My hair needs trimming, badly, but I hate going to hairdressers. I hate the atmosphere, the faux-pampering, the relentless chitchat, and the extortionate cost (£20+ for a ten-minute job!). I just want someone to trim my hair and send me home with a smile on my face instead of feeling like I’ve spent an hour being the unpaid shrink for a hairstylist.

My husband goes to a barber situated, curiously enough, in a former pubic lavatory. I kid you not. He pays around £6 for quick once over his cranium with a shaver, and a painstaking trim of his beard and sideburns or whatever facial hair he has on the go that month. He always comes home happy. I’m jealous.

My husband is a man filled with good intentions, so he told me to go to his barber - the man is so loverrrly, so talented, so modern that he’ll have no qualms about trimming a laydeees hair. Honest.

I know from experience that barbers rarely cut women’s hair, and I’ve always found this a mystery. Trimming my hair straight across - no layers, no styling, no fuss - is surely far easier than sculpting my man’s facial fuzz.

“Tell him I sent you,” my husband insisted, and his certainty that the fine fellow would do my locks justice was contagious, so, excited at the prospect of fewer split ends for just a measly £6, I trotted over to the former lav.

“I don’t do women’s hair,” the fine fellow said firmly, and after a moment’s blustering I left the establishment, head bowed under the weight of the scornful stares of all the men present.

And as I left it occurred to me how truly senseless this sexism is. There was a time when black people couldn’t get on the same bus as white people, when Jews couldn’t go to the same bars, and gradually it was pointed out that this was racist, and after time these bans were cast aside. Yet in an era when all people are supposed to be treated equal I can’t get my hair trimmed at the same place as my husband for the simple reason that I’m a woman.

I know that in the great scheme of things this is no great scandal, but it does seem a hefty bit wrong. And my hair still needs a trim.

Westbourne Angels © Nic Dartnell

One of the more recent developments to my career path has been the introduction of a few PR skills, writing press releases and features to promote artists who come to me via the Grant Bradley Gallery in Bedminster, Bristol.

I love this kind of work because it means getting to chat with interesting creative folk and take a look at their paintings, photography, sculptures, or whatever else they pour their thoughts and feelings into. It’s wonderful to have the opportunity to promote things I’m genuinely moved by.

One of my recent clients is Nic Dartnell. He’s a fascinating character, part rock star part painter and photographer. His first big success came way back in the 1970s when he was just 18 years old and had the audacity to send a piece of artwork to supergroup-to-be Emerson, Lake & Palmer. I admire that kind of behaviour - taking a chance on your work because you believe in it!

He was right to, because the band loved it and used it as the cover of their debut album. You can still see that eerie bird/face in record stores and billboards all over the world

Since then he’s produced a series of intricate images of individual African and Asian children, made a series of five paintings for a book about Jimmy Hendrix, and developed his studies of Navajo art, which culminated in the creation of a full sized sand painting on the floor of the Grant Bradley Gallery in 2008. He approaches his work without a shred of self-doubt, eager to attempt anything that moves him.

The exhibition I’ve been helping him to promote is all about the exuberance of the carnival. It’s an examination of how this kind of environment allows us to let loose and become something other than our everyday selves - a sort of magical metamorphosis.

Nic used video footage to film crowds of revellers and performers at the Notting Hill Carnival, and then picked out images of people that he felt demonstrated this mood. The chosen scenes are now a series of lustrous oil paintings that will be on show at the Grant Bradley Gallery from September 3rd to October 3rd 2009.

I can’t wait for the preview on Friday September 4th. Previews at the Grant Bradley are always good fun, but having been so involved in this exhibition will make it all the more exciting. It’s open to the public, giving gallery visitors an opportunity to meet the artist and view his work while listening to live jazz and soul music by new Bristol talent Bashema, who I’m looking forward to hearing. She performed at Glastonbury 2009 and has her own show on Bristol Community Radio, so it should be a good night.

© John Haynes

Last week I visited Shakespeare’s Globe for the first time.

This remarkable theatre on London’s embankment is one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve had the pleasure of watching a performance take place in. Open to the sky yet with just enough of a roof to shelter most audience members from sun and rain, the structure is a faithful reproduction of the playhouse where William Shakespeare debuted many of his works between 1599 and 1613.

We were there to watch a vibrant performance of Romeo and Juliet, crackling with passion, humour and, ironically, verve for life. The tumult of emotions rang true, sweeping us along with the doomed pair. For the first time, I felt I was sharing their swoops of joy and despair rather than passively watching.

Ellie Kendrick was charming yet feisty as the teenage Juliet - though her tendency to grow increasingly shrill when distraught rendered some passages impossible to understand. Adetomiwa Edun was bubbling over with energy - springing across the stage as the irrepressible Romeo.

Scenes were included that rarely grace the stage, while traditional dances and songs emphasised the sense of the context in which the play is set.

The multi-talented chorus, who brought humour to the tragedy at every opportunity without tampering with the text, particularly impressed us. A well-timed leer, a caricature of a beam, a clumsy jig or a pompous stance all contributed to director Dominic Dromgoole’s vision.

I came away feeling I understood more about this powerful tale than ever before.

© J Darley

I’m a country girl at heart. I grew up in house overlooking fields and farmland, and as much as I love the buzz and entertainment and convenience of living in the city, I often find myself craving trees and nature. This summer’s occasional golden days are a great chance to head out into the countryside armed with fruit pastilles and head up a hill or three.

Last Saturday my friends and I went to Tal y Bont in Powys, Wales, and followed an 8.5-mile trail through some exquisite countryside - all rolling valleys and red-tinted peat bogs glimmering in the sunshine.

Most of the walk was as easy as can be, with a level ridge to stroll along and spongy peat underfoot, while sheep clung to the sheer valley sides, knowing no fear as they trundled onwards in search of the next luscious mouthful of grass.

In fact, the biggest challenge came right at the beginning of the trail when we had to climb a really steep hill - how cruel! The best approach seemed be to keep going until you felt your heart was really going to pound its way out of your chest, then halt to ‘enjoy the view’ and gulp in some air. By the time we reached the top even the collie dog seemed knackered, but after a short rest we were ready to tackle the rest of the route.

It’s a glorious site for anyone interested in photography, with a fabulous variety of terrains, wildlife such as kestrels and sparrowhawks, plus the occasional rust-red cairn glowing against the valley greens. No wonder Wales has inspired so many poets and authors!

Our goal was to reach the summit of Fan Y Big, one of the least outstanding hillocks in the Brecon Beacons National Park. In fact, it was so meagre that we ended up having to ask a nice Welsh man for directions, and then endure him smirking at our pronunciation! We didn’t dare then ask the way to Taf Fechen forest, ahem, but fortunately the mass of oak trees gave it away.

The trail from Fan Y Big to the forest was a steep path down the hillside, where erosion had left the raw slate exposed, jarring knees and ankles. A couple of times a burbling brook seeped across the path, revealing how so much of the topsoil had been carried away.

Our final challenge was a clamber down into a shallow stream, which is apparently ranging at wetter times of year, and then up the other side. From there on the paths were far easier, and eventually we were walking back along the road to the car park, ready for cups of tea and banana muffins. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday!

© J Darley

Some of the loveliest things about the British summertime, once you get past the unpredictable weather, are the festivals that seem to be happening continually throughout July and August.

Aside from the biggies like Glastonbury and WOMAD, there are also the countless kite festivals, balloon fiestas, carnivals, fetes, open-air performances of Shakespearean plays and themed celebrations hosted by every town, village and city in the country.

They’re fantastic sources of inspirations for writers, from the rich variety of people to watch to the live music, craft and food stalls, fairground rides and firework displays.

I spent most of last weekend at Bristol’s Harbour Festival, having a wonderful time meandering through the crowds with my family, watching circus acts, listening to a huge variety of bands, being amazed by a modern dance interpretation of the ups and downs of relationships, and feasting on all kinds of things from paella stuffed with chicken, prawns and peas to fat wedges of golden fudge to plump downy apricots.

The food stalls in Queen Square seemed to have arrived from all over Europe, from the Dutch cheese display sporting herb and chilli-infused spheres to the stand of white mottled German sausages, with the French wine tent jostling alongside the beer bar selling locally brewed organic froth.

We were bemused by the Dutch souvenir stall selling clogs and china windmills emblazoned with the word Amsterdam. Who buys tourist tat from a city they haven’t visited?

Queen Square was also the hub of kiddie fun, with a climbing wall being traversed by fearless little ‘uns and a painting area where gleeful tots were covering themselves with paint.

On the other side of the water, in Millennium Square, we watched two girls dressed as elegant pigeons perform acrobatic stunts high in the air. Madness and beauty seem to work so well together!

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the weather was fantastic.

Glasgow © J Darley

People who think they know what they’re talking about tend to say you should write about what you know, but sometimes there’s a danger in doing that, of becoming too inward-looking in your work.

My writing is often prompted by a snippet of conversation, a glimpsed scene, two memories colliding and making something new. Generally I try not to draw too much on my own life, and if I do find myself transforming a slice of my life into fiction, the first part of the job is to separate it from reality.

My novels are not intended to be autobiographical, but I suppose its inevitable that bits of my own experiences should filter through.

The novel I’m currently writing has more of me in it than most, not least because the protagonist is a travel writer, as I am, and I’m actually setting many of the key moments in places I’ve visited for work. So far she’s on her fifth country, the current one being Scotland, so not very exotic, but very fitting as the backdrop for some of her darkest moments.

I travelled to Glasgow last year for a gastronomy tour hosted by the Scottish tourist board, and it was one of the best press trips I’ve taken.

My first impression of Glasgow was wave after wave of dense whiteness, then, as the plane broke through the cloud cover, rain pelted against the windows, something that the Glaswegians sitting around me seemed unsurprised by. Bristol, when I left, had been flooded with bright sunshine. Here, I was told by the Glaswegians standing with me at the luggage carousel, the only sunshine I was likely to see would be of the liquid variety.

Not that it seemed to matter as a black cab zipped me through the city streets to ABode, a vibrant hotel in the centre. Formerly a teacher training college and now one of the trendiest hotels in Glasgow, the interior decor couples solid white tiles with fantastic panels of art, a fascinating miscellany that I was to notice all through the city. An ancient lift rises in the centre of the building, while on the other side of the copper lift shaft, a wall of water falls continually, as if all that stuff falling outside wasn’t quite wet enough.

After a few moments to unpack (well, empty my case in the centre of the immense squashy bed), there was just time for a glass of kir royale, complete with a bobbing raspberry, before heading out to discover just how cosmopolitan Glasgow has become.

Scotland’s national cuisine is packed with fantastic flavours drawn from an abundance of fresh, tasty produce, but if you want something a bit lighter before a night on the town, the menu of award-winning Japanese restaurant Nanakusa might be more to your liking. The interior merges cultures and eras, with the high moulded ceilings offset by 21st century colour-changing illuminated panels.

The clientele is young and lively, with the buzzing atmosphere helped along by the friendly efficiency of Anna and her team, as well as the carafes of hot sake and plum wine making their way around the room. After sampling an array of sushi, tempura and other delicacies, we tucked into the green tea ice cream before heading out to discover pubs such as the wonderfully laid-back Pig and Butterfly.

The following morning I got hands-on with the local cuisine, courtesy of Peckhams Cookery School. The brain-child of Brian Hannan, courses range from corporate team building exercises to hen parties to classes for children aged 14 and up. The emphasis is on simplicity, making the kind of food you might easily recreate at home, once you know how.

One of the highlights is sitting down to eat the meal you’ve prepared. The red and yellow sweet pepper soup was a work of colourful art, and tasted as good as it looked. Hen parties tend to focus on chocolate dishes, though cranachan, a traditional scottish dish of whipped cream, honey and, of course, a generous splash of whisky, is equally popular.

After successfully cooking a three-course meal, which we then devoured, we hopped in a taxi to flit to the outskirts of town, where the Auchentoshan distillery stands. The sweet scent of malted barley rises in the air as they’re heated before being washed and decanted into immense barrels.

The manager showed us how to dislodge the bung by smacking the barrel with a mallet (‘think of your mother in laws face’), and then we had the chance to bottle out own dram, through which black specks of carbon floated, testifying to its youth. Tastings made lips tingle and my tongue actually went numb, but the cleaness of the flavour was unique, warming me through as rain continued to pelt down outside.

In the evening we headed to one of the city’s best loved eating establishments, the Ubiquitous Chip, which has been sating appetites since 1971. The restaurant has options for every pocket, from the fine dining room where recent visitors have included David Tennant and Kylie Minogue, to the cheaper brasserie favoured by locals to the bar where you can sup local whiskies and tuck into bar snacks.

We began Saturday with a leisurely stroll around the farmer’s market, sampling delicious fruit wines, fresh seafood from Arran and the west coast, and spicy naan breads.

Lunch unfolded at Delizique, where we tucked into dishes ranging from rabbit salad to clams, oysters and mussels, finishing with a simple but delicious mountain of seasonal berries and cream whipped thick enough to stand up a spoon in.

A whirlwind tour of the West End’s foodie hotspots followed. It was the busiest time of the week and we did little more than look in on the fragrant Kember & Jones while hungry Scots bustled past to buy crusty loaves or queue for a table in the compact cafe.

Heart Buchanan was a wonderful chance to meet one of the city’s liveliest entrepreneurs. Despite being eight months pregnant, Fiona Buchanan was animated and enthusiastic, inspiring us all as she talked us through how she accomplished her dream of being trained by trained with Nick Nairn and then establishing a one-stop foodi deli selling fully-prepared sumptuous meals such as Roast Lamb Cous Cous with Pomegranate, Mint, Apricot and Coriander Seeds.

With a couple of hours to spare, I headed into town and caught the City Sightseeing tour bus to get a different view of the city and soak up some of the uncommon sunshine. The bus carried us past iconic sights such as the ‘Squinty’ bridge, Rene Mackingtosh’s Willow Tea Rooms, the beautiful West Brewery and the gloriously imposing red brick Kelvinsgrove Gallery.

A wedding reception was erupting when I arrived back at the hotel, with much carousing in the bar. Tempting though it was to join in, we retreated to the hushed interior of Michael Caines at Abode, where we tucked into succulent steaks and divine strawberry puddings - a perfect end to the trip.