The bleak mid-winter and beyond

So we're in the grips, or depending on who you hear it from, death throes, of the coldest, snowiest winter that Britain has seen during my lifetime. I sway between gazing adoringly at the flakes of snow and relishing the squeak of fresh snow beneath my shoes and ranting to anyone who will listen about how much I wish I lived somewhere with permanent heat and sunshine, with none of this irritating ice and sole-destroying slush. Either way, this bleak winter isn't going to get me down. Because when you live in one of the world's great cities, there is always something to do.

So, spurred on by a visit from friends from California, I have seen the dubiously-acquired treasures of the British Museum and learnt about rocks in South Kensington, taken High Tea and seen as much of the interior of St. Paul's as one can without paying the steep entry fee. And, of course, I have partied. New Year's at Scrutton Street warehouse saw the wonderful Boy 8 Bit and many others spin dazzling electro to East London's finest... and softening cement coated our shoes. The bars of Shoreditch don't seem to suffer from people's alcohol-renouncing resolutions, and Dalston Superstore's glorious sense of camp fun was in full swing as ever last wednesday as we quaffed wine and played, er, ping pong. When the snow falls, we just make sure not to fall down. Literally, figuratively, or otherwise.

Reasons why I love East London

1. Brick Lane Bagels at ridiculous hours of the morning
2. Sunbathing in London Fields
3. Basements on Kingsland Road/Kingsland High Street
4. Random nights out at DJ parties in strip clubs
5. Broadway Market
6. Brick Lane Market
7. The amazing, creative outfits people wear
8. Bars in Shoreditch
9. Café 1001 and its amazing food
10. Finding amazing things to wear in Beyond Retro and cheap things to eat at Ridley Road Market

Ran this town: A late summer night's trek

Is it just me or is every single basement on Kingsland High Street some kind of bar or club of questionable legitimacy? During the day, it could almost pass for any East London high road, but come weekend nights, the streets are thronged with the beautiful and the well-dressed, lining up to squeeze into bars that range from industrial chic to sleaze-and-shab, playing host to some of the capital's best nights. Yet somehow on Saturday we ended up in the one empty club in Dalston (Barden's) and spent hours trailing all over East London with plastic cups full of overpriced, low grade red wine.

It all started off so well, I cooked not entirely rubbery calamari, we quaffed a few bottles of serviceable liquids, and we headed out for the bright lights of Dalston. After deciding against a dimly lit doorway with a six foot man dressed in a Lady Gaga-esque sequined body standing inside, and an aversion to paying entry to Dalston Superstore, we hit up the mean streets of Bethnal Green, before returning once more to the land of Kings (I take the shame for the unimaginative play on words). After a brief aforementioned daliance at Barden's we somehow ended up imbibing dubious drink back on the bus to Shoreditch, where, finally, my aesthetically gifted friend managed to charm our way into a random guestlist-only party in a gallery space. It all gets a bit blurry after the five (yes, five) storey climb to a large, empty, white space, devoid of art, or life intelligent enough to see that there's more to a night out than trying to like you're not having fun.

I think we attempted to ballroom dance.