Most people in London have a “to do” list thing on their phone.

This is generally a sprawling iPhone note filled with highly recommended places and events that they absolutely plan to do when they get paid / a day off / a boyfriend.

Generally, these recommendations come from either

1) Time Out London

2) Drunk conversations in the pub

3) Productive People, for whom weekends spent lying in a darkened room battling the Hangover of Death and napping intermittently between episodes of Girls until it’s dark, and therefore time to go out again, are a long distant memory.

On my list there are things like go up the Shard (whey! Sorry, in-joke with the rest of London), eat at Duck and Waffle circa 3am, and also

See the monkeys at London Zoo. 

I’d been once before in the summer for Zoo Lates, which, like most people, I envisaged to be a novel, slightly boozy way to visit my top 5 favourite animals.

But in reality, by the time we’d drunk all the ciders, left the pub and walked up there, the animals had gone to bed and no amount of tapping, shouting and bounding around in front of the glass would wake them up.

(And trust me, did we try to wake those lazy little bastards up.)

So essentially, we paid £25 to go to London Zoo and drink a load of Pimms.

As anyone who has ever been to Oceana Nightclub (née Destiny) in Watford can attest, there are worse places to spend £25 and drink Pimms – but I came away thinking that if a captive gorilla can’t even be arsed to stay awake for your party, you’re probably better off just going to the pub.

But this time, I knew it would be different. 

This is because my ex-colleagues adopted me a monkey called Rolo as a leaving present from my last job. Not only did this give me

a) stickers

b) a certificate and

c) AN ACTUAL REAL LIFE SQUIRREL MONKEY,

…it also gave me a free zoo ticket to go and see him.

So with the sun shining and an entire Tuesday at my disposal, I got the bus to Regent’s Park and went to see my very own adoptive monkey.

This is what I learnt.

1) Regent’s Park is the most Virgo-friendly place in the whole, entire world. 

Us September-born kids have been banging on about it for years, but Regent’s Park has this neat, symmetrical, all trees were made on-equals-sides-of-the-path-thing down. Just look at the SYMMETRY. It’s BEAUTIFUL.

Anyway. Back to the zoo.

2. To avoid kicking children out of the way, visit after 2pm.

It goes without saying that you should probably leave the zoo the hell alone at the weekend unless you’re mental, a parent with no other choice or a tourist. But my zoo insider* told me that the school trips usually visit in the morning, leaving the zoo basically empty after about 2pm on a weekday. This means that if gorillas liked eye contact, you could get close enough to initiate a staring competition. But they don’t like it, they hate it and think staring is rude. So good luck with that.

(*the woman making sure visitors don’t steal their adoptive monkey children)

3. Giraffes have black tongues.

This is because in Africa they spend so much time with it hanging out of their mouth while they stuff their faces with food that it’d get sunburnt if it was pink. How do I know that? I learnt it. At the Giraffe Feeding Time Talk. Because when it’s not busy you can actually go to the talks, see what’s happening and not have to yell “OH MY GOD, BE QUIET, I’M TRYING TO LEARN ABOUT OWLS.”

4. Stealing a monkey is very difficult, even if it’s rightfully yours.

Eventually I found the Meet the Monkeys enclosure. This is the best bit because the monkeys are just there, hopping around you, ripe for the taking. This is where Rolo lives. The ZSL staff member saw me hovering suspiciously standing with a large, zippable bag near the bushes and was kind enough to point out Rolo when he came near. You could spot him because he was the one with half a tail, which meant he was harder to grab his balance is a little off and therefore, didn’t have the finesse one might expect a monkey to possess when moving across a rope.

Aww. That’s my monkey, the half-tailed little scamp <3

5. Meerkats have let fame go to their heads.

Seriously: one was just lying there licking its own bum – because evidently Mr Meerkat don’t need to play to a crowd no mo’ now Mr Meerkat on telly – and the other one was all draw me like one of your French girls.

Honestly, meerkats. You’ve changed.

6. Penguins are overrated.

LOLZ! Not really. Look at this guy! Penguins are off the SCALE. Best things ever, hands down.

7. Some animals don’t get the same attention as the others.

I don’t think many people take photos of these guys because they’re not the most aesthetically pleasing animals in the kingdom. And out of all the people who take photos, I bet none have ever put them on their blog.

So here you go, pig warthog things, I still love you, with your mucky pool and your furry noses. Even if no one else does.

8. And you, llamas.

Likewise, everyone just sort of went “uh, llama.” and moved on. Not me. I stood and marvelled.

9. But mostly, I learnt that these birds are the best things ever. 

I basically just stood here all day.

All too soon I was getting thrown out of London Zoo (because it was closing) and despite my best attempts, I did not come home with a monkey.

But I did leave armed with an array of exciting animal facts that I’ve been using to entertain people ever since, as well as a very, very, very tiny penguin.

(I’m joking. Or am I. I’m joking! Honestly. OR AM I.)

Now, back to the list. Can someone adopt me lunch at the Shard?

Ice skating in London is a lovely idea.

But as we’ve established before, lots of things often seem like a good idea in this city.

Take going to Ikea, for example.

The pencils, the paper, the meatballs; a trip to Ikea carries with it a potential for greatness, yet it always ends with you going round in circles, getting ratty at the crowds, and standing in a freezing warehouse for 45 minutes queuing up to buy a pack of tea lights.

When you think about it, it’s not that dissimilar to the concept of ice skating.

As well as being two of the world’s most unlikely activities for a date, both Ikea and ice skating involve going round in circles, getting a bit cold, and occasionally going past someone who’s crumpled on the floor, clutching their head and crying for it all to end.

The only difference is that ice skating tends to happen in far prettier surroundings.

Like the Natural History Museum.

Every year when London’s rinks open, people talk about going ice skating.

You hardly ever do, because, well, that’s an effort.

But you always walk past the Natural History Museum, Somerset House and Winter Wonderland thinking how London-y, romantic-y and Christmassy it all looks.

“We should go ice skating” you say, looking wistfully at the fairy lights, carousels and happy little faces whizzing round.

Then the First Mulled Wine of the Season wafts up your nostrils, and you go to the pub instead because you don’t need tickets for that, and it’s warmer.

This carries on every year until one day, a Christmas miracle / PR blogger outreach campaign happens and you get to go… for free.

Winner, winner, mulled wine for dinner.

So last Thursday, Jenny and I and went to the Natural History Museum’s ice rink to skate about like pros, have a good catch up and get our booze on, with the added bonus of watching people on first dates fall flat on their arses.

I also saw this trip as my chance to do an investigative blog post into whether

a) the NHM’s massive Blue Whale or dinosaur skeleton would make an appearance on the ice

(I can confirm they do not)

and

b) if ice skating really was like going to Ikea.

So without further ado, onwards! To the bright blue skates!

Our session started at 7pm.

Although the ticket said to get there 40 minutes early, we thought that sounded a bit excessive.

So we arrived four minutes early instead and spent three minutes swapping our shoes for a pair of the most dangerous boots on the planet, and another ten minutes trying to get them on our feet.

In conclusion, you should indeed arrive 40 minutes early and please do mind your toes in that boot room.

Minefield. Blummin’ minefield.

We finally waddled onto the ice in our dangerboots, where we were immediately SET UPON BY A TIDAL WAVE OF COUPLES

Not really.

There were lots of dates going on, but they muddled in with the children, friends, lone adults and tourists; some of whom were negotiating the ice slightly more successfully than others.

In fact, once you got the hang of it, it didn’t take long to realise that skating at the Natural History Museum was loads better than Ikea.

This is because it was pretty, and me and my friend had a lot to catch up on. But also, it was because although there weren’t any dinosaurs, there weren’t any iPhones either.

And these days it’s hard to have a catch up with your mate without an iPhone lighting up, showing off and distracting the conversation like an attention seeking child.

On an ice rink, however, everyone’s either concentrating on staying upright, or having a laugh with their mates. No one cares about blummin’ stupid Facebook.

In fact, every so often you hear a satisfying “kerrr-thump” and see someone who obviously tried to check Facebook being carted off by the St John’s Ambulance, which, in my view, is exactly what should happen.

After the session ended, we went upstairs to the ski lodge bar.

Mulled wine is to ski lodges what meatballs are to Ikea, so there was only one thing we were ever going to be ordering in this place.

And happily, while we warmed up and wondered what the completely hammered lone drunk bloke on the sofa opposite us was going to do next, Mumford and Sons came on to play a little accoustic set.

Alright, it wasn’t Mumford and Sons.

But they had guitars and were singing, so you get what I mean.

After that, it was pretty much time to go home.

As we walked to the tube station after a very nice evening, I decided that ice skating at the Natural History Museum was one of those rare things that seems like a good idea in theory, and is actually a good idea in practice as well.

It wasn’t like shopping for furniture at a Scandinavian homeware store at all. 

So if you’re going this winter, I’d advise you to take a good mate with lots to say, or a bad one who spends too much time on their phone.

Either way, you’ll have a much better time than you would at Ikea.

What do you prefer, ice skating or Ikea?

(You don’t really need to answer that but they say you should always finish a blog post with a question. So I did.) 

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I fucking love Notting Hill Carnival.

But I feel like you never really hear about the very best bits. We’ve all read the papers, we’ve all seen the Met Police having a dance off, and yeah the floats and music are good. But here are a few of the other, lesser reported highlights.

1. You get to wee in other people’s houses

Forget portaloos. Got a pound? Step this way to the VIP toilets, my friend: Flat 29, first door on the left, it’s like a big west London-wide game of Through the Keyhole.

<note to self: insert clever pun about “don’t spend a penny, spend a pound” here>

2. You can rave everywhere and anywhere

There’s no need to restrict yourself to the space behind the floats or soundsystems – when the Carnival’s in town, the only reason that fence, wall, bus stop, or DHL truck exists is to cater for the rhythmic swaying of your ass. So get up high. Your city demands it.

3. The kerb is your friend

Sitting on the kerb with a box of curry and a drink is usually a sign that you’re too drunk to get into Dalston Superstore, but this isn’t the case at Carnival. If you’re hammering back jerk chicken and pausing only to sip booze from a glass adorned with feathers that match your splendid headdress, then it’s time to reacquaint yourself with the pavement. Just, err mind the broken glass.

4. String vests are actively encouraged

Against the backdrop of west London’s grayest estates, the brighter your clothing the better. Want to wear feathers? The bigger the bird, the better. A crop top? Get it all out. Nothing but a loin cloth and a string of beads? You do that, my man. That string vest languishing at the back of your wardrobe? This is your time. This is also the only time you can legitimately borrow a policeman’s hat without getting arrested. Apparently. Rumour has it. Not that I’d know.

5. The residents (mostly) love it. Don’t they?

We were trying to weigh up whether Notting Hill residents love it when the Carnival happens, or if they all get a bit “oh, for gods sake, why are all these people urinating in my porch when there’s a perfectly good loo inside for £1 and also I can’t hear what’s happening on Coronation Street”. If this picture’s anything to go by: I reckon it’s a bit of both.

Here’s hoping it doesn’t rain, that we all get to pat a police dog and everyone has an excellent time.

Bring it on, you massive Carnival.