to the festival, I had weekend tickets and camping in the performer's area. Now, despite my embargo on all things tent-related, I've never been one to pass up a pass, especially when it involves a 'hospitality bar' and the all important 'porta-loo'.....

So it was, my friend and I found ourselves running around an underground car park in Euston at 5 to 1 in a desperate attempt to hire a car before it closed at 1. An hour later we still hadn't got out of second gear and we'd eaten the picnic before we'd passed the last tube stop. But eventually, with the clouds lifting and the sun shinning, we finally exited London, unleashing the might of the Clio, we roared up the A12.

While I stood staring at the bits of tent and peg my friend proudly inflated her automatic, heart-shaped, inflatable-double-bed. Having never planned to camp again I hadn't retained any erecting-knowledge. I'd also lent it to a friend the week before, to go to another festival; it now appeared to have been returned with only half the pegs, bent at unamusing angles. Eventually it was up, secured by it's one remaining guy-rope, and my friend realised the automatic, heart-shaped, inflatable-double-bed wouldn't fit through the opening, so she had to deflate it and start again, by which time our fellow-fetivalees had us pegged as a couple of inept, lesbian campers....

Hot, and not a little bothered, all our worries floated away like dust-mots in the Suffolk evening, sunshine, once we'd ordered our first pint in an eco-friendly, reusable, plastic beaker. I came to the first ever Latitude 5 years ago, just a few thousand folk and a flock of painted sheep. That was a spur of the moment idea too and we broke down on the way. But being newly in love, I didn't blame my boyfriend for being an idiot in a car with a colander for a radiator, I just laughed, coquettishly of course. The tow-truck driver had dropped us at Ipswich station before taking the car back to London, and with the hot sun high in the blue sky, we ran down the platform, just in time to catch the last train to the festival. It was all very Richard Curtis. The last time I came, Latitude had grown to five times it's original size while our love had shrunk, and I knew then me and the boyfriend would not be coming back, together, again.

As I have already said, camping without drink and drugs is just not humanly possible. So, sleep under canvas had all but alluded me. However, watching a suited and booted, Marcus Brigstocke chow down on a full-English, while I main-lined coffee, provided the first entertainment of the day. Next up was Tom Jones doing an un-scheduled, Sunday morning set on the main stage. Biblical. We also saw Steve Mason, Mumford and Sons, Charlotte Gainsbourg and Belle and Sebastian, opera in the woods, a play in a tent and the sublime La De Dahs singing such classics as Eminem's 'Lose Yourself', in the style of The Andrews Sisters. And we barely scratched the surface, there is so much stuff. And a lot of people. Notting Hill must have been empty, the streets of Clapham Old Town deserted, tumbleweed blowing down Stoke Newington Church Street, Latitude is what it is. They even turn the water features into multi-coloured fountains from which emanate magical images, sort of acid-lite: all the fun of a trip for those over 40.........

Top Tip: Make your own festival: kick back with a cocktail in the garden and lose yourself in Tom Jones's Praise and Blame.