Almost too colourful to eat this pasta dish will delight...



Ingredients

• 200g '00' plain flour
• 2 eggs
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 1 fresh red chilli, chopped
• 4/6 tomatoes
• 1 tablespoon fresh thyme
• 250g grated Parmesan cheese
• salt & pepper

Method

1. Pour the flour into a donut shape on your work surface, crack the egg into the middle and add a pinch of salt. Use your hands to fold together and then knead the pasta dough for about 10 to 12 minutes.

2. Using a rolling pin or pasta maker make rectangles approximately 2mm thick, 10cm wide and 30cm long.

3. Fry off the onion and chilli; add the tomatoes and season with salt and pepper. Cook until tender, before removing from the heat and add the thyme and grated Parmesan cheese.

4. Using a teaspoon, make small evenly spaced fillings of the tomato mixture along the middle a pasta rectangle, ensuring the end fillings are at least 1.5cms from the edge. Fold the pasta over the filling and use your fingers to seal around each filling before cutting out the ravioli shape.

5. Cook the ravioli in salted, boiling water for approximately 4 minutes then drain and serve with some olive oil tossed through and sprinkled with Parmesan cheese or serve with some additional tomato and basil sauce if preferred.

A new survey has revealed the contents of the average British woman’s bathroom beauty cabinet is worth an incredible £1,964.30 - but only £327 worth of them are used regularly.

Online beauty retailer Escentual.com's poll revealed that most women owned 65 beauty products which would cost on average £30.22 per product. But the vast majority of these beauty products would be rarely used – with less than a 1/6 being used daily. 

Most women said they would use only 11 favourite products every day, and admitted that over a fifth of beauty products they had bought had never been opened and would just sit in the cupboard collecting dust – (amounting to over £200 worth of wasted products.) But they kept most of the products just in case they were needed for special occasions.

Now Spring is here finally and most women will be clearing out the bathroom cabinet, and are set to find at least 14 unopened products sat at the back of the cupboard collecting dust.

Escentual.com Beauty Editor Emma Leslie said: "It’s that time of year when women are going to go through their cabinets looking to clear out the products they don't use anymore – it’s amazing that over 1 in 5 products bought never even get opened.

"Most consumers admitted that more than once a month they would buy a beauty product that they didn’t need when out on a shopping trip, just because they felt they had to buy something.

"This waste of money is much less likely with online shopping when women consider their purchase much more and can’t be pressurized into buying by pushy salespeople."

Nearly 14 times a year (13.7) women admitted buying beauty products they didn’t need in shops, as opposed to only 8 unwanted products a year online. But there are several women for whom shopping for beauty products is clearly their obsession. Over 1 in 8 women (17.6%) had beauty products worth in excess of £3,000 in the bathroom cupboard, and nearly one in five women (19.2%) had managed to stock-pile over 130 different beauty products in their cabinets. At the extreme end of the scale nearly 3% of women (2.9%) had over £5,000 worth of cosmetics all stored away in their bathroom cabinet. The survey also found that most women would clear out their cabinet once a year 65% but nearly one in eight admitted they only do it when they move house, and a quarter of women kept products in their cupboard that were up to three years old.

Words by Katy Pearson

One of the great sounds of an English Summer is pounding hooves on turf whilst heady punters cheer their money over the line and champagne corks pop in celebration. But for me, like so many others, it’s all about the horses and names like Frankel and Black Caviar are as revered as equine gods and legends with almost mythical status.

I love getting close to horses and when Ascot held its third annual Free Raceday on 1 May it offered a great opportunity to see behind the scenes and into parts of the world famous racecourse normally restricted to the inner circle of owners, jockeys and stewards.


With the beautiful May sunshine greeting the 20,000 people who had dressed up for the occasion we headed into the parade ring to stand on the winner’s podium and for a brief moment feel what it was like to own a racehorse. Then into the jockey’s weight room to speak to the Clerk of the Scales. Who knew that jockeys could gain so much as 2lb if they ride in rainy and muddy conditions, or conversely can lose a pound or two on sunny days and that any dramatic weight changes could cause instant disqualification.


Next we were taken to the Stewards box directly overlooking the winning post and heard how a series of cameras and mirrors defined who won by a nose, a head or a length; a serious job for a steward considering how many millions are involved in the sport.


Perhaps my favourite titbit though was the story of how the Queen arrives at Royal Ascot from her back garden at Great Windsor Park, up the race course and almost straight into the Royal Box. No-one is allowed in or out at any point during the year and she brings her own food up in Tupperware whilst Prince Phillip watches the cricket in another room. It reminded me of my own Scottish Grandmother, always ready with a tartan flask and packet of cheese sandwiches for any outing. I like to picture Her Majesty, eyes glued to binoculars shouting for her horse to romp home whilst her husband is shouting at England who inevitably are about to lose another wicket.


I like it that for others racing is all about the hats, the champagne and the showing off, but for some of us we are happy with a cheese sandwiches and luke-warm tea as our races are truly all about the horses.

Words and photography by Kitty Buchanan-Gregory

I've been allotted chapel duty every Wednesday morning. This involves turning up to tick my tutor group in. I've had no problems so far - although eight o'clock in the morning does seem to smack of extremism - and all my pupils have appeared at the correct time (although Gus has written to the Headmaster claiming he is an atheist and chapel is therefore an infringement on his basic human rights as laid out in "damned Europe" - Gus has been told in no uncertain terms that if he does not appear on Wednesday he will be doing "damned detention").

I appear with my tick list and feel relief when I see Gus's sullen face in one of the front pews. I'm expecting the usual routine - hymn, talk, prayers and then escape to breakfast - but realise something is a little different this morning when we are asked to stand and the chaplain doesn't appear.

Just when we are all craning our necks and wondering what is happening a man bursts in and strides up the aisle kicking a football. It's an extraordinary show as he dribbles down the aisle dressed in priestly attire, skirts flapping. He leaps onto the raised platform and seizes the lectern.

"Good morning everybody I'm Andrew," he announces in the same tone as a breakfast presenter, "and Father Paul has kindly invited me here to talk to you today."

We give him nothing. A sea of faces all focusing on the croissants that await us in a few short minutes. It might be waffle day...

"I do a lot of school visits and wanted to," - pause, points to football, "kick it off in a positive way."

He makes a face like a magician saying 'Ta Da' and I try to rouse a laugh. There is an interminably long silence as he looks around the room.

He begins a long, rambling sermon which draws upon a parable about the meek and the need to be nice to them. To be honest I lost the gist a little and started staring at the scenes depicted in the stained glass windows around me. There were a disproportionately high number of very naked men.



I clearly missed the moment when it all began but before I had really registered what was going on there was sniggering. A lone prefect - Captain of Rugby I later learnt - had taken it upon himself to save us all. Far from meek he had stood up and started to sing the school hymn. I stared over at his solo rendition, horribly off-key, in surprise. The rest of the year hastily jump to their feet, laughing out the words and join in. The organist, asleep in a slump after one too many wines the night before, jerks awake, panics and starts to play. We all start to sing. Befuddled: slow. Even the Headmaster is seen mouthing the words.

I imagine Andrew might not be visiting us again.

---

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The smell and taste of coffee is one of the things that helps us Britons wake up for a day of work in the morning. But finding your perfect coffee can be tricky.

Luckily for us, we went along to a class at Prufrock Coffee where John Thompson, master coffee blender at CaféPod would be demonstrating the art of blending coffee and the intricacies of creating coffee capsules. And at the end of the class we would be able to make our own pods, to our own flavor specification, with our newly learnt skills.


Before getting down to actually making own pods, we tried each of the beans available to us. Loudly slurping our coffee (I hadn't forgotten my manners, that's the proper way to taste coffee) John told us how the tastes of each one differed due to the location the bean was grown, the soil type and so on.


After tasting all of the coffees it was down to the business of making our pods. We mixed three blends in varying quantities depending on how strong we wanted our coffee.

Although I did make a bit of a mess along the way, two hours later I had a coffee blend that was perfect for me and i've been slurping away ever since.

CaféPod capsules are available in compact boxes of 10 from Waitrose, Sainsbury's, Ocado, Morrisons and Amazon, priced £2.75

Words by Melonie Clarke

Spice up your life with this simple recipe. I defy you to eat this without licking your fingers. A lot.



Ingredients

• 6 tbsp hoisin sauce
• 2 tbsp sesame oil
• 4 tbsp runny honey
• 3 tbsp hot chilli sauce
• 2 tbsp dark soy sauce
• 2 tbsp grain mustard
• 24 chicken wings

Method

1. Place all the ingredients except the chicken in a large bowl and mix thoroughly, then transfer to a large re-sealable food bag. Add the chicken wings, seal the bag and turn, massaging the wings to make sure they are completely covered with a generous amount of marinade. Ensure the bag is well sealed, put it into a large bowl and place in the refrigerator to marinate for between 2 and 24 hours.

2. Remove the chicken from the refrigerator and bring to room temperature.

3. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 220ºC/425ºF/gas mark 7.

4. Space out the wings on an oven tray lined with greaseproof paper and cook in the oven for 20–25 minutes, until crispy and sticky, turning once. To test they’re done, pierce a wing through the thickest part right to the bone with a small, sharp knife. The juices should run clear.

5. Serve with your favorite dips and salads.

Proud Cabaret's new murder mystery dinner is a delicious combination of 1930s glamour with a hint of Agatha Christie and is everything you could want from an evening of Burlesque.

I have seen countless videos of burlesque online but had never seen any live. So The Silencing of Miss Scarlet would be my first real foray into the world of burlesque.


Enjoying a three course meal, and a few drinks, the mystery unfolds as the venues performers sing, dance and perform acrobatic tricks, weaving clues into their performances.


You are supplied with a few pieces of information at the start of the evening to help you solve the case. I like to think I'm the female, 21st century equivalent of Poirot so perused these with much interest. But despite my confidence in my detective skills I sadly did not guess correctly – I won't tell you who I thought it was and who it turned out to be though as that's for you to work out on your visit.


The performances during the evening were fantastic. There is truly something for everyone to enjoy with a variation of musical numbers from the compare, acrobatic performances, and of course burlesque, with one incredibly exciting number involving fire and water – water was part of the act and not to put out anything that may have been singed.


The women were incredibly beautiful but the way they used their bodies to celebrate their sexuality, it didn't make me jealous of their stunning figures – it made me want to rip of my clothes and jump up on stage with them in my non-matching Primark undies!

Great food and cocktails, beautiful performers and a compère that made me laugh so hard I thought I had given myself a hernia at one point - I couldn't recommend this evening more if I tried.

www.proudcabaretcity.com

Words by Melonie Clarke

As a professional Governess, I feel privileged to be responsible for the welfare, happiness, and education of a child. An impressionable young mind, an inexperienced soul, a developing body is the ultimate opportunity to support parents through the years of challenges and delights.

Selecting someone to become a new member of your family, a person you will trust imperatively, is no ordinary staffing issue.

You consider general criteria, like qualifications and experience, but more than anything, it is a personality fit. I realise this may seem strange, but much like dating, it is an intimate relationship on many levels.

Jo Macartney, one of the Recruitment Consultants at The Lady Recruits, at The Lady Magazine, tells me that many families find it difficult to articulate their ideal match. “I help guide them by asking about routines, their child’s likes/dislikes, and all manner of personal questions to create a clear picture of who they are”. The easy part is age, skills, etc, and I encourage parents to consider candidates who don’t always tick all of the boxes, however, for other reasons would complement their parenting and lifestyle”.

I know this to be true. I have been told by an employer I was chosen not because I had a childcare qualification (I studied Business at University), rather, my philosophy on child development and ability to convey to them I would always have the interest of their child as my highest priority.

I also believe the fundamental ingredients of love, lots of cuddles, intelligence, and a healthy dose of common sense is necessary. And humour. Lots of it.

I once ran out of nappies and thought I could wing it for the drive home. However, Master R’s toilet habits did not coincide with my calculations and I found myself in a busy car park stripping his clothes as it was more than a gentle wee that had exploded from his body.

I managed to fashion an improvised nappy from a small towel I kept in the car and sang songs about “pooey” boys, and “smelly” bottoms to distract him from the discomfort of being buckled in a child seat almost naked. We survived. And sometimes that is all a nanny, and a parent, can hope for.

The variables of working with children are almost infinite so if you think more openly you might just find a special nanny with imagination and creativity with whom your child may have a magical relationship for life.

---

I wanted to tell you, very much, about the lambs skipping in the fields. Then I thought: oh, don’t be ridiculous; everyone knows about the lambs. The creatures do not need to be described.

I suddenly realised that this is not so. I thought: most people now live in towns or cities. I like to check my working, so I looked up the figures. It seems that just over six million people make up the rural population. That’s a great many individual souls, but in terms of the demographics of dear old Blighty, it’s a tiny minority.

Since we are on statistics, my absolute number one favourite statistical question is this. Can you guess how much of this green and pleasant land is actually built on?



I’ll give you a minute, to calculate in your head. When Mark Easton of the BBC first asked this question, and went searching for the answer, I remember thinking of all the parks and forests, of the rolling wildernesses which are only ten miles from my front door. For built areas, I guessed about twenty percent. The actual figure is 2.27%.

There’s something here that is curious. I feel the implications sliding against each other like sandpaper in my mind, but I can’t quite come to any conclusion. About ninety percent of the population lives on two percent of the land. Can that be right? Does it mean anything? It seems incongruous and in some ways portentous to me, but I can’t quite work out why.

The point is, that if I write about skipping lambs, and how they really do gambol and shoot vertically into the air and do amazing bronco tricks when they are only days old, that is news, to quite a lot of people. They really don’t see lambs every morning.



Yesterday, the old farmer brought a three-day-old trio down to the south meadow. (There is the old farmer and the young farmer, father and son, whose family has worked the land round here for generations.) I watched him and his little grandson put the new arrivals into the field with the rest of the flock. The young boy, who could not have been more than nine, was dealing with one of the lambs who did not want to get out of the trailer. He picked the wiggling creature up in a sure grasp, front legs in his two certain hands, and deposited it onto the grass.

‘He’s got the touch,’ I said. The old farmer’s weathered face creased into smiles of pride.

We talked for a while about the winter and the weather and how the ground was still four degrees below what it should be. We are at last getting some sunshine and warmth now, but all those of us who rely on the green grass – him for his livestock, me for my horses – are counting the days. We calculate that we are about three weeks behind.



The country is deep in my bones. I grew up in it. I spent my childhood running wild in a farmyard and a stable. There were only two rules: don’t go near the grain dryer, in case we fell in and drowned in corn, and don’t approach the double door stable of Charlie the Bull. (Charlie needed two doors, because he was a mighty beast.) As soon as I was old enough, I rode pretty much every day on the wide downland that characterises the Lambourn valley. I was brought up with earthy smells: of dung, of hay, of horse, of cattle.

Scotland is a very different sort of country, but the smells and the sense of clean air and wide skies is the same. It runs in my blood in the same way. The city is the lovely, dancing, antic time of my twenties and thirties. Now, I come back to where I started: looking for the first blossom, listening for the call of the woodpecker in the woods, discussing the very temperature of the soil. This is my first language. When the mare whickers for her morning feed, it is the sound of home.

It's my weekly duty night in house tonight. I'm attached to one of the boys houses in school and am attempting to get them to do "prep" from the hours of 6-8pm. Then I'm attempting to get them to not wrestle each other or play football/cricket/insert other dangerous sport indoors from 8pm-10.30pm. It is the latter part of the evening that is always the trickiest, particularly as Rob and Ben have decided that the new pool cues can, and should, be used as light sabres.



My housemaster is a tall, terrifying tower of a man. He moves silently around the corridors and appears in a whisper when there is trouble. Last week he sat me down and walked me through some of the "trickier characters in the house".

"You'll have to watch out for Hugo. He's a bit of a drip and the boys have found out he sleeps with a teddy bear and have done some unspeakable things to it in the last 48 hours."

"Oh gosh," I say mouth falling open, the world's most disturbing images flashing up in my mind.

"They've also taken to de-bedding him on regular occasions so do be alert for that one."

"De-bedding?" I repeat. "Er what exactly does that involve?" I ask.

He looked at me over his whiskey. I shift a little under his gaze. It's enough to make you want to pee your pants with nerves.

"Well a group of the boys go into his room in the middle of the night and tip his mattress straight up."

"Oh that's terrible," I state.

"Quite, quite, but there is little we can do about it. De-bagging is much easier to catch."

I don't bother to repeat this time, brain churns as I apply the same logic.

"Tipping up his bag?" I hazard.

"Exactly," his smile is wide, the smile of successful teaching.

"And there have been some suspicions this term that the prefects have brought back fagging, I've questioned my head of house but he is adamant I am mistaken."

"Smoking?" I ask, "In house?"

"Sorry?"

"Having fags?" I check.

"No, no fagging, you know the usual tricks: getting the younger boys to warm the loo seat before the older boys use it, getting them to fetch things, making them type up their prep - one has a fag if one is nearing the end of one's school career (pronounced 'carrahh')," he finished his whiskey.

"Does one," I whisper.

"So best to be vigilant and report anything to me using this," he says, tapping an A5 burgundy book, "It's my 'Book of Suspicion'," he states, stroking the cover fondly.

He hands it over and I flick through the pages, lighting on one message from the week before that simply says,

'Jack - don't put in bedroom of tower - first form spotted dangling from window.'

I gulp.