nicolette kaponis

It begins with sparkling wine. Just the one glass because, on an empty stomach, one glass is enough to have an immediate effect. With a touch of light-headedness, a warm blanket of happiness descends as a towering steeple of treats is brought to the table. The bottom plate holds sandwiches filled with no more than two ingredients and cut into delicate fingers, no crusts. The middle plate is adorned with scones, jam and cream and your tastebuds are already clamouring to have these traditional baked delicacies in your mouth. The final plate is the crowning glory and its contents are entirely dependant on your location. One thing you can be sure of. The bite-sized sweets on this final plate will be truly delicious, and you’ll probably struggle to eat them all. To complete the occasion, teapots are dotted around the table, each containing either traditional or more exotic blends of loose-leaf tea. And so begins one of life’s true joys. Afternoon tea. TREATS!!!

It was a blustery day and I thought the wind would clean sweep me off the street. The changing of seasons was no longer a future notion, it was nipping at our heels. Winter had, almost, arrived. I pulled my coat tighter around my shivering frame and wished I’d had the good sense to put on all the clothes I owned before leaving the flat earlier that morning. To combat the chill creeping into my bones, I knew I needed to take shelter somewhere, anywhere. But of course, when you’re in utter desperate need of just one bloody coffee chain, just one! not even a stupid Starbucks is anywhere nearby. Unwilling, or more accurately, unable, to part with more money than the cost of a single hot beverage, huddling within the warmth of a proper restaurant was out of the equation as was a visiting a book/clothing/shoe store. Looking at stuff you can’t afford when you’re so cold it hurts is actually a very specific form of torture I wanted to save myself from. And so, what is the next best thing,...

There are few things in life as beautiful as Venice. To the point where this blog post could have been entirely pictorial. I mean...

I have a long, long list of topics I could write about today. I could write about the perfect Italian mini-break I had with my beloved sister not so long ago. I could write about nearly tripping over deer in the beyond beautiful Richmond Park, around which I went for another long, long walk. I could write about my glee at security tickets to see David Tennant in a play early next year and how my 26-year-old-self would feel vindicated after missing out on seeing him play Hamlet when I last lived in this fair city. I could also write about how I finally got myself a UK bank account which makes me feel that I finally 'live' in London. But I'm not going to write about any of those things, not today. The reason? Well, today is a day I'd rather forget. It's the day I became utterly dismayed with the United States of America and crossed it from my list of 'places to visit anytime soon'. America, a nation that decided they prefer a president that gra...

The imagined everyday life of a writer, and the actual everyday life of a writer are often, and perhaps will always be, at odds with each other. I myself had fanciful notions of what it might be like to be a writer. My mind’s eye would conjure the image of a human (usually me, though a more literary, sophisticated version) at a perfect desk. This perfect desk housed a perfect typewriter (naturally) and was perfectly positioned in front of a window. This window opened out onto the perfect view: the lusciously green rolling hills of the countryside or the calming blue of the ocean, depending on my mood and the season within which this daydream was taking place. Mugs of coffee would be scattered around the room, mixed with glass tumblers containing the residue of some painfully chic-sounding alcoholic beverage. The gentle sounds of a warm breeze would be the only soundtrack to each writing day, although the odd bird’s chirp could also be heard every now and then. A perfect pair of read...