Jeni Barnett

Dr. Spirtle

2012-05-15T19:12:19Z

The orchard is beckoning. I fear all the blossom has been scattered from the interminable wind and rain.

I wanted to pick handfuls of wild garlic but the clouds glowered in extremis.

So I poured some of Flannigans organic oats into a saucepan, a funny tall one with a non-stick inside.

Turned the filter tap on and covered the oats by half a finger.

Squeezed in a fulsome squirt of Agave syrup.

Sprinkled over a layer of cinnamon.

Brought it to the bubble, stirring all the while with Dr. Spirtle's spirtle. If you ain't Scottish look it up.

Kept the bubbles going for less than four minutes.

I curled my legs under me on the old gits armchair and savoured every hot spoonful.

Sometimes porridge does the trick when summer seems like a dream away.

May 12th

2012-05-12T19:53:26Z

Nibbled on nuts - wasabi style.

Crunched on coleslaw - New York style.

Suppered on steamed salmon with lemon slices and rosemary from the garden.

Soon I'll I take my seat for THE BRIDGE essential Saturday night viewing with the old git.

He'll sit in the bean bag, take my feet, and we'll spend two hours quietly working out who killed whom and why on the Bridge in Malm�.

Then we'll swap, he'll sit in the armchair, I'll take his feet and we'll quietly work out how long we can stay there until all four eyes close.

He's driven down from Northampton for one night only, and I'm up at the crack to earn me crust in London Town. We'll have from 2-9 tomorrow then he'll drive back to the Midlands.

'It's not looking good is it?' said my brother today at the hospital. We sat at the foot of my mothers bed. She dipped in and out of consciousness.

We had brought two helium balloons declaring it was her 90th birthday.

Lots of cards. A bar of white chocolate with red jelly hearts which said I LOVE YOU.

A bag of Turkish delight from the old fashioned sweetshop.

And three bottles of apple juice.

She couldn't manage the envelopes and declined food.

We left the birthday girl slumbering.

My back has gone - I'm told it comes with the territory.

I'm boiling some water for a cup of Rooibosh tea.

I might even have a nutty bar.

In my mind, I had prepared a fabulous celebration for my mothers 90th, but in mind is where its stayed.

A round of applause from the audience on the CD I'm playing. Charlie Haydon and his mates giving us the best dinner jazz this side of the Brooklyn Bridge...bridge bridge, that's it, 14 minutes to take our seats.

Bean bag in place its the last minute call before the curtain rises on this evenings entertainment.

Utterly Butterly

2012-05-11T14:37:14Z

Mouse melons for June: Melothria scabra, or Mexican sour gherkin or cucamelon, or go to an Asian suprmarket and grab two handfuls,they are like little cucumbers and eat, they work great cooked or raw. They crunch when you bite into them. I love the little pepqui�os.

So I took one golden butternut squash and using Ken Homs chopper axed it into sizable chunks.

Using the potato peeler I peeled away all the hard skin. felt like I was doing my own heels with my purple heel-smoothing file.

Cut up a big onion.

Grated loads of smoked garlic. The smell reminds me of my father's bonfires.

Heated my big saucepan and threw in turmeric, peeled ginger, cayenne pepper and some tiny hot chilis.

Stirred it all around in olive oil and then heaved in the butternut bits.

Poured over enough water and coconut milk to make it smell like Denpasar High Street, ( The Capital City of Bali!) then sniffed the aroma.

When it started bubbling I turned down the gas, put the beeper on for thirty minutes and took the peelings to the compost at the end of the garden.

The rain has created a field of daisies and dandelions. I'm dying to mow the lawn but my next door neighbour says it'll ruin my new mower. Stopped off in the studio and watered B's banana leaf plant, my tropical succulent, my Christmas Poinsettia which is still happily throwing out red leaves, and a thick leaved something or other I nicked from my mothers old flat.

When the timer beeped I turned off the gas, pulled out my zuzzha from the second drawer down, zuzzhed it until it was smooth and silky then

Ladled three lots into a bowl, and sipped the hot orange soup.

No spoon just long slow slurps.

We should be eating asparagus but the rain has officially battered the Asparagus officinalis, so forget the green and go for gold.

Ochre James Bond style.

2012-05-10T18:23:42Z

A handful of ochre.

Slice em after topping and tailing them.

Yes I know it can be slimy but who cares?

Heat up your little frying up, heat it till its hot, nothing in it, just a naked flame under a naked pan.

Pour in some olive oil and immediately chuck in turmeric, cayenne pepper, grated fresh garlic and ginger - as much as you can bare.

Turmeric for disinfectant and cayenne for metabolism. Ginger for heat and garlic to keep the boys off.

Stir. When the smell hits your throat

Throw in the sliced ochre.

Now pour in some water from the kettle and Shake don't Stir.

Cook high till the water is absorbed.

Add more water.

Keep the heat up.

Shake and Stir.

Open the kitchen door so that the cayenne pepper fumes don't choke you, and you've stopped cursing the fact that YOU chose to have a new kitchen without a filter hood thingy.

When you fancy its done its done.

Suck on a sweet tomato if you have put in too much cayenne.

A big bowl of salad, with munchy mouse melons, and convivial conversation with the dawter is a rather nice accompaniment.

Mung bean magic

2012-05-09T14:09:21Z

Take 400 somethings of mung beans.

Put em in the pressure cooker.

Bring em to the steam.

Turn off the pressure cooker.

Let the steam die down.

Open the lid.

And there you have a pan full of soft green beans.

Take all sorts of spices including raw garlic and ginger and roast them until the kitchen steams smells of Mombai

Then add them to your mung beans, eat with tomatoes and mint and cucumber and I swear

You will enjoy even the rainiest of days.

Squirrel pat�

2012-05-06T13:19:17Z

I know I slept with a smile on my face. The reason? The old git had come home and we had had a really relaxing evening.

However, the perils of living 48 miles away from work, meant I woke at 3.20.

4.15.

5.24.

5.50.

5.55.

When I finally gave up smiling and had a shower.

I left the house in 30 minutes, having packed my notes the night before.

On with the radio , windscreen wipers, lights and heater and off I went to make my fortune in London Town.

I normally love the ALED JONES' show on Radio 2. I count the records and sing along to most of the toons, but this mornings choice of music was so happy-clappy, dull and tuneless that I turned over to Radio 4, 3, 2 and then BBC LONDON 94.9 which was infinitely more interesting.

I arrived worried that my sleepless night would have me stumbling in my seat. It was a bit of a struggle to begin but THE RYAN kepts me on the straight and narrow, and Sarah, my engineer made the whole 3 hours seamless.

I made my porridge and hugged my first guest SIMON WOOLEY, one of the founders of OPERATION BLACK VOTE. An articulate, man, with a vision still in tact and the warmth and passion to get there in the end. I felt enervated by his paper review. We talked about Boris Johnson, London and the Conservative trouncing and also his love of Arsenal. Grrrrrr.

Then VANESSA VALLELY the new Pearly Queen, talked about her dynasty, her longevity and the work the Pearly family do for charity.

JOHNATHAN ELPHICK came in and talked about his fantastic book 'BIRDSONG'. Its a big tome with 150 different birds to study. Illustrated by 2 Swedes, a kind of 'Headhunters' for ornithologists. On the side of the book is an oblong cassette machine. Press a button, find the number for the bird you want and press. There in your own living room, or in my case studio, the blackbird trills, the pecker pecks and the nightingale sings in Regeeeeeeents Streeeet.

It was really interesting feeling the atmosphere change with each call or song, why when the tawny owl hooted, I only needed a distant train and I was back 25 years singing B to sleep.

DANNY SAPANI came in to talk about 'MOON OVER A RAINBOW SHAWL', in which he's starring, at The National. We talked about his name,his roots and his love of Arsenal.

Grrrrrrr

ROBERT JOHNSON, my wicked foodie man, came in and gave me a mug of beef broth, courtesy,of Richard Corrigan,made out of rare ingredients, and a nibble of potted meat with a creamy puddle next to it. It turned out the potted meat was squirrel and the puddle its liver made into a pat�. I think I would have rather eaten my own briefcase.

Was I cross? No.

Was I delighted? No

Was I revolted? Yes.

I could never, ever get cross with Richard, he is a really wonderful man. I know I say that about most folk, but this Johnson is a real gent.

I ate food prepared by Monks, and whatever RJ says, you can taste the light and love in their food. LV emailed me - sorry darling didn't have time to read it out - but she agreed with me. Cooking with love always turns out to be the essential ingredient, do you agree?

We concluded the show with the delectable JAMIE GLOVER. His voice soothes, his face beams and his show 'NOISES OFF' has to be seen if you want a really good laugh in the coldest May on Record.

I left and my exhaustion caught up with me so I stopped off and bought THE most disgusting cheese and onion sandwich, a bag of Dorritos, a muesli bar and some salted peanuts, all to keep me awake. My poor stomach doesn't know what's hit it, all that junk food on top of a squirrel.

Next week I'm taking a box of goodies to eat in the car.

Right now I'm go ing to lie down and listen to the Tottenham Game on 94.9. If they lose Arsenal will be above us.

Grrrrrrrrr for the last time............

00.00

2012-05-03T22:45:23Z

The cottage is very quiet.

The only sound is the clock ticking behind me.

The smell of beeswax furniture polish lingers in the air, I polished the piano. Mr.Crouch, our piano tuner, came with his box of tricks , put on his apron, slurped one mouthful of milky tea and set about making my boudoir grand even grander.

The cat is caught between two cushions, comfortably slumped on the armchair.

The door is locked and the rain is still drip, drip, dripping.

I didn't get to bed until 5.00 this morning. Try as I might I could not sleep. I tried lying on my left side, lying on my front, lying on my right side. Putting my arms over my head, under the pillow and on top of the duvet. I tried meditating, counting sheep and lying on my back whilst banging my toes together three hundred times. ( an old yogic practice I'm told). In the end a bowl of porridge with cinnamon and agave syrup sent me off.

I was wakened three hours later - phone call from brother.

An hour later - a phone call from the oosbind.

And hour late a call from the dawter.

I decided to stay in my bed until the rain stopped.......

I'm still processing the girls gig. The people that came, the people that didn't come. The ones that bothered the ones that couldn't. How comfortable she was in front of an audience, how lovely Robin her guitarist is, what a good night they gave us, the first of many.

In my sleepless hours I'd printed off nine pages of prayers for Darfur. Staggering how all the disciplines said the same thing. Peace, peace and more peace. I read them aloud and made myself cry.

So today I got up at 1.00.

Had a long bath, read Joanne Harris, then made supper whilst listening to Danny Baker.

Butternut squash soup, with turmeric and cayenne, a little coconut milk and a lot of garlic. A big green salad with avocado and juicy tomatoes. And my very own version of tarka dal.

Two different kinds of yellow lentils, garlic, tomato puree and whatever magic I can find in the spice cupboard, somehow it tastes like nothing else I know.

I had tea with an exceptional woman who never lets the grass grow under our feet,

And supper with an other exceptional woman who tells me stories that keep me moving.

23.59 and the washing up is done, all calls have been made and the only sound is the clock ticking.

The hands have just moved to midnight.

00.00 no time at all. 00.00 and for one minute there really is no time like the present.

Well done dawter

2012-05-01T20:41:27Z

Wettest April since records began eh?

My little car braved the wind and the rain as I scuttled back and forth between London and home. This week has been nuts....

The Dawter played her first acoustic gig at The Phoenix on Sunday.

People kept asking me whether I was proud - not proud just relieved that she got up there and sung in tune.

I am now so tired from last weeks events that I have rescheduled myself.

Dovetailing meetings in between sleeping.

I had the piano tuned today. If I want new hammers it'll cost �1,200 if I want new strings it'll be a remortgage job. The Chinese are making cheap pianos that don't wear out. My Mr. Hoffman is old and battered but I wouldn't swap him for the world.

I fancied I may start working on Rachmaninov's piano concerto. and then I thought of Geoffrey Rush and mental breakdowns and decided to stick to Fanny Waterman - look her up..

It's time to settle down now and watch the SOUTH BANK AWARDS to remind myself what like used to like in the middle lane, I've had enough of the fast lane.

Parking is not fine

2012-04-26T06:28:40Z

Monday was calm.

Tuesday was mad.

My mother was taken into hospital.

I drove down to Brighton giving myself enough time to get there, visit and get back in time to drive into London. At the Cuilfail Tunnel - just outside Lewes - there was a hold up. 73,000 police and 89,000 cars. A huge lorry had overturned. I decided to be clever.

An hour later and having traversed the whole of the East Sussex countryside, I arrived back to where I started only now I could see the reason for the hold up, a huge lorry on its side. I used up a quarter of my petrol and had eaten into the hospital visiting time. I finally arrived. Couldn't get into the hospital car park, found a meter and put in the only money I had, which was just enough for one hour.

Found the ward, sat with my mother until the Doctor - an extremely young woman - came with her clipboard. She needed me for longer but I had to leave. I didn't want to BUT....

So, of course, the guilt set in.

Drove like the clappers to get home. The tunnel was still closed so I had to drive through Lewes, always a pain at the best of times. Lewes is meant for walking and horses not for automobilic eyesores.

Had exactly eleven minutes to get myself ready for London.

I left with a cardboard sign my neghbourhad made which read SPEED CAMERAS.

'Put it on your seat, I know what you're like.'

I heeded his warning, which is just as well, because at the end of the evening I received a �65 parking fine for parking in a bay that Westminster Council's traffic enforcement officer said I should not have parked in. I am appealing (well we know that!!!) which is why I am up at sparrows fart.

I have sent off my details.

Got to my first appointment three minutes late.

Second assignation, The Groucho Club' which I made bang on time - meeting the dawter at the door. And so ensued an evening of FISH. A Big dinner comprising of nothing but FISH.

Cooked by MITCH TONKS & NATHAN OUTLAW. Buy their books they are revelatory about how to cook FISH. 8 minutes usually does it, but I digress....

From prawns to shrimps, scallops and mackerel, from salted fish to pickled herring, from turbot to lobster, from clams to crab. And to top it off raspberry cheese cake in a kind of 'Eaton Mess' style with twirly biscuits and 3 million calories.

By the time the clock chimed 10.30 my poor body was swimming in FISH.

There were tables of ten, lots of noise, voracious eaters, from snotty actors, smug journalists, shy lawyers and retired, tanned casino owners. There was white wine, red wine, champagne and cocktails.

There was babble and bubbles, laughter and banter, and exchanging of twitter accounts and telephone numbers.

I got back to the car and didn't see the parking ticket until yesterday when I came out of 'JULIETS' in Tunbridge wells. I came out of lunch early to move my car so I wouldn't get a parking fine. Ha!

I arrived home on Tuesday night with an unruly set of bodily functions. By the time 3.00a.m. had arrived my body had calmed down, I had watched 'The Syndicate.' and fell into bed with jellyfishbelly.

Wednesday had me vacuuming, changing bed sheets, and scrubbing the sink. Then it was off to collect my writing partner, a quick trip to the hygenist, which is always fun. We catch up on gossip with my mouth wide open and her hand down my throat.

Arriving home the writing partner and me wrote until 10.00, she went to bed and I watched 'The Apprentice' on BBC IPlayer, gagged at the idiocy of the candidates, then retired at 1.30.

I could not sleep for worrying about the parking fine, and choosing the songs for Sunday's show so got up at 5.12.

I have lodged my appeal and chosen three cracker-tracks, so now at 6.39 I'm going back to bed for a couple of hours snoozing.

I just hope that when I get up later I don't find a parking ticket issued in my own garage......

Rainbows keep falling on my head

2012-04-22T17:38:08Z

A warning for Jean Jones, this entry may contain material that will excite you. If you feel yourself salivating with envy just click away from the page.....

I don't know whether to work forward or backwards, I don't know whether to include the grizzly bits about my mother and the wretched bits about my darling girl friend who died unexpectedly, or whether I should just tell you the bits of my week that made me feel so energised I didn't sleep. I don't know whether to include the back pain, the watering eye, the missing of the 'oosbind, or the tragedy thats called THE VOICE. On reflection I shall just write the good bits so here goes:

After a a big meeting on Monday morning I prepared for my three days in town. I decided to travel light.

1 tiny bag of green herbs powder.

1 tiny bag of vitamins.

1 travel toothbrush.

Two lipsticks.

1 Debit card.

2 Travel cards.

1 Mobile phone

All stuffed in the inside pocket of my old blue anorak.

I did not take clothes, towels, chargers or books.

I wore warm socks and shoes. Washable undergarments. One tee shirt. One pair of leggings, one sweatshirt and my old blue anorak which the BBC bought for me back in 1991. The coat has been with me everywhere from America, Iceland, France, Holland, Germany, to tops of mountains and down pits, and has been featured on the front pages of various newspapers and it keeps me warm beyond repair, which it is in need of since the cuffs are fraying and the bobbles have gone wonky.

On Tuesday morning my lovely neighbour drove me to the station and I hopped on the 11.09 train to Charing Cross. I bought two single tickets to get me into town and home again on Thursday.

First stop my acupuncturist who stuck needles in my right leg and hooked them up to some kind of machine. I jiggled around on the table like a dancing dolly. Miraculous.

When I stood up the pain, of the last few months, had gone. Not a twinge, not a wince, not an ouch or a pleeeeeeese....

I walked very slowly to the tube. Took the Northern Line to 'The Groucho Club' where I had a salad upstairs and a good old peruse of the newspapers downstairs. MITCH TONKS, Mr. Fish himself, invited me to his dinner next week. I will of course attend. Mitch is one of the finest geezers around.

The Barry turned up with Mr. B and a chat about pennies took place. Then my writing partner turned up and we left for a tiny supper in 'Patisserie Valerie' on St. Martins Lane before 'Hayfever' at the 'Noel Coward Theatre'. The disappointment at Lindsey Duncans absence - she'd lost her voice - was palpable. 'Ms Bliss', her character, is the pivot of the play, the understudy tried, but however hard she attempted she never raised any kind of bar and could not make up for the loss of Duncan. Added to which a woman, sitting behind us sounded like a peacock on heat, at one point the peacock transmuted into a braying donkey. There was little point in shushing her as brawling in the stalls of a West End theatre is not recommended, especially when you haven't paid for the tickets.

We left having laughed a little and moaned a lot.

Off to Soho House where we dined with a Hollywood legend who bought both of us supper. It was an evening full of such astounding synchronicity that when the clock struck 2.30 we were still gasping.

A taxi took us back to West Hampstead where we continued to talk. Bedtime was me curled up on the sofa with the cushions.

Me curled up on the sofa without the cushions.

Me curled upon the floor without the cushions.

Me stretched out on the floor with the cushions.

At 5.15 a.m. the rain drummed on the sky light and I finally fell asleep to its rhythm.

My back - not a twinge.

On Wednesday morning I got up early and bought tiny delicacies for my writing partners birthday, a gift, a card and breakfast for a damsel in distress who had lost the love of her life two years ago to a rampaging elephant in Africa. Now a single mother of a two year old daughter, who never got to see her darling father, the young mother is still struggling to come to terms with her tragic circumstances.

She talked I listened, then I walked her to the tube. Time is a great healer we said.

Back to the flat, an honorary opening of gifts then down to a good solid few hours of writing. Where more synchronicity occurred. I'll give you a taster. I was typing in the name of the actress we want to play one of the characters. My mobile pringed and there was the very actress calling me. She has never called me before, I have never called her. Spoookey.

Guests turned up for tea and after the devouring of a mountain of cucumber sandwiches I left.

Into Charing Cross for a Barry meet, then we two set off for Greenwich. We left the station and walked in the driving rain to a Chinese restaurant where we met up with Barry's partner. The waiter insisted on removing everything before the food had entered the mouth, I sighed a huge sigh and nearly swore at him in Cantonese but resisted. We split the bill and left, walking in the teeming rain past the barricades and massive elephant of 'Les Mis' which was being filmed in The Naval college/hospital.

The front door teased opened and two huge ginger cats greeted us. We all settled down, me wearing Barry's big red pyjamas, in front of the fire watching a documentary about Elizabeth Taylors jewels. Off to the attic into a big bed and a Wednesday night sleep with still no back pain.

I crept out at early doors to walk around Greenwich. They were dismantling the elephant and the barricades and the drizzle had all but dried up. Found the station and using my old lady card headed off into London.

A walk to New Row, Covent Garden to meet with the daughter for breakfast and a mooch around the shops. She left with a new jacket courtesy of the bank of ma and pa, whilst I walked to The National Theatre.

A small bag of crisps and a bottle of water then into the front row, with the writing partner, to see 'She Stoops to Conquer.' I wouldn't normally sit so close to the stage but they were the only tickets I could get and it was the last part of her birthday week.

The play is fun, the actors charming, Sophie Thompson wonderfully over the top, exquisite music and dancing and the best use of dry ice I have ever had the whimsy to sit amongst. My writing pal coughed and spluttered like she was in a London smog, I laughed so much, as did my right hand neighbour, a retired Irish Priest, that for one moment we all felt like part of the action.

Two mwah mwahs and a hug and my three days in town were over.

I hopped on the train and before I had time to check my inside pocket I was back in TWells. The big bus arrived within a few minutes. The driver, a slip of the thing, swung the green double decker down hills over dales and through a massive downpour. The sky as black as smoke to the South, the sun as bright as an orange orb to the North. There, cuved over the hills was my welcome home rainbow - I lie - two welcome home rainbows. The biggest, most luminescent rainbows I had ever seen. Why the indigo and violet were positively throbbing.

A gentle walk up the hill from the bus stop and I was home to a clean, little cottage, with new white sheets on the bed, a bath just waiting to be slipped into, a cat that was delighted to see me and a fridge full of green veg waiting to be made into a soup.

The old man got home early on Friday, Saturday was supping ale in THE SNOW DROP INN in Lewes, and today was The Marathon.

As I write my back is still perfectly balanced, the old man is snoozing before his trek back to Northampton, my belly is full of the green soup and my feet are finally warm after three hours of freezing reportage from Canary Wharf.

All in all the end of a deliciously full week. And next week proves to be just as thrilling. I'm away again on Tuesday for Mitch's meal, and then Friday through till Monday when I shall be partying on Friday and Saturday, working and watching the daughter do her first live gig at 'The Phoenix Club' on Charing Cross Road on Sunday, then The National again on Monday for 'Moon over a Rainbow Shawl'

After 63 years of fighting fun its finally beaten me and I'm truly giving in....

There's that rainbow again....

To Adrian

2012-04-13T21:58:03Z

Dear Adrian how could I forget you, I still have your little beaded gifts from The Taj Mahal in my bedroom.

M O Tears.

2012-04-12T12:33:32Z

It is becoming clear to me that Sergei Vasilievich Rachmaninoff is turning into one of my favourite composers. Whether I am walking through rain and mist or driving through the white Birch Trees of Grombridge Woods, Sergei's strings do it to me.

Good old Sergei accompanied me to Dartford and back, then down to the MOT garage .

I gave them the keys to my little red car and left it for 30 minutes.

Walked into TESCO, my least favourite shopping experience. Bought 6 Brussle sprouts, 6 tomatoes, milk, and boring things I cant remember.

Walked back through the wire netting and the girl from the garage was dangling my keys.

'Done that quick?' I said with a huge beaming grin.'That's good.'

'No it aint,' said the key dangler, 'Where's your exhaust?'

I looked at my car like it was the elephant in the room. My automobile with its boot, four tyres, hood and stereo was missing a a long silver pipe. The pipe that had always been there was there no longer. I have no idea where the pipe is but some hedgerow somewhere is sporting a silver tube off the back of my car.

The mechanic drove it across the yard into the opposite garage. Not only did they have to order me a new pipe but three new tyres were necessary.

'Look at it this way.' said the garage man.'Nothing was wrong it was wear and tear.'

'Yeah' I said unclear as to what he meant still;

'Make it four' I said nonchalantly, my bank balance sinking to my knees.

It took as long as it takes to go and get �50 cash to pay for the MOT, 'No cards just cash.' they said breezily, from the free cash machine next to the supermarket.

Off with the old and on with the new, the sweet smell of rubber in my nostrils.

'Drive safely.' said the boys. 'The wheels are shiny and new and this rain could have you tail spinning.'

'See you tomorrow' we chorused.

So at 23 miles an hour I drove home.

The nurse from my mothers home called. The news was shudderingly awful. She is confused, thats my ma not the nurse, and keeps taking the bandages off her own legs. Refuses to sleep in her bed so her severely ulcerated legs are not getting a chance to heal properly because she needs to raise them up. Added to which she has heart and kidney problems and at the age of 90 they are looking at the distinct possibility of amputation if they cant get her legs right.

I felt my body turn to jelly.

The only thing to do was to call my brother, who was brilliant, and told me to take each bridge at the time of crossing. The only other thing to do was go to the cinema.

I sat alone, with a small bag of salty popcorn and watched THE HUNGER GAMES. A hideous concept played perfectly by Woody Harrelson, Stanley Tucci and a cast of young, beautiful people. It's a very good film, for me and the younger set who were enthralled by it.

I walked across the foyer, resisted all the sweeties and chocolates, ice creams and hot dogs and took my seat for THE PIRATES. A deliciously silly animated film by Aardman an Co. Hugh Grant and Martin Freeman voicing the daftest pirates ever. It's clever, witty and in 2 & 3D. To be fair I hate 3D it dulls all the colour and the big glasses hurt my nose as they have to sit on top of my real glasses without which I am hopelessly myopic, even on a big screen I can't see nuffink. but the film still tickled my fancy.

My phone vibrated in the middle of the sea scene, the dawter coming home for a huge family gathering this weekend.

So I drove at 23 miles an hour to Seven Oaks - mindful of my new tyres - and we trickled home.

This morning I missed Desert Island Discs as I had to drive down to the garage to leave the keys with the exhaust pipe people.

I walked into the twillage - 3 miles away -and met up with the gel. We bought nibbles for the old man who'll be home at around ten tonight, then into the Factory store to buy cheap rubbish, then into the lovely shop 'ZEST' to buy gifts and cards for tomorrow, then she dove me to the garage to pick up my new little car.

The gel was preparing lunch.

Big salad then a snooze in the sun - unintentional - and now its a settle down for Friday Night before Gods Gift gets home.

My car, I have to say is �600 better off and is driving like a dream. I worked it out if it costs �300 a year to keep my little Red Nellie on the road its a small price to pay.

Isn't it?

'YES' I hear you all cry. Support me please.....

Lunatic lessons.

2012-04-10T17:10:42Z

So, as always, I woke up two minutes before the alarm. I set one on my Bose clock radio over on his side of the room and one on my Cube radio next to my bed. When they go off together I have perfect quadrophonic sound. Although having John Humpries steriophonically assaulting you at sparrows fart is not always a good thing.

By 7.03 I was already underway with my ablutions. Gods Gift has gone back to dancing in Northampton, the dawter has gone back to singing in Bethnal Green so my cottage has no washing lying around, no piles of ironing and no food in the fridge.

Luvverly.

Got into my little red car, smelt the fresh, moist, loamy air and settled into my seat. I travelled light. Car keys, debit card and my red lipstick. Having cut off the end of my dalmation dungarees I had to tread carefully as they are now threadbare and disgusting, I now have the perfect excuse to buy myself a new pair from Washington DC.

I drove gently to the all day car park. Put in �4.00 and walked slowly to the train station. Bought one ticket to get me to London and one ticket to get me home again. The London bound ticket cost me �18.80. the return �11.30, although had I travelled later it would have cost me �5.90 with my Senior Rail Card and my Freedom Pass. Why workers are penalised for getting to work on time is beyond me.

The train sat in the dock as all of us early birds boarded.

A very tall man, from New Zealand, with tinny music pouring out of his earphones sat next to me, tapping away on his PC as his huge Kiwi thigh pressed against my aging cellulite.

When my newspaper accidentally tilted over his screen he swatted it away like it was a bluebottle. I thought twice about remonstrating with him as his huge thigh jiggled, aggressively,up and down. I breathed away my frustration. Arrived into Waterloo East by 9.00 and happily my ticket worked in the barrier to get me to Clapham Junction.

Old stomping ground. Platform 9-10 my stopping off point for the flat. Past the coffee kiosks and out towards the flower stall. Over the road and down Northcott Road past the right wing florist and the sexy bread seller. A right on Broomwood Road then left at the top towards Wansdworth Common. Left down Blinkhorne Street, by the wooden fencing, and then past the grandest houses you have ever seen. Greys and stone painted,Venetian blinds and hand clipped gardens. Houses that are so well maintained and trendy they are worth at least the Gross National Product of Chad.

Left onto Nightingale Lane and into my acupuncturists serene flat.

I lay on her couch as she cupped my back, needled my brain and stabbed my eyes.

I felt terrific afterwards. The pain in my back diminished, not completely gone, but certainly less.

Carefully descended her stairs, let the big door click to a close then right up the hill towards Clapham South tube.

When I opened my eyes I was lying prostate on the ground, my left knee ripped to hell and my pride dented. A cyclist stopped and let out a gasp of pain on my behalf.

'I'm alright, really I am.' I said.

Then hobbled over the road and plonked myself down on a pubs wall. The shock hit me and I cried, naturally. I had just had a deep acupuncture session and had splatted myself on the road. I would have been mad not to cry.

I cried. Huge baby tears that blubbed their way down my face. Every time I thought about hitting the deck my body went into shock. My acupunturist, having telephoned her, told me that she had worked on me internally so the treatment would not be affected.

That was a relief then.

Took the tube to Leicester Square and repeatedly peeked at my knee. It looked like it did when I was seven years old, always falling off my bike or roller skates, and scraping my legs until they looked like they had been pebble dashed. Which in a manner of speaking they had.

Walked to HELIOS Homoepathic pharmacy in New Row. Covent Garden did its trick. People and smiles and new air in New Row. Bought a bottle of COLLOIDAL SILVER to bathe my eye three times a day - lets hope this one works, then set off to Archer Street, behind LES MIS, to have my hair cut.

PIERREPOINT is owned by Dan the man with the scissors. He cut, washed, coloured and blew my hair into a style that reflected my age and personality. So now I really do look younger than 63 but older than mutton dressed as Kleftiko.

Walked slowly - real slow actually - to Charing Cross, bought a bag of nuts, a long brown baguette with tomatoes mozzarella and basil and a medium sized mug of hot chocolate. Took my seat on the 2.45 train to Hastings and dug into my carrier bag of new books.

I had wandered into Watkins Book Shop, the best esoteric book shop in town - and it aint just me that thinks so - and bought a book on the moon, a book on Kabbalistic astrology and Erkhart Tolle's 'THE POWER OF NOW' to replenish the ones I've given away.

Forty five minutes later I was in Tunbridge Wells. My knee less bloody, my hair shorter and my arms longer from a bag of books.

Collected my car which I had parked next to a tub of spring pansies, all purple and yellow and proud in their velvety glory and drove home.

I've spent the last hour on the telphone booking tickets for two shows at The National, booking a facial, booking my MOT, booking a session with my osteopath to put my broken body back together again and booking myself into Jims armchair for an hours worth of telly tonight.

I have three writing ideas which, according to my book on the moon, next week is a good time to start. If I want to lose weight however, I must wait for the moon to go barren in Virgo which won't be until September.

I'm not sure I can wait that long, if I don't start eating proper before September I may well turn into an obese lunatic. Which indeed is exactly what the book is about. Lunatic activity.

I could have written it myself....

Dig Of The Stump

2012-04-09T15:53:24Z

Ambiguity rules the day.

We want rain for the garden - we got it.

We don't want rain for Bank Holiday Monday - we got it.

All my terracotta pots need a good watering - we got it.

Sitting in the sunshine kiboshed - we got it.

On top of all that our neighbours are dischuffed because we cut down a tree and left the stump as a bird table.

Words were exchanged and now it looks like there may be some kind of turf war.

The pine tree was on their side, I wanted it down so I could grow vegetables, the huge branches were keeping out the sun. They agreed. I had it chopped. It cost a mere �350!!!! The neighbours were on a skiing holiday when my man from the wig-wam came with his tools and a truck. Spent all day tidying up the garden, sawing up the logs and leaving absolutely no mess but a lovely flat Pine tree with a gnarled bark which is still oozing sweet smelling gooey sap.

The neighbours returned from Switzerland and saw the stump. The neighbours want to remove the stump.

'Go ahead' I said, 'But I can't afford to pay this time'.

The neighbour can't understand why he should be liable for a stump that he didn't want in the first place. The conversation went round and round until we left.

This is the kind of dilemma that Virginia Ironside deals with in her agony aunt column. Am I now liable for the stump? Or should they cough up the money if the stump is not to their satisfaction? Should I have taken an executive decision about a tree they didn't care about when they were skiing hundreds of miles away? Or have they changed the goal posts?

Given that they didn't care one way or the other when we asked if they objected to our removing it I am at a loss as to know who is right about what. Our good neighbourly status has been rocked and it has made the day feel dark and short.

This kind of dispute divides. This kind of dispute makes everybody feel that they are in the right. This kind of dispute makes everybody else wrong. The kind of arbitration that is necessary for arboreal disputes, such as this, requires an independent witness to see the wood for the trees....

Our last but one neighbour put up a 5' 6" fence because we pruned the roses. They chose to move rather than take down the wooden eyesore having announced that the view of oast houses, lambs, cows and our beloved farmers donkey, belonged to their cottage.

I just hope these new young professionals don't get horrid about things, otherwise 'Dig Of The Stump' may well become the title of my next book.....

Theobromine and more....

2012-04-08T17:52:23Z

Easter doesn't really mean anything to me as a festival, although I do like the idea that shops must shut on Easter Sunday. And its lovely having Gods Gift and the dawter home for four days.

I went to work this morning. Although calling my three hour shift at BBC LONDON work is not quite accurate as we have such a good time.

I listen to Aled Jones on the way in and join in with as many songs as I can. I also try and remember them in order. This morning I got as far as Bette Midler and a choral thing about birds. Then I drifted off. Not a great idea since I was driving at the time. There were about thirteen toons so my memory is getting better. Little exercises that keep my brain trim.

A massive apology to Lindy and all my bloggers who listen in on a Sunday morning.

I have no control over the change of my musical bed, we all have to use the funny little musical sting that sounds like breakfast telly from 1982. Edmundo Ross was retired. I cried, you cried we all cried. I loved my 'Moulin Rouge', I loved what it made me feel like but the powers that be have made an executive decision so thats that.

Lets keep our fingers crossed that Edmundo will be back strutting his stuff sometime soon.

Just don't abandon me that's all I ask.

This morning I had WENDY WASON on. A wonderful writer, stand up and mother. We tackled the papers like we were talking over the garden fence.

MATTHEW WILLIAMSON talked gardening and THE SIBLING NETWORK talked about families and mental health. ANN AKIN and CATHERINE ASHTON from VINTAGE STAR PRODUCTIONS talked about their play which covers the issues of mental health. Look em up and support them they are young and vibrant.

Then the Easter bunny brought chocolates courtesy of PAUL YOUNG - after 8 weird concoctions, ranging from red onion and balsamic vinegar to cigar leaf chocs, I was shaking with delight - and Theobromine. It has a similar, but lesser, effect to caffeine on the human nervous system, in my case it had a lotter effect on my nervous system. I was talking so fast I nearly ended up in Tony Blackburns studio next door.

MICHAEL BRANDON was my final guest. It is official I AM IN LOVE with the man from America who is in SINGING IN THE RAIN and has the humour of a NEW YORKER. he made me cry, the man with a thousand voices also teaches meditation in Prisons. I rest my case.....

I arrived home in time for a bowl of mung bean soup and a snooze in the armchair.

The two of them are doing music downstairs and I'm sitting semi naked in the little room catching up on my blog. I know I have been remiss but somethings changing and I'm finding it hard to put down in words what I am thinking. Sometimes my thoughts are hidden so far way from me I can't access them.

I have been out in the garden doing what I have never done before, digging up things, pulling out things, pruning things and standing and viewing my work like an old farmer. Hand on hips with my thoughts in the earth.

My garden is looking lovely, although the flowers on The Magnolia Tree have turned brown and most of my daffodils were blind this year.

I have planted up all sorts in pots including three vibrant ranunculus and a Japonica that was given to me for my birthday. Maybe I shall keep some kind of gardening journal. To remember the sparrows on the fat balls and the blackbird that is now so familiar to us that he comes up close to the swing set. I don't frighten him and he certainly doesn't frighten me. There is a huge red-breasted robin who visits our new bird table - the flat sappy trunk from the sawn down conifer.

Its still light at 6.30 so I may water me coriander, have a gentle bath then polish off the last of Paul's little chocolates.

Happy New beginnings.

Easter

2012-04-03T14:17:02Z

One week before Easter.

No Easter Eggs.

No Simnel cake

No chocolate bunnies.

No Passover parties.

No guests

BUT

The old man is back from Northampton.

So we'll be quibbling, nibbling and dribbling.

Thats what happens when you get as old as Sir Tom Jones, although I imagine he has staff to help with the mess.