Jenny Coad

Battersea Power Station

Battersea Power Station once generated nearly a fifth of London’s power. It must have hummed and clanked almost as much as it does today while its transformation proceeds noisily. Graphic prints of it are two a penny across the capital, but I’m fond of them because the power station is my near neighbour. I still thrill to glimpse it framed by rows of Victorian semis, especially now that the new chimneys are lit dramatically at night, red crane lights dotted about them like a spiky ruby crown. Across the world it has celebrity status, thanks to the cover of Pink Floyd’s 1977 album Animals. The band’s inflatable pink piggy caused more bother than the protesters’ Trump blimp, becoming untethered and drifting off to Kent, alarming pilots along the way.

The English seaside

‘May I take a picture of your snake?’ I asked the tattooed man with a python around his neck, regretting it as the words left my mouth. He nodded. ‘What’s it called?’ ‘There’s two,’ he replied, gruffly. So there were! Two pythons comfortably coiled, glistening in the sunshine. It was the hottest early May bank holiday since the day was introduced in 1978, and the Kent coast was in full swing. The sea looked murky, the sand muddy and there was not a palm tree in sight but that did little to dent our enjoyment. You can’t beat an English beach day. On the scorching bank holiday in question, half of south London seemed to have disgorged onto Whitstable. Stalls, vans and boat clubs were doing a roaring trade in oysters, lobster rolls, pots of winkles, fried eggs in a bun, and ice cream cones.

The tables turned

Dining rooms have been in the doldrums for decades. Even Mary Berry has given up on hers. ‘Most of us, I think, live in the kitchen,’ she said recently. She’s right. Plenty of us don’t have a dining room to give up on, me included. Plenty more have knocked down what once divided a dining room from a kitchen to create an airy, open-plan ‘living space’ where we do battle with avocados and everything else. We might be obsessed with what we are and aren’t eating but we don’t stand on ceremony. Nigella Lawson admits she slurps noodles ‘hypnotically’ while watching TV on the sofa. ‘If it can be eaten out of a bowl, I’m very happy to eat while I watch,’ she said. Dining rooms are all but dead, then, which is a shame because they invite conversation, allow for contemplation and can be just as cosy as a kitchen.

Dinner at Modigliani’s

When you arrive for dinner and your host is massaging a purple cauliflower, you know you’re in for an interesting evening. I am in a top-floor flat in Paris, which was once the domain of Amedeo Modigliani. The Italian artist was famous for his louche lifestyle — drink, drugs, women — but we know him best for those serene portraits with empty eyes. He died of tubercular meningitis in this very flat at the age of 35. His ghost doesn’t stalk the rooms, though, and no sketches were found beneath the floorboards — much to our hosts’ disappointment. They are Nicolas and Monia Derrstroff, a chef and journalist, who host evenings in their apartment for curious tourists and art enthusiasts via Air-bnb. It must be quite exposing to open up your home to a hungry crowd and find them poking around your bedroom to admire the original windows, which flood the place with light.

Decision breakers

‘The risk of a wrong decision is preferable to the terror of indecision,’ said Maimonides. How right he was. Today, we are racked with choice, and decision-making has never been more fraught. It’s hell. Look at restaurant menus. Anything longer than a page is alarming. So much margin for error. ‘Hold on a minute, I just need another look.’ ‘What’s the special, again?’ Glance at a neighbouring table. ‘That looks nice, is it the lamb?’ Turn to your partner. ‘What are you having?’ At least you’ve settled on a restaurant. Organising a dinner out generates endless back and forth between companions, jostling politely for position, lobbying for a venue in a more convenient postcode, suggesting somewhere a little less expensive or a touch more on trend: ‘I’ve heard this place is good’, ‘That’s quite far…’ ‘OK.

Jenny Coad

Snapping point

Our family holiday snaps used to be slides. We’d gather in the sitting room while Dad clicked through each one. He and my mother are archaeologists, so the pictures were short on people and long on fortifications. These days we tourists take so many photographs that a slide show would take all day. We record everything. The slightest thing. That promising first glass in the airport departure lounge; the entertainingly bungled English on the local restaurant menu (lol); our toes burrowing happily into smooth beach pebbles. I went mad for the tiles on a recent Portugal trip, photographing hundreds, eager not to miss an even prettier patterned frontage. They were so lovely, so pleasing. But what will I do with all the pictures? Thank goodness we now keep most of our memories digitally and display them on Facebook or Instagram rather than printing them out for a vast album or supersizing our mantelpieces.

Throw in the towel

Spas are supposed to be relaxing. You pad around in a regulation robe and too-big slippers. Everything is beautifully soft, crisply white, low lit. There are loungers for flopping and glasses of tea —pale yellow and herbal, not builder’s. Towels are everywhere. It’s rehydrating, restful, rejuvenating. Music tinkles in the background; occasionally a cymbal resounds. The treatment list has huge promise. You will emerge looking glorious or at least a shinier — hopefully slimmer — version of yourself. Medical spas go further still. Your liver will be grateful, your skin more youthful, your lumps and bumps smoothed, your outlook revolutionised. Ten years ago, spas were thought to be a bit peculiar. Today, they are widely accepted as places of wellbeing worship where women gather to bond and beautify — then ruin it all in the evening with a giant glass of wine.

Calendar clash

On a Friday evening in May 2018 I am going to see the Broadway show Hamilton. We had to book the tickets two weeks ago. Fair enough, you might say — some theatre tickets sell out long before rehearsals have begun. Nonetheless, it seems a madly long way off and what if I forget about it between now and then? This week I’ve tried to pencil in the cinema with a group of friends — no one was free until April — and Saturday supper with a couple: they couldn’t do until July. Jenny Coad discusses spontaneity with Isabel Hardman: This is far from unusual. My diary tends to be filled weeks in advance and there is little room for unexpected pleasures without a shamefaced untangling of best-laid plans. Most of us are masters at unpicking things that sounded like a nice idea at the time.

Thursday

Battersea Power Station

Battersea Power Station

Thursday

The English seaside

The English seaside

Thursday

The tables turned

The tables turned

Thursday

Dinner at Modigliani’s

Dinner at Modigliani’s

Thursday

Decision breakers

Decision breakers

Thursday

Snapping point

Snapping point

Thursday

Throw in the towel

Throw in the towel

Thursday

Calendar clash

Calendar clash