Sometimes it’s the little things. This stairwell makes me very happy as I walk up to the office each day.

My friend Yvonne went to Spain and came back raving about Limoncello. It is likely to she is just a particularly vocal alcoholic, but in the name of cultured booze, some brief mention of being unable to find Limoncello in the UK, and this very well-timed tutorial from Domestic Sluttery, I decided to make some.

It uses lemons, vodka and sugar, and some hefty Kilner Jars. For anyone that doesn’t know me, these are big glass preserve jars with orange rubber rings and for unknown reasons I think they’re one of the best things ever. Obviously they’re just glass jars, but everyone’s got their foibles.

This is the first time I’ve had limoncello so I’m a terrible judge without a benchmark. It’s strange stuff – very strong, with a tasty lemon syrup to take the ‘christ this is strong’ shock away just at the right time. Here’s the recipe, with important notes from me.

LIMONCELLO (Makes around 2 litres)

You will need:
• 1 litre of basic vodka
• 5 unwaxed lemons
• 500g caster sugar
• 500ml boiling water

Make It!
1. Peel the lemons using a swivel-style peeler. Scrape off any white pith, turn the radio on and sit comfortably as this bit does take ages. However, it’s really important as any leftover will make the limoncello taste bitter. This works best to invite a good friend round under the guise of cooking them dinner. Cook dinner and point them at this mundane task whilst plying them with alcohol.

2. Place the peel in a 2 litre kilner jar and pour in the vodka. Leave in a cupboard for a week, shaking the jar every day. After seven days, put the sugar in a heatproof bowl and pour over the boiling water. Stir the whole lot until the sugar dissolves then leave the syrup until it’s completely cool. Misread/forget the recommended time and leave for three weeks, shaking every day. Panic, and add another week onto alcohol’s ETA.

3. Stir the syrup into the vodka, seal the lid and leave for at least another two weeks, again shaking every day or two. Taste the limoncello at this stage and sweeten with more syrup or top up more vodka as suits your taste, then strain into some fancy bottles. Tie a nice bow around them, and voila! There you have it – tasty, lemon-y, Christmas-y booze! Declare self too lazy to suit to taste. Hurl into bottles. Add bow. Tell recipient if they like it they’re welcome to a jamjar more of it.

Good stuff.

I love lecool and things like it. When you’re in a big city for the first time they’re a lifesaver, and when you’re old and jaded they help you find new things. In my spare time I edit what is essentially a Brighton version, but it seems a much easier task because in what’s still a madly busy little city there’s still less of an obscene choice of things going on. In London, I almost don’t know where to start. (Probably because I’ve lived in one for four years, and one for one month.) It’s nice to feel that someone’s doing the research for me. So yesterday we picked three things of the lecool list and went out on an adventure. At the moment I feel like there’s so much to take it, see and digest and like it all needs eating quickly and immediately. I may become at risk of indigestion. If you’ve got anything you’d recommend seeing or doing let me know.

1. Carousel Art & Craft
2. Angelheaded Hipsters Exhibition at the National Theatre (best Snowball cocktails)
3. Hunter S Thompson at the Friends Films. (We scrapped this exciting sounding venture for a poke around the tiny Curve Exhibition at the Barbican)

Mason and Taylor has reaffirmed my mostly jaded view of East London pubs in one easy go. I’m on a mission to find comfortable, wonderful, homely places that redefine my associations of London (I’ve spent too much time in wetherspoons filled with jostling men in suits, or places that are just a bit run of the mill). This is one of the places that make me realise London has so many ordinary but brilliant spots.

We popped down to the art and craft event downstairs – they hung fabric bunting across the stairs and I was a bit smitten. I may have squeaked in excitement (the craft could have been crap, and I’d still have been happy). It was lovely to poke around. It’s a small but nice space with a mix of knitted bits, feathery things and art, and was lovely to poke around. There were tables of people knitting and chatting whilst people look around their tables. The wrapping paper prints hanging from the ceiling on coat hangers decorated with small people, mixing bowls, and forests made me want to go home and find out how to make my own.

We scrapped the Hunter S Thompson ‘One for the Doctor’ event run by the People’s Picturehouse: a ‘secretive squatty cinema type event’ celebrating Hunter S Thompson, which promised themed cocktails, friendly faces, and a back-to-back projection of a Gonzo Journalist documentary and Fear and Loathing because it went past our bedtime and we’re old like that.

Instead we went to the Barbican which was holding Beat the Champ by Cory Archangel at The Curve Exhibition, a tiny commission which takes you on a journey through different gaming consoles. Essentially it’s loops of bowling games in which the player fails to score, displayed down a giant wall. Surrounded by Nintendo and Atari beeps, it’s nice but feels as though it should be part of a bigger exhibition.

And finally we headed to the official #2 on the list. I can count the number of times I’ve walked along the Southbank on one hand, and the same with the number of people I’ve done it with. I always remember Elika saying it’s one of her favourite spots and I wonder if the blue and white fairy light-lit trees and old Victorian-esque lights will feel any less special when I have walked there more than my hands and feet can count. I hope not.

The Angelheaded Hipsters exhibition has been taking place at the National Gallery. I’ve never been to the National Gallery before. There’s a lot of places I’ve never been, but it’s a lovely building – not so much in the design but in the mood inside. It’s tranquil and kind, and we discovered some of the nicest Snowball cocktails – and after leaving we dashed to a supermarket to buy Avokaat, so I’ll be making those tonight).

Allen Ginsberg’s photos of his friends, ranging from William Burroughs Patti Smith to Andy Warhol (described as ‘hipster Andy Warhol’ it took a second to remember that Warhol wasn’t always a modern art chap) is a step into stories of the past. There’s lots to look at but the younger photos resonate more, and involve you in their stories more. Perhaps because I’m the same age now, but the detail in the descriptions of each person seemed more loving, and the poses of people leaning back from tall buildings or bundled onto a sofa for a quick group shot seemed more natural and somehow, I couldn’t put my finger on, more affectionate. Perhaps because I’m the same age, or perhaps because they were the first photos we came across, but something was lovely about them. Something carefree and young and with so much to happen. And that’s a bit how I feel at the moment.

It’s 7pm and I’m on the floor of an Orange store. “Can you I charge my phone?” I have asked.
“We can charge it behind the counter,” they say.
“It’s fine.” I say, whipping out a cable and socket converter, and hurl myself at the the floor, plugging into the wall. The staff smirk at me, and it makes me smile because people with smartphones do silly things. Like walk into lampposts because they forget to look up.

“Hello, I’m in an Orange shop near Regent’s Street,” I tell the phone.”
“I’m in a pub ten minutes from Goodge Street,” says the phone. “Near mumblemumble street by Dare.”
“I do not know mumblemumble street or where Dare has moved to in their fancypants new offices.”

“Can’t you use a map?”
“I do not have a map. My phone is dead and I cannot use google maps on my way because I my phone will die. I am sitting on the floor of an Orange store charging it.”
“I’ll meet you by the underground. How long will you be?”
“Hang on” I say, and open the tube app. “I will be ten minutes,” I enthusiastically convince to myself.

“Thank you” I say to the Orange men, who are not my provider. And I dive off into the street.

It was then I start noticing quite how horribly dependent we’ve all become on mobile. Should it not have been blindingly obvious already. I’m used to looking down trains and platforms of people and noticing how we’re all staring at screens. I’m sure it’s engaging and thought-provoking content and/or angry birds, but it’s a bit odd. I’m quickly becoming someone whose plans are incredibly reliant on easy contact. It’s sort of lazy and wonderful. And sort of not.

A barely relevant photo