Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 7 December 2016

I don't watch jungle capers

I don't watch 'Honey G'

I don't watch 'Made in Chelsea'

I don't watch 'Dine with me.'

I don't watch pointless gameshows

I don't watch gambling capers

I don't watch politicians

Lying over papers.

I don't watch bitchy housewives

I don't watch 'Jordy Shore'

I don't watch naked dating

I don't watch much no more.

The parent funded hipsters

With jeans slung round their bum

Are now the reigning lunatics

Who run the as-y-lum.

Reality, Reality,

The Trumpette of banality

Thoughtless drones

In Plasma-ed homes

Have voted for brutality.

I know I'm biting feeding hands

I know I'm sounding horrid

But television, you must agree,

Is cheap and dumb and torrid.

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May Beevers cake.

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 23 November 2016

Yellow leaves, red leaves, no leaves, green leaves. The oak tree outside the bedroom window is practically naked.

November - one week to go till December - and I've found a new eatery - in the next village. Twee, said the dawter. It's airy, light, walkers, dogs, old people, single people, groups of people, young people taking out old people, me and the old git, I suppose it could be classed as an eatery for the end-of-the-liners.

First time I ate there I had Early Grey tea and a cheese scone, all risen and moist.

Second time I had the veggie breakfast. Hot baked beans, veggie sausages, grilled tomato, toast and butter and a perfectly poached, poached egg, The latte was delicious.

So good to have a caff five minutes away. They also do writing days there. For 20 quid you sit, drink, have a chat and learn how to write. Love it. They have a postcard which reads TRY CAFE WRITING. Then they quote J K Rowling.

'The idea of just wandering off to a caff with a notebook and writing and seeing where that takes me for a while Is just bliss.....'

Which is apposite as we went to see 'Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them' last night. The step daughter sat in the front row, then moved. The 'oosbind and granddaughter sat in the second row. He had a headache throughout the film having to move his head, from right to left, from up to down, to focus the screen.

I sat in Row 'H'3. Next to a hipster crunching popcorn, and a moveable object the other side that was motionless. Unlike me who couldn't sit still. Mind you I was itchy bichky all the way through. Not my kind of movie. Too dark, although the effects were good, no knowledge of Harry Potter, and a problem with Eddie Redmayne's mouth. There's something so disingenuous about it. Something so mannered. If I had brought my sponge brick with me I would have thrown it at the screen.

Home by 9.30. The dawter visited on Sunday night. Just after Greg Rutherford had been fleckled off Strictly, she phoned. On the A21. A puncture. Waiting for the AA. Cold, dark, the other side of the barrier. Fortunately the young AA man turned up within the half hour. We sat down for roast chicken at 9.30. the poor old digestion screamed out.

She stayed for a day, wrote a song, then yesterday had a call. She had to go back to London. Leaving her car here she took a bag of laundry, a lump of Snofrisk cheese. Homemade bread and a hunk of my home made Christmas teacake/log/fruit anthem.

The phone went. It was the garage man saying her new tyre was in. I have to collect it this afternoon. He'll fix it, we'll pay and she'll be safe. although parking in Hackney is now a nightmare, her safe road has been designated an expensive parking lot. So her little car may stay here with us, that's after being fined for parking where she's parked for six years...

The phone went again. "What have you left?' I asked. She apologised for the inconvenience but her house keys were in the glove compartment of her car which was sitting outside the house. She jumped out at Tonbridge and Jimbo drove like the clappers to get to her. She hung over the barrier. I dangled the keys, kissed her and she rushed back to get the next train. My brick of a cake weighing he down.

So in my recipe book I have a letter from Jim's Aunty Amy. The one that brought him up. She wrote us a letter years ago, the ink is faded, as is the picture of her and her dog Missy, including the recipe for gran's Christmas cake. I am not a cake maker so I didn't know what I was getting myself into. Brought up the big fawn mixing bowl from the cellar. Bought Pounds and pounds of flour, butter, lard. LARD!!!! Raisins, currants, a dozen eggs, lemon essence, golden syrup. GOLDEN SYRUP!!!!, spices and ground almonds. The method is dead easy. Mix dry ingredients together, then add the creamed butter and sugar and eggs. Then stir. I had to use two spoons the mixture was so heavy, and there was SO much of it. I had to borrow three loaf tins from my neighbour, having used up my two already. I lined all of the tins with greaseproof paper. I had the oven on 150 degrees. In went the cakes/loaves/fruity breeze blocks. After nearly two hours one was cooked, the other not. More oven time, more fannying around. Finally four hours down the line I removed them from their tins. When thy cooled down Jim ate a slice, but only one mind, until I have purchased Cheshire cheese to eat with his grandmothers cake he won't touch a morsel. It tasted like Granny Beevers Christmas. To my surprise they came out 'Right Champion' so I have enough now till Christmas 2024. I've given away another slab, and so it goes until the cupboard is bare.

I'm off now to drive the kids car to the wheel man. Buy a lump of Cheshire cheese, a block of organic butter, then it's home for an evening in front of the fire dreaming of health, wealth and perfect self expression.

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President Fart

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 9 November 2016

The pundits talk and punt.

The speculators talk and speculate.

The politicians talk and politicise.

The winners win

The losers lose

And the talk goes on.

The magnanimous forgive, the disillusioned dissolve, the spirited move on.

The wind blows, the rain falls, the sun elbows the clouds out of the way and life goes on.

The election show has come to an end.

Hours of distraction, hours of nit-picking, hours of recriminations, hours of talk, hours of speculation hours of blather, and not one person in Rapa Nui gives a toss.

I do not wish harm on the likes of Trump or Farage, I do not wish pain on Le pen or Geert Wilders, I just wish them a speedy recovery from their malevolence.

May they hear the music of the spheres. May the pure white light of eternal love enter their bodies through their addled brains, may the law of harmony prevail, may men and women of good will everywhere meet in a spirit of co-operation, and may all their negativity be transmuted into Divine light and reflected back to it's source.

I'm tired today, but like you, I will bounce back and find a way to defeat them.

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Norwegian Poles.

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 3 November 2016

The stove is stoving, the light is fading and the fruit basket is full of windfalls.

The washing's ironed, the carpet's vacuumed and the draining board is shiny.

The 'oosbind's pottering, the dawter's driving and the tickets are booked for the flicks tonight.

The old git bought me two Norwegian walking poles. We crossed the road and the smell of the orchard should be bottled. The sweet smell of apples and pears lying on the grass. The loamy scent of crispy leaves. Mole hill's nearly mountains, smelling of dark, rich earth. Deep breathing luscious autumn breath. The poles meant the old git and I had our first row about when to use them. One, two, pole, pole or One pole, two pole. In the end I walked in front, he behind, our poles striking the ground in unison. They made a pleasant walk into a route march. Fast round the trees, fast down the hill, swiftly round the bend, swiftly along the stream, fast up the hill. and I mean really fast our poles pushing us on like demons. When we got to the bench by the big oak tree I collapsed. Deep intercostal breaths to recover. Delicious. The air tasted of mellow fruitfulness. Good Old Keats.

Then through forest Clump, tangled roots and calf high leaves. Acorns in abundance, sweet chestnuts by the ton. The squirrel ravaged chestnut cases crunched under my Gortex boots. I found them under the coats in the kitchen. Over the road, another hill, more leaves and I said to the old man does it signal in a cold winter, and he said, 'Naw, it means we've had a good Autumn Stop thinking about then and stay with now.'

Deepak Chopra, in an anorak.

Took me boots off and surrendered to the armchair.

This time last year I started crumbling, this year I'm blow drying my own hair and booking cinema tickets.

I was told to let this old body heal itself, and by jove that's exactly what I'm doing.

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Rosh Hashanah

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 9 October 2016

One week later the Cholla, chopped liver, Gefilte fish balls, bagels, egg and onion, Shepherds Pie, Macaroni Cheese, thirty thousand cakes and 43,000 bags of nibbles have finally left the house.

66 guests, including a dozen radio active children and one visiting dog from next door, have finally left the building.

This new year was celebrated by apples nibbled, dipped in honey, with us toasting Year 5777, with fruitfulness, sweetness and joy.

I've walked to work off the Champagne cocktails, smoked salmon and cream cheese, and various mouthfuls of cheese cakes. I've trodden on acorns, berries, drying leaves and dodged falling conkers. I collected the fruits of the Chestnuts to bake them, steep them in vinegar, and then thread them. If they're still whole, next year we will have a conkers tournament in the garden. We are all getting older so drinking will be replaced by games. The winner can do the washing up.

Sunday October 30th. and the clocks go back. An extra hour in bed and two pairs of bed socks. The old git put the heating on yesterday and pruned the Euonymus, Aucuba and Box, when the last apple has fallen he'll prune the trees. I've got bulbs to plant and
roses to tidy. The lawn will get hoovered and my mothers plants will be tidied. Soon it'll be the end of a year when we struggled with Theresa, Trains and Trump. Grrrrr.

The dark duvet covers have been put on, as well as the heater in the bath room, and I'm revisiting the library, to keep it, and my mind open. The woods in the wood shed, the cats on the bed and my one coffee of the week has gone down a treat.

Jim has fixed the tap in the bath so now I have real running water as opposed to a trickle. Ah! First world problems.....

May the beginning of Autumn bring baked apples and cider to your door.

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Blind Aid

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 26 September 2016

I'm meant to be sleeping but I'm not ready yet. It's 2.45a.m. I'm in the attic, the clock is ticking, everything else is dead quiet. The mole who is destroying the garden is asleep. The foxes have stopped screaming, and the old git is snoring gently.

Yesterday I did my annual hosting for Blind Aid, a remarkable charity run by Sue O'Hara and her team of young inspirers. Richie, who is as tall as The Shard, bends down to hug me. Even on tip toe I still can't reach his cheek. The annual tea party takes place in Westminster. The sun reflects on the brass hand rails and the sweeping marble stairs of The Methodist Hall. Most London Boroughs are represented, some Mayors attend, their finery glinting. Tuxedo Junction play dinner jazz as visually impaired guests take their seats. Volunteers sit with them. My job is to interview selected people, make jokes and generally host the afternoon. Newly formed bands play medleys, poems are spoken, stories read and the afternoon is brought to a close with a young crooner who sounds like Tony Bennett.

I interviewed a poet, she gradually lost her sight over the years. One day she realised that her last bit of seeing had gone. She talked of helping others and adjusting to a life of darkness. Her first dinner party, as a blind woman, ended with her jamming half a lemon in her mouth and sticking a green bean up her nose. She was funny and real. A man who had been blind from birth discovered he was terrific at teaching others IT, but had only discovered it after learning to cook at Blind Aid sessions. Literally the blind leading the blind, but in a good way.

Normally I would bob between tables and eat sandwiches and cakes, but I was allowed to leave early. I walked out into the sunshine. Past the tourists outside Downing Street, past the guards atop their horses, past the Trafalgar Theatre

Walking down the Mall dodging Japanese photographers and groups of Italian students I was happy that I could see, and delighted that I had the energy to dodge.

The train at 16.00 left charing Cross 2 seconds late. I arrived five seconds before. Home by 5.00 with the 'oosbind waiting in the car.

Last week I was on Radio Sussex, early starts, and three hour shows. I'm 98% back to normal. My 'condition' has still not been named, but my body is healing itself, every day I get better and better. Walking away from Westminster I was aware that the resilience of all the people I had left behind in the Methodist hall was catching.

October 3rd is the Jewish New Year, mine started yesterday.

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Pots and Pans

Posted by Jeni in Ad Infinitum | 29 August 2016

On the hottest day of the year I mounted the 8.17 to London Bridge. My feet froze with the trains air conditioning. I walked out of the train station. The Shard shimmered in the sunlight. I asked an armed policeman where Guys Hospital was. Clutching his rifle he said he had been seconded from Heathrow and didn't have a clue love. We both stepped onto the escalator. We both looked ahead and their in Giant sized letters nailed to a brick wall the legend that is GUYS HOSPITAL screamed. The copper and I exchanged glances.

I stepped off the staircase and walked past a Sainbury Local, into main reception. Up to the fourth floor in the Tower Block. Past a Costa Coffee, and another one selling junk that were just the ticket if you were visiting a hospital, not far to walk in case the heart gave out or you had a diabetic hypo.

I entered the breath testing room, there was one nurse and us patients.

A woman who looked like a Russian vamp. Short skirt, tiny vest, bubbly hair and a lap top.

A neat woman, French pleat, knees together, reading a kindle.

Accompanying his wife was a geezer in a polo shirt with one earbud in. He left the other for his wife who was finishing her summer novel. The pastel paperback cover matched her summer frock.

Opposite a cabbie from Lewisham with his fulsome wife who was on her smart phone.


A Philippine female on a computer designing dresses.

And a black student who looked like my daughter.

There was a sign on the wall that encouraged us to talk to the other VISITORS, but only if the visitor was willing to talk. None of us did, well not until the three hours came to an end.

The one nurse took us behind blue curtains and taught us how to hold the breathing bag, take two full breaths - to practice in case we hyperventilated - release the breathe slowly, then really exhale until the lungs were empty. Pinch the white plastic tube and push in the blue stopper. I dropped my stopper twice. The one nurse had to get me a clean one.

She took each one of us, in half hourly intervals, behind the curtain. She then tested each bag for hydrogen, methane and whatever else was necessary.

I had my bank card and train ticket. I hadn't brought a book, laptop or ipod. The magazines were so old Sharon Osbourne still looked normal. 9.46 was my first test. And then at half hourly intervals. I watched the clock. Slept. Watched the clock. Wandered around. Counted the minutes. Breathed. Calculated the remaining hours. Read the literature they had given us. One page full of hand drawn stools. Not the three legged variety. We had all been given a laxative drink when we arrived. Should any one of us require the facilities we then had to tick the picture that corresponded to our expulsion. Only the neat woman left the room. On her return she ticked the appropriate illustration. The rest of us looked away to preserve her modesty.

By 12.15 I was ready to eat my own eyeballs. My hydrogen levels were low indicating some kind of diabetic cock up. I started talking to the cabbie from Lewisham. He was amenable to chat. He had been suffering from gut ache for twenty five years, had watched two of his doctors die and was onto his third gastroenterologist who still hadn't diagnosed his condition. My 7th and 8th breath test revealed that my hydrogen levels were actually normal.

I had finished my breathing test. I shook hands with the cabbie who said in time honoured lingo.

'Be lucky.'

The black kid shouted 'Bye mum.'

I left the hospital at 1.00. I had not been allowed to eat since 9.00 o'clock the night before. 16 hours without food. I was starving.

Nipped into Sainsbury and bought a green drink and a tub of edamame beans with a ginger dressing. For one whole month I had cut onions, garlic, dairy, wheat, sugar and practically everything else out of my diet so the test wouldn't be compromised. I hadn't read the info properly - typical - I had deprived myself of any meaningful taste for four weeks. I had only needed to do it the day before. I had also brushed my teeth and used hydrogen peroxide to clean my gums. The instructions had said no mouthwash. I'd missed that bit. When we arrived we were all given a very strong mouthwash. After one minute we had to spit it into the sink in the full glare of the other VISITORS. My hydrogen peroxide hadn't ruined anything. The only possible problem was my regular intake of KAFIR. A probiotic. Home made courtesy of Elaine and David. The one nurse was slightly concerned but in the event it didn't disturb the tests.

I got to London Bridge at 1.05. The 1.07 to Tunbridge Wells arrived at 1.08 and I was home by 2.00.

The results will arrive Gawd knows when. I have to rearrange a radio active mashed potato test, an aorta test and a consultant visit for November and then I'm shoving all the letters from the NHS where the sun don't shine.

After a year of unbelievable nonsense I've come out the other side. My wardrobe is three sizes too big, and that's the contents not the wooden structure itself. My hair is as long as Farrah Fawcett Majors was, when she was alive. My wedding ring fits again. My collar bones have made an appearance and my spectacles slip off my little nose. I know what I should and shouldn't eat. I know what I should and shouldn't drink. And I have made friends with Epsom salts and 20 minute baths. I'm ready to work. I'm ready to walk. To read. To dance. To sing. To Yoga. To write.

Feel weird writing that cos what if ?

What if they never know what caused it ?

What if my guts get like the cabbies in Lewisham ?

What if I can never eat chips again ?

What if I can never drink coffee again ?

What if ?

Can't be going down that route.

As George bernard Shaw said; 'If if's and an's were pots and pans there'd be no need for tinkers'

I think I understand what he was saying, anyway good old Georgie cant be wrong can he?

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Pevensey Bay

Posted by Jeni in | 17 August 2016

Some say its the last of the summer sun, but I have my doubts. There's pots to plant and lawns to mow and clouds to wonder at.

On Monday I went to see Dr. B. The diabetic consultant. He took my blood pressure, declared it normal. Asked me about pains and gripes and remarked that it was REMARKABLE that I was keeping my blood down with no drugs. Good job too, he said given my sensitivities. He apologised for the length of time my last test was taking to arrive, shook my hand, told me he was there for me should things get out of hand, and provisionally signed me off. Not sure why it was provisional.....

It was 8.20 a.m. I arrived home, empty handed as most of the shops were still shut. Lay in the garden meditated to Belle Ruth Napersteck and had the thought that it would be good to go to Pevensey Bay, stroke the pebbles and watch the water, breathe in the sun and take in the positive ions. The old git was amenable. So picnic blanket in hand we left. Impromptu. If this last year has taught me anything it's not letting the grass grow, even after a sleepless night.

Towards Eastbourne, A22 round the bend and into Pevensey. Somehow we found the pebbled beach with nothing on it but our memories of Jackson the dog and B the tiny daughter. The one kiosk still stands. Up the stone steps and the smell and noise of the sea was mesmerising. We only lasted about an hour given that we had nothing with us. We didn't even stop off for fish and chips.

Yesterday My TUI NA masseuse arrived with his wife. Jim put up the massage table and David poked and rubbed, massaged and released. By the time he was finished my ratings were up. Last week my body was 5 out of 10. Yesterday it had gone up to 6/7. No pain. No nadging. No blockage. Gingerly I say this because it hasn't completely gone and nobody can tell me what occurred, but I felt so energised we drove off to CHERRY GARDENS organic farm shop. Wonder of wonders Maira the hot chocolate guru had set up her trailer. We had biscuits and a catch up with Ros and her grandson and Lulu and her dog, both there to shop for organic vegetables. Three out of the five of us had all been born within a mile of each other in the East End. Daughters of dockers, villains, Italian entrepreneurs, sat round a table in East Sussex discussing Chines Medicine and gym slips.

This morning I had another doctors visit. This time with Dr. W. I was kept waiting for an hour. She apologised twice. These doctors have to spend their time apologising. I told her I didn't want to be in the hospital any more. Was she going to discharge me there and then. 'YES', she said and signed me off. Nothing provisional about that one. No more visits to places of illness repute.

I cried in the car, on the way home. Was I really coming out of annus horribilis. Onwards and upwards, no more testing - well not this week - no more acute pain. No more dark thoughts. So I stopped off at the farm shop and bought a Scotch egg, a pork pie, a lump of cheese, two spelt flour rolls, flapjacks, date slices, honey comb ( I know!!!!) and brandy snaps.

'Picnic?' said the girl with the pony tail.

'Indeed.' I said.

Got home and the 'oosbind had boiled the kettle. One thermos for his black coffee, one for my white decaffeinated latte. Picnic hamper - courtesy of our wedding - filled with salad and all the goodies, tea towel, packet of salt, basil olive oil and real china cups. A bag with books, phone and thermos flasks, two travel blankets. And off we shot towards Eastbourne and the A22. Round the bend, but we couldn't find out beach. It didn't matter.

The air-con on as it was baking. We stopped at another beach, still the same old pebbles and sea. Now we had old wooden groins either side and seagulls whealing and squealing in the sky. Set up camp. Jim took photos with his new/old camera. I ate and tried to read but fell asleep on the rug. Three hours later, the fancy rolls fed to the birds and my mouth puckered from honeycomb and pork pie we decamped and set off home.

Unloaded to the 5.00 clock news, Jimbo stopped off at Lidl for beer and I read an article about Trump, who seemingly never, ever wanted to win any kind of Presidential race just wanted to up his fee on the Apprentice. Would make sense, the greedy, dissembler that he is.

It's now nearly 6.00. My shoulders are bronzed from the sea air, my eye lids drooping from the salty wind, my body still out of pain, remarkable given that I'm not taking drugs and I've eaten enough for a Somerset cricket team.

Tonight it will be a bath, bed and hopefully proper sleep. Last night I caught up on Van Gogh's ear and James Corbin's Karaoke carpool.

Tomorrow I'm driving to my acupuncturist in Clapham, and then next week it's a massive test at Guy's hospital. After which I'm closing the book. I've had too many chapters devoted to sickness, I'm now choosing health. My body is getting stronger, my blood is flowing better, my organs are not failing me and my drug cupboards are bare.

With a little trepidation I am declaring I am healed. I am well. I am healthy and so it is. As my old man always says. Fake it till you make it.

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