Out: Magnified apples appear and disappear.

Autumn is upon us, which means time to line our bellies in preparation for hibernation. This girl's harsh winter in the barren and bleak lands of Earls Court is an excuse to over indulge  as much as possible. A perfect excuse for a trip to Borough Market where I can tread the pavement of the city farmyard and line my belly store cupboard up with those delicious cold weather essentials.

Rocking up to the Market it feels like you're an extra on a Delia Smith cookery show being directed by Tim Burton. Weird coloured vegetables confuse me, and their shapes are even more curious. Delicious looking Mrs Lovett pies line the counters of some stalls whilst loaves of bread rise out of flower pots and beautiful cheeses drip down the sides of big wooden boards, I can't take it they look so good. Meanwhile as we turn the corners of the market we bump into bizarre cocktail parties every so often  with brusque looking farmers serving glasses of pink prosecco to tourists, restaurant buyers and locals alike, all calculating which stall they will buy from next. My choice would have been the duck rillette sandwich without a doubt, but we were there with a mission. Local and seasonal produce for dinner only thank you very much. So we march onwards and pick up some beautiful mushrooms and figs. Oh and perhaps a little tart for pudding, as this is always seasonable in my book.

In: Perfectly formed in miniature.

Dolls houses are to me still as magical now, as when I was young. Every so often I visit a museum or a grand house which will hold a fabulous miniature mansion. If I'm especially lucky, the dolls house will be a replica of the building it stands in, at least on the outside. Call me fussy, but opening up the front wall is always a little bit of a disappointment as the bathrooms are never in the right place, there is a distinct lack of carpet and the dolls themselves always a little stiff. One will also find furniture of slightly odd proportion, and a plate of plaster cakes which would only seem size suitable in Texas if it's proportions were correct. There are also as a rule, a large number of ladders belonging to the dolls houses of England, none of the miniature people seem to appreciate the idea of stairs.

This excitement was easily sparked again upon entering the Charles Matton exhibition at All Visual Arts. This time however, I did not step into Georgian England and plastered cakes. Instead we went to New York and into the artist's imagination, and it was pretty damn cool, if one can say that about a dolls house. The experience became that of Tom Thumb crossed with Tracy Emin. An unmade bed, a baring of the artist's soul in the portrayal of his studio, the presence of pop culture and grime.

There was a distinct feeling of nakedness aroused in the exhibition. What must it be like to construct your life in miniature so that you can examine it in a god like fashion? Recreating your own world so you can look down on it and hide nothing in the subconscious. We can all take photographs of our homes and lives, and remember it in video, but to build an empty miniature model of my bedroom, cigarettes, underwear, handbags and all- it is super control. In these miniature sets Charles Matton has examined every physicality of his domestic life, realising each of the objects in it's own banality and all its beauty and ugliness. The outcome is fascinating.

Out: Snow-white and Rose-red, strike your lover dead.

"A poor widow lived alone in a little cottage, in front of which was a garden, where stood two little rose-trees: one bore white roses, the other red. The widow had two children, who resembled the two rose-trees: one was called Snow-white, and the other Rose-red. The two children loved one another so much, that they always walked hand in hand; and when Snow-white said, “We will not forsake one another,” Rose-red answered, “Never, as long as we live;” and the mother added, “Yes, my children, whatever one has, let her divide with the other.” 

Ok, perhaps a little heavy on the whimsical melodrama for some photographs of roses. In my defense though, look at their names. 'Fellowship'! 'Britannia'! 'Invincible'! (I'm doubtful about an exclamation mark after 'Gordon's College'). 

On a Saturday afternoon walk around Regents Park, the Autumn roses are magical.

"So they all went home together to the widow’s cottage, and Snow-white was married to the prince, and Rose-red to his brother. They divided between them the great treasures which the dwarf had amassed. The old mother lived many quiet and happy years with her children; but when she left her cottage for the palace, she took the two rose-trees with her, and they stood before her window and bore every year the most beautiful roses – one white and the other red."

I'm happy for the widow, and her  daughters, roses make life really simple. In my basement flat in London I don't have room for rose-trees, but how about a basil plant?

In: LIFE ISN'T FAIR. IT'S JUST FAIRER THAN DEATH.

LIFE ISNT FAIR ITS JUST FAIRER THAN DEATH quoted Andrew Martin at London’s Decorex this year. Life at Decorex didn’t seem entirely fair when stand after stand the squinting public were accosted with plastic monkey clocks, bizarrely furry TV beds and giant pencils. There were positive elements to them I’m sure, but when things are that…shiny, well it becomes hard to summon the energy to get excited. So really, I was just crying out for something to catch my attention and put an end to the confusion.

In Mr. Martin’s den we did not have to puzzle. Walking in I was immediately captivated by something more than a tired salesperson. Actually it was a skull in an ice sculpture, but no matter. This was really hot stuff. After chastising myself for lack of ice-skull-cool knowledge, I scanned the stand and it was darkly exciting. I would go as far as to say sexy. This furniture was sexy.

Aztec patterns bring out the Kate Moss in me, that fringe wearing bohemian who wants to chase cowboys in the Wild West. So could I really all do all of this from my comfortable Andrew Martin chair? It seemed so. All the more pleasing if I could listen to bass pumping electro music, and had a rather large personal collection of broken vintage cameras.

The crowning element of the showroom was the photo like printed wallpaper with logs, iron bolt studded walls, bookshelves, wooden panels and vintage filing cabinets. All of these were dark and atmospheric, in a glamorous haunted Mckittrick Hotel kind of way. I was really hoping someone was going to hand me a martini whilst I browsed. Its Tarantino-esque vibe means it is probably more suited to a bar than my bedroom. Nonetheless, Mr. Martin’s bold statement was more than fair, it was fantastic.