When I grow up I would like to live in Whitstable (you should go there)

I first visited Whitstable 2 years ago. I went for my pal Gita's hen do, and even through the blur of apple sours and prosecco drunk in pyjamas (not together, I don't think) I knew I wanted to live in that little Kentish coastal town when I became a fully fledged grown up. Ok, perhaps that feeling was in part because of the aforementioned apple sours and prosecco, but even the next morning as I got on a train to travel the 1 hour and 23 minutes back to London Victoria in a slightly delicate state, the feelings, unlike my hungover-and-about-to-get-on-public-transport face, had not paled.

Quick! 2 barbecues to squeeze in before summer ends (and a recipe for a chilli tequila cocktail)

Those bacon skewer things have scallops in the middle of them.

So a large part of the reason I have fallen off the blogging band wagon again is because this summer with the help, blood and sweat of my generous and long suffering parents my boyfriend and I have replaced the deck in our garden. We had one before, but it was rotten with nails sticking out of it and bits you couldn't stand on for fear of falling through and the NHS advised you have an extra tetanus shot before walking on it, so it was not the place to host barbecues and citronella candle lit al fresco soires. But now, 45,640 metres (not the real figure) of decking and 1000 screws (genuinely the real figure) later, boom chacka lacka lacka boom, I have a new deck. And I am the first person to write boom chacka lacka lacka boom in text, probably.