Author Archives: ameliaflorencesimmons

Tunbridge Wells Fashions Night Out

Posted in Fashion by

*This post was first featured on http://blog.loveisboutique.co.uk/616/tunbridge-wells-fashions-night-out/ – go and check them out!*

On Thursday 8th September 2011, I was lucky enough to be part of a very glittery, exciting evening at Love is Boutique. Apparently some people were heading to London for, oh, I don’t know – the Vogue-hosted Fashions Night Out, something like that. Well, Fashions Night Out most certainly came to Tunbridge Wells. At around 4.30, the sun had burst through an otherwise rainy day, the champagne was chilling, the goody bags were at the ready (more on those later), my shockingly bad playlist had starting to pump out of the speakers, and the first of many shoppers stepped into the shop.

Love is’ was looking on absolutely top form, at her shimmery, glamorous best, enticing in the hoardes of Tunbridge Wells. The window featured one of the most glorious tableaux I’ve ever happened upon. A mass of inky netting and lace formed into a skirt, topped off with the crispest of crisp white shirts, accompanied by oversized Louis Vuitton bag and a sprinkling of blood red shoes. Seemingly settling in the folds of this tremendous skirt were a host of pink metallic butterflies, and adding to the ethereal effect were a pair of fluffy angel wings.

Inside the shop itself was no different. The lights twinkled, the vintage brooches jostled for attention, snakeskin lay with eelskin, creaking antiquated vanity cases burst forth with a profusion of silk scarves and driving gloves, all watched over silently by the Gods – a gaudy Galliano tunic, a suave Dior dress, a Jean Varon confection in peach. Crowning this already sparkling glory were an army of sleek, musky furs – a distinguished presence on rails and mannequins. Our hosts for the evening looked just as stunning. Paula colour-blocking merrily away in tomato red maxi skirt and shoe boots the colour of blue hydrangeas, and Lynne walking her usual inspired line between edgy and elegant in black jumpsuit, biker boots and Missoni knit jacket.

It was into this warm and welcoming environment that a host of bloggers, press, and general darlings of Tunbridge Wells walked. As the champagne flowed, they walked, mesmerised, as ‘Love is’ began to work its unique magic on them. Almost instantly, jackets were seized, dresses were whipped away into loving hands, and a queue formed for the changing rooms. By 5.30-6ish, the boutique was absolutely teeming. Photos were taken of every dazzling surface, delighted treasure-hunters were holding up lace shirts, Moschino dresses, tuxedo jackets, and slipping into the embrace of those rather excellent furs. Item after unique item was carefully handed over, wrapped in tissue, and sent on its way. Customers were, quite rightly, charmed by the boutique. In fact, the only thing that slowed them down was pausing to consume an utterly delicious truffle (or two) from Little Treats Bakery (http://www.littletreatsbakery.co.uk/). These little stunners not only looked spectacular, but achieved the truffly ideal – not too sweet, so all the more reason for helping yourself to a few…My personal favourites were the coconut dusted version, although I did try all of them, just to make sure. Purely in the interests of research, naturally.

After the sheer joy of finding a vintage or designer item at a bargainous price, the next thing to put a smile on the face were the massively generous goodie bags, organised by both Becky Cowing (http://champagneandgoodbags.blogspot.com/), and Maria Matzeu, who you can find on Twitter as @nikemaria. I have to admit, I’m a huge one for a well-stuffed goodie bag, and these were just that. We were spoilt for choice with two types. I’m going to go into details, purely because I still keep looking at both of them and smiling.

Green goodie bag

Arranged by Becky, these contained some spectacular products from Nature’s Finest Cosmetics. (www.naturesfinestcosmetics.com) I’ll admit it – years of being a complete and utter beauty junkie have dulled my excitement somewhat when it comes to new products, and it takes a lot for me to get excited these days. Well – impressed I was. I squealed in delight on opening the pristine white box containing the Natures Finest bits and pieces. I can’t remember the last time I saw something quite as pretty as their ‘Purple Hills’ soap, a perfectly crafted chunk of heaven, in pink and purple, smelling of patchouli and lavender. Their slogan is ‘Nautral Needn’t Be Boring’, and quite right, I say. I’ve used that soap every day since getting it, and I think I’ll be buying many, many more. If that wasn’t enough, I’ve also got two tiny glitterballs to pop in my bath. Excellent job to both Becky and Nature’s Finest. I think I’m in love with my soap.

Pink goodie bag

These were courtesy of Maria, the resident Clarins goddess of Tunbridge Wells. I’d always been convinced Clarins was for older skin, but Maria set me straight and showed me the light. I was delighted to receive one of my favourite products, the Clarins ‘Water Purify One-Step Cleanser’ in mint, along with Clarins ‘Wonder Perfect’ mascara. Just when I thought I couldn’t get any luckier, I spied something divine. A perfect recreation of a dress, in biscuit form, devised by Emma Buchanan of Array of Cakes (www.arrayofcakes.co.uk). Not only did it look incredible, but, reader – I ate it, and it tasted just as fantastic.

Goodie bags aside, the evening really served to highlight the best assets of ‘Love is’ – the personal service. After the happy hoardes had scattered out into the night, swinging bags full of their new wares, just a few remained in the shop. One particular young lady was looking for a dress for an awards ceremony. She’d found a few nice but unremarkable dresses, and was nearly swayed by a perfectly luscious nude lace 30s style drop waisted number, but she didn’t feel it was quite right. Lynne cast her expert eye over the dresses in store, alighting on a beauty – a lurex maxi dress with squares of bronze, silver and gold. The ¾ length sleeves and collar detail made it an ideal choice for a daytime ceremony, and Lynne paired it with a biker jacket to give it a kick.

Lynne and Paula absolutely come into their own with this kind of informal styling service. There’s no pressure, shoppers are given an honest opinion, and will always be encouraged to take some time to think about it. Lynne suggested our young heroine gave it a few days before deciding, and that she should return with her own accessories to really get an idea of if it was right for her. As it happens, the cavalry was sent for in the form of a helpful friend, and Ms Awards Ceremony settled for the maxi, which she looked unbelievably gorge in. If you’re reading this, please send in a picture!

So, all round, a very successful night, and a great reminder about why this kind of boutique is such a treat to go to. Try getting that level of service in a standard high street store. Go on, I dare you. In the meantime, drop in for your very own styling session with the girls, and be sure to check out the truffles, biscuits and soap if you fancy treating yourself.

Lots of love,

Amelia

Dancing on the Southbank

Posted in Adventures, Girl About Town by

So, we’re rolling into September, and the weather is all over the place. As I type, I’m looking out into a glorious blue sky, that just half an hour ago looked absolutely Wintry. I always love September. I suppose years of being in the education system have made me consider it to be the real start of the New Year, a second opportunity to right wrongs, to change the way you live, to make new promises. I like to think it’s never too late in the year to make resolutions.

It was in this spirit that I considered my life at the moment. After a very strange period in the middle of the Summer when everything seemed to be going drastically wrong (and therefore I felt like a total fraudster writing a blog on happiness), things have almost completely changed. Touch wood, cross fingers, kiss elbows etc, but I’ll just say that recently, things have been looking up. Extremely up. When I get in this frame of mind, everything is exciting, I throw myself into everything I do, and I skip around feeling totally energised. I become untouchable, and nothing can begin to bring me down.

One of my most defining characteristics is my ability to only experience extremes of emotion. Either things are heartbreakingly awful and I’m wailing mascara-ed tears, or things are bloody brilliant, and I’m wearing a perma-smile. As I’ve got older, I’ve levelled out a bit. Sadness visits much more rarely, and when bad things happen I’ll cry, hit rock bottom, and then I’ll start sorting things out again. Happiness is my more frequent companion, and I’ve learnt to work at it so that I now know how to fix things in my life, how to take charge of myself and not just be at the whim of those ghastly things known as teenage hormones.

Anyway. I was, as I say, contemplating the recent upturn in events in my life, and I started thinking about university. I have to admit, I’ve struggled to come to terms with not being there anymore, and with not being a student. Royal Holloway bred a real community, a fierce loyalty, and a desire never to leave. For months after graduating, I didn’t really think about it. I was both enraptured and terrified by the idea of the ‘real world’. I ploughed on and on, enjoying my first proper paycheck, not having to read stacks of books every week (not that I necessarily always did that….) And before I knew it, a year had passed. It’s been the year AFTER the year after graduating that I’ve struggled with. Suddenly it all seemed so far away – the all night parties in the wonderful Founders building, walking home at 8am listening to bird song. Climbing onto the roof of said Founders building and doing everything that was wrong, but right too. The sound of the College chapel bells ringing out, through the window of my tiny student room. The amazing girls I lived with in third year, and the way we weathered any of the many storms that came our way.

I also missed…well, thinking, I suppose. Being self-consciously artsy. Revelling in the way that anecdotes about my ‘crazy drama stuff’ sounded when told to my friends doing more buttoned up degrees. When I visited the Southbank yesterday properly, it really hit home about how much I’d lost, or rather – given up on. In my first term, I’d often visit the BFI on my own, overjoyed that I had the freedom to do so. I saw a season of Isabelle Huppert films, wandering in my long black coat and piled up bun, feeling so….so like a student. So exactly how I thought I should feel, and look, and act. I took opportunities. I went to unusual places, took up strange invitations, talked to people I never thought I’d get on with,  just experienced every new thing I could, and I learnt.

When, and why, did I stop? It must have been the second I took off that graduation gown. I really believed I had to become an ‘Adult’, and all that entailed. Which was what? Working? Going out every other weekend? I shut down the creative part of my brain, and I lost that willingness to experiment. I suppose I was always preoccupied. First by getting a job – then a better job. Then any job. Then a better job, again and again. Then friendships, relationships, clothes, parents. I plunged deep into an entirely predictable identity crisis, and didn’t even start to think I might already know who I was. I knew it when I perched, feet over the edge of the huge, chateau-styled building at uni. I knew when I could be on my own, watching French films. I knew when I stayed up all night at the Summer ball. I’d just lost it.

Yesterday I began to find it again, and it took a trip to the Southbank itself to smash me back there again. My friend India and I just gave in to the atmosphere. Spying a crowd under Waterloo Bridge, we inveigled ourselves in. We could smell frying onions, hot dogs, a sweet but deep flavour that will naturally invoke fairgrounds and the seaside. We heard live music. ‘This is lovely’, we said, but made to move on. And then we stopped ourselves. We’ve made a collective vow to start experiencing life, to take those opportunities that constantly present themselves if you only look for them. So we stayed. We bought large cocktails in plastic cups that froze our hands, from a man in too-cool sunglasses. We stayed and watched a live band, seeing the sunlight bouncing off the architecture of the bridge and the blonde halo of the lead singer. We watched too, as a homeless man in camo gear danced, played his harmonica and stuck his middle fingers up in the air in a grotesque pose whenever a camera was produced.

Men started dancing too, elbows sticking out, first avoiding looking at the crowd and then gradually gesturing for people to join in. A dapper elderly man in flat cap and snakeskin shoes asked me to dance. I have to say, I turned him down, only because the homeless man was hugging everyone dancing. I regretted it instantly – he stepped into the centre, and proceeded to do a soft shoe shuffle with the mother of a young girl in tiara and pink dress. The girl began to dance too – the homeless man handed her his harmonica, her mother wincing slightly before the girl handed it back. We stayed, we absorbed, and we sang very loudly to ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’, belted out by a beautiful redhead in leopard print scarf. After the music was done, we moved on to our destination, the Queen Elizabeth Hall, to see Adam Buxton presenting ‘BUG’, a showcase of funny and bizarre videos. We finished the evening with hot chocolate and lemon tart from Le Pain Quotidien on Waterloo Bridge, and slunk off into the night to plan more adventures.

My point is this – life is happening all around us. I feel like I’ve just woken up. Engage with everything. Look, really look. Say ‘yes’ to everything. And when you’re ready to wake up, give me a call.

This is England?

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When I sat around, idly planning my next blog post revolving around the ideas of positivity and happiness, I had no idea that something else entirely would grab my attention today. I’d been aware of a background buzz centring around the riots that have recently hit London for the past couple of days, but being almost religious in my spurning of news (delicate temperament, I tend to get too upset/worried to stay well informed) I hadn’t realised quite how bad things had got.

So it was with utter horror that I sat up last night, Monday 8th August 2011, unable to sleep and turning from Sky News to BBC news to Twitter to Facebook and back again. This wasn’t some far away happening that I could shake my head at, but ultimately return to my every day business. Everywhere I looked, I saw either video footage of somewhere I knew, or friends who were cowering in their flats, watching as streets blazed and swarmed around them.

This was, is, our London. Our beautiful, buzzing capital. Our history, our core, where epic events happen alongside the more banal, but where everybody has a place. I think what has been most disturbing is that this is us. This isn’t some attack by outside forces, something we can rail against. This is a country turning on itself, and that is what’s most terrifying – certainly from my perspective. Why are we proving ourselves utterly unworthy, as a country? We’re still at a low ebb in terms of the economy and employment. This is something else entirely. Turning in on ourselves, kids, actual KIDS out there. And women! People on the streets last night were describing around a 40/60 male/female split. I say ‘we’ as if we are all complicit, when of course it’s a small percentage of people who are affecting this, a ‘they’, not an ‘us’.

What’s possibly even scarier is that we have no idea what this is about. What are any of these people arguing against? I find it alarming beyond belief that this has just sprung up, growing exponentially, with no just cause (as if there could be a ‘just’ cause for any of this.) The rioting grew to looting, to burning. I watched and listened as Croydon was hit, and while Reeves’ furniture store still burned, Clapham began to swarm too, then the next fire, the next lot of looting, and then along to Ealing.

I don’t trust my own opinions enough to comment on what should be done to these people, or to try and unpick why they are doing this. I don’t even really think the ‘why’ is in question, I think what we should question is ‘how’. How was last night the third night? How has this been allowed to happen? And then ‘what’ – what will happen tonight? There has been nothing so far to discourage any of these people. What reason at all is there for them to stop? I hardly think Cameron’s few placatory words to the nation will deter any of them, despite the fact that some looters are probably watching him in high definition on their new 60” televisions.

We have woken up today a damaged nation. We were fragile before, but now we’re almost broken. And yes, while the rioters are only a small percentage of our country, what’s happening to the remaining percentage, the observers? Some are already making jokes. Some are already moving on. Some are getting angry, getting militant, railing against the government and the police.

Some, however, are being positive. More than some – with #riotcleanup trending on Twitter, and helpers filling the streets to start untangling some of this mess, there is hope. A little bit of what the Daily Mail will probably call ‘Blitz spirit’ is rising up. We are Britain. We should not have to stand for this. While we can’t fight back, we must do what we can to patch things up.

While we’ve seen the bad side of social networking, as Twitter, Facebook and Blackberry messenger were all used for the worst possible reasons, today they are being used to spread the word about cleaning up, to take stock, and to ensure our loved ones are safe and sound. We’ve been through wars, IRA bombings, the 7/7 bombings…we cannot crumble in the ugly face of some of our own. If you can, please check out http://www.riotcleanup.co.uk. Please go and join the force for good. Please stay safe. Please don’t lose faith in our country.

I’ll give the final word to The Clash:

This is England
What we’re supposed to die for
This is England
And we’re never gonna cry no more

Those British boots go kick him,
Kick him in the head
Police sit watchin’
The newspapers been read
Who cares to protest
After the attacker fled
Out came the batons and
The British warned themselves

This is England
The land of illegal dances
This is England
Land of a thousand stances
This is England
This knife of Sheffield steel
This is England
This is how we feel
This is England
This is England

I scream, you scream, we all scream for….

Posted in Baking by

…..Sorbet?!?!

Uh…really?

No, really. Now, I’m a bit of an ice cream connoisseur (in other words, I eat a lot of it), and I would have serious doubts that anything could rival the rich creaminess or citrussy tang of my favourite homemade ice cream – orange, clotted cream and white chocolate, for those asking. But a couple of Saturdays ago, with the sun beating on my shoulders, the heat making a sun trap of our garden, the butterflies skating about in the air, the larks…erm, larking about….I couldn’t possibly face anything bearing the description ‘rich’. Not even a Texan billionaire, and I usually have a terrible soft spot for them.

I also had some slightly overripe strawberries, a full bottle of elderflower cordial, and a burning desire to prove to people that making sorbet is THE EASIEST THING IN THE WORLD, EVER. Actually, I’d say it goes: 1. breathing, 2. making sorbet, and 3. drawing a stick man. (Unless, of course, you’re a particularly inept drawer. That’s draw-er, as in someone who draws, not drawer as in something you keep your underwear in. At least I hope that’s where you keep your underwear, you saucy thing.)

But I digress. Well actually, of course I digress. I mean, you have met me/read my blog, haven’t you? You do know that it’s entirely impossible for me to get straight to the point and not be distracted by some passing whimsy. Oh look! Some passing whimsy! (This is possibly why I had to stop my driving lessons, but that’s another story for another day.)

Yes! So, cooking and that. I’m going to say one more time how MEGA SIMPLE this is, but the hugely pleasing upshot of the whole bally* thing is that every single one of your friends will go ‘ooooooooh, sorbet! Gosh, you must be awfully clever to make that. You’re ever so clever and talented and beautiful’. I’ll just mention here that a) if they don’t say this, then don’t come back to me for any refunds. Although I could probably give you an elderflower or something, and b) if you’re a man just substitute ‘beautiful’ for ‘handsome’. Unless you are a very beautiful man. And if you ARE a very beautiful man and you’re also reading my blog, then hello, future husband.

*I need to apologise/explain the use of ‘bally’ here, for the first time in possibly 50 years. I’ve been reading much too much P.G. Wodehouse lately, and just spend my days looking for ways to shoehorn funny words into sentences. Next week: Shakespeare funny words; ‘zounds’, ‘p’shaw’ and ‘god’s bodkin’. See you there.

What? Oh, right, right, the recipe. Well, if I must.

Ingredients

250g strawberries
125g caster sugar
75ml elderflower cordial
50ml water
Half a lemon

This recipe is slightly bastardised from one of Nigel Slater’s (as the actress said to the bishop. Yes, I’m all about the topical and cutting edge humour today.) But….well, his sounded a bit bloody awful. Sorry Nige. I find you terribly endearing and that. What he was proposing was sorbet and then SYRUP on top. WHAT???? My teeth are already aching at the hideous sweetness of it all. So I actually sort of made this version up.

Method

1. I actually feel like I’m insulting you with this recipe. Just put the sugar, cordial and water in a pan.

2. Bring it to the boil and just let it thicken. Don’t go crazy, just let it thicken up a little bit.

3. Rinse and hull the strawbs. Put them in a blender. Blend them.

4. Cut the lemon in half, and squeeze it into the strawberries. Blend them a little bit more.

5. Just combine the strawbs and the syrup. Mix it.

6. Gosh, well this is awkward….that’s kind of it. Just put it in a suitable container, pop it in the freezer and stir it every few hours to stop those beastly ice crystals forming.

We’re done here. We’re so done.

(Add a few sprigs of mint or redcurrants to jazz it up, if you’re feeling guilty at how easy it all was)

I’m in Essex girl…Part Two

Posted in Adventures, Girl About Town by

One thing that I left out of the account of day one was the somewhat unusual conversation that took place between the hours of midnight and six am. Now, despite having a somewhat overactive brain, I’m not actually given to debate, and especially not on the matter of religion. It’s not that I don’t think about these things, just that I tend not to discourse on them. I find that with only the slightest stimulation, my brain goes into hyperdrive and simply won’t shut up and go to bed for hours like an errant child.
Which is why, when talk turned first to the supernatural, and swiftly after that to religion, I tried first of all to steer the conversation away, and when that failed, resorted to a clever little tactic I learnt in debate club. For anyone not skilled in the art of debate, I’ll fill you in. What you do is, take your fingers, put them in your ears, while simultaneously going ‘la la la la’.
I tried this for a while, and soon realised that the discussion was continuing apace. I had no choice but to get involved. In those hours before dawn, we discussed religion, the place of God in society today, what would happen if God as a concept were to be ‘phased out’, and if so what would replace religion, Dawkins, before finally rounding up with a discussion on relationships and gender roles. It felt like I hadn’t used my brain since university, and it took me a while to be able to talk eloquently or with any sort of structure. I didn’t entirely manage it, not while the sky was getting lighter and the gin and tonics were still in my system.
It did make me think, though. We get so out of the habit of debating (‘philosophising’ as Chekhov always called it, to my delight) once we leave our years of study, and the power to reason slips floppily away. Blancmange brain, I call it. I think it’s incredibly important to keep this at bay, and I’m keen to start reading more, and…well, thinking.
At around 8am, I woke. Shards of sunlight broke their way into the room, and despite having to keys, and both Sean and Nanna being asleep, I knew I had to explore. Harwich is so full of history, and not just in that ‘ooh, every house has a plaque’ way. It’s more a physical thing. You can feel it seeping into the walls, the buildings, the atmosphere. It sounds like utter rubbish, but there’s something there. (Not just my hangover)
Morning turned to afternoon, my two companions woke up, and it was time to face the world. We drove through spectacular countryside, pitched up in a delightful town (Maningtree, I believe) and perused the local market. I was already delighted enough, and yet still we drove on. Eventually we rounded a few narrow lanes, and there we were. The most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.
We’d eventually found our way to Constable’s old stamping ground (for want of a better phrase), Flatford Mill. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt quite as calm and at peace as on that day, with the sun beating down the back of my neck, bare legs in the river, with swans and boats drifting aimlessly along around me. We spotted where Constable had painted from, examining his perspectives. We sat in Flatford field for ages, eating elderflower sorbet, letting every worry unfold and escape.
 After experiencing the wonder of this stunning little place, we rolled on to Dedham. Sean showed us ‘Camp Musical Theatre Jesus’, hanging on the wall of Dedham church. With apologies to our Lord Jesus Christ – this was a Constable interpretation, and….wow. If you listen very, very carefully, you can actually hear the great JC singing ‘I am what I am…and what I am needs no excuses…’ I was utterly captivated by the old school at Dedham. Rusty bricks were carved with the names of schoolboys, on the day they left to go into the big wide world (probably still Dedham, for most of them…) We saw dates from the 1700s, and there was something so strange and humbling about touching a name like that.
Far too soon, we were back in Harwich and packing our stuff. Cider in a pub courtyard, a lot of thank you’s later, a long drive and infinitely more car dancing later, and we were home. Perfect weekend. 

Sink me! My first brush with a soufflé

Posted in Baking by

My little iPhone calendar thingy says ‘June’. I have a little giggle to myself, because Steve Jobs’ technology has clearly gone madly and horrifically wrong. Looked outside recently, little iPhone? No, clearly not. Because anyone with even half a sense of perception can see it’s obviously October. So, a Saturday afternoon on a schizophrenic day that is half gorgeous sunshine and half bonfires and drizzle. This presented me with quite a quandary about what to bake, as clearly neither a bright and breezy pavlova OR berry-based spicy confection would fly at all. 

I scanned the bookcase groaning under the weight of a myriad cookery books, my eyes flicking along until I saw the woefully underused Green and Black’s ‘Ultimate Chocolate Recipes – The New Collection’. Now, who am I to argue with something calling itself the ‘Ultimate’? I actually very rarely fancy chocolate, but today was one of those rare occasions. It took me a while to locate the recipe I wanted, but once I spotted the right one, I knew. Deep in my heart, I knew that this was the cake I had to make. ‘Chocolate and chestnut soufflé cake’.

It seemed perfect – a bit of Autumn in there, with that chestnut (not to mention that I’ve long coveted those little tins of chestnut pureé in Waitrose), but light enough with the soufflé element.

Don’t be scared. This was my first ever soufflé, and it went perfectly. It can for you too.

Green & Black’s Chocolate and Chestnut Soufflé Cake

Ingredients
25g soft unsalted butter
125g unsalted butter
125g dark (70% cocoa solids) chocolate, broken into pieces
A pinch of salt
250g can Clement Faugier vanilla chestnut spread (Waitrose stocks this!)
100ml semi-skimmed milk
3 large free-range eggs
75g caster sugar
Good-quality cocoa powder, for dusting
Creme fraiche, to serve

1. Preheat the oven to 160 degrees C/gas mark 3. Does anyone actually use the gas mark thingy? I might just stop putting it in. Anyway, smear a 20cm tin with butter (with a removable base if you have that luxury). Line it with parchment paper. I personally put the tin ON the paper, trace a line round it in pencil, then cut to size. If you’re super cautious, you can put this tin on a baking tray too.

 

 2. Meanwhile, in a universe far, far away…heat up the chestnut puree with milk in a separate pan. I’d tell you to take it out of the can first, but you’re a clever bunny, aren’t you? Stir until smooth again…I already used the Chippendale joke didn’t I?

 

3. Separate eggs and yolks, and whisk the yolks and sugar in a bowl.

4. Pour the chestnut mixture into the chocolate, and make sure you stir it well. Stir it until you think you’re done, then stir it one more time. Make a wish if you have to.

 

5. Stir it into the egg yolks, and mix to make a smooth batter. Yes, this recipe is sponsored by the words ‘stir’ and ‘smooth’.

6. In a new bowl (by this time your kitchen should look like a bombsy tit, as Adam and Joe say), whisk the egg whites into stiff peaks. You have to test this in the traditional way – pick the bowl up, turn it upside down, and lift it over your head. If it all goes wrong, egg whites make an amazing hair mask, so don’t worry.

 

7. Now for the chance-y bit. Use a metal spoon to stir in one spoonful of egg white into the chocolate mixture. Fold in, gently.

8. Bit by bit, stir the rest of the egg whites in, folding lightly. You’ll need to make sure it’s properly mixed, but just don’t stir too vigorously.

9. Pour the mixture into the tin, then pop into the oven for 25 minutes. It’ll rise, go a bit wobbly in the middle, then sink towards the end, as cracks start to appear – like Cheryl Cole’s career.

 

10. Take it out, leave it to cool, then slide it out of the tin. I left the parchment paper on, to give it a little support, but you can peel this away. It’s very satisfying.

11. Cover with clingfilm for 2 hours, then dust with cocoa powder.

 And, you’ve survived your first ever soufflé. Celebrate by eating it.