Davy Jones' Mucker.
Jim pulls the curtains closed, I open them. Jim closes the curtains I open them, and so we play musical drapes. Our flat in Battersea is on the river, opposite loads of flats, next door to trees and round the bend from even more riverside dwellings. It's a really suburban version of Mr.Hitchcocks REAR WINDOW without Gregory Peck.
Our 'Apartment' exposes the difference between myself and Jim. I couldn't care less who sees my silouette of an evening whereas my Northern Git of an 'oosbind does. It's not that I'm an exhibitionist, although I am, it's just I prefer the morning sun to wake me whereas the actor manages to makes his first entrance after the curtain has been raised. This is the back drop to our life.
Last night we had four pillows a piece - Jim's idea - which meant I awoke at 5.00 a.m. with my neck as stiff as a board and half a ton of duck feathers up my nose. I tried to go back to sleep but the dawn chorus, which included my husbands contribution of snoring in-our-flat-minor, kept me awake.
I got up and did my Tibetan Five exercises 21 times each. The first exercise requires whirling like a dervish, I was so knackered I lost my balance and fell onto the 6 footer nearly snapping Jim's ankle..
Then I meditated for 50 minutes. By the time I'd finished it was just gone six. I dozed off for an hour until the radio alarm shouted at me that Philip Pullman and Michael Murpurgo were refusing to go back into schools to read because new Government directives mean they have to prove that they aren't sex offenders even though they are hugely intelligent authors who have been inspiring children for years.
We are turning into a nation of fear-mongering bigots with about as much individuality as a Travel Lodge. This became the first topic on the programme.
My walk to work was fast and fresh. I bought a bottle of water from a caff in Victoria and supped it down the Mall, up Charles 11 Sreet, round The Haymarket and into the Square.
The topics today were controversial. After the database debate I set about putting the cat amongst the pidgeons with a story about Squatters. Two Romanians and a Frenchman have taken over a house worth £3 million quid in Bishops Avenue, Hampstead. The millionare neighbours don't mind, the Nigerian owner of the house doesn't mind, only Eve in Harrow was cross because she thought it unfair and tantamount to theft. Pete from Hackney argued thus; as a squatting musician for 7 years - I don't know what instrument he plays that he has to crouch -. but he and his artist friends have renovated derelict buildings, made music, made love amd made headlines since they do more good than harm. Pete was so eloquent folk changed their minds. The essence of the squatters argument is that if there is a place standing unoccupied for long enough, and thousands of homeless whats wrong with serving both the man and the hearth.
I agree, I know I am an aging hippy, left-winged loony and indiscriminate anarchist, but it seems to me that if a building is crying out to be lived in and there are people crying out to live it makes for the most perfect match.
By the time our cup cakes had arrived from Covent garden and I had made myself sick on too much pink icing it was 3.o'clock and time to talk about Primary School kids who now go to the end of term PROM ( Prom! for Gods sake) dressed in bling, ballgowns and brattish smuggery. When a young single mother wrote in to say she couldn't afford the formal suit for her son another listener apologised for being patronising but offered to pay for it himself so that the boy could go and enjoy himself with his richer chums.
By the time Duncan Jones arrived, replete with silver neckalce and his father's grace I was ready to rock and roll. Mr. D Jones is the son of Mr.D Jones. Mr D Jones is Zowie Bowie, his father Mr. Davy Jones/Bowie. Jones senior gave Jones Junior an education and a mind that created MOON. A wonderful sci-fi movie that had me, him and the roomie glued to our seats. Duncan answered all my questions eloquently, his father's legacy, apart from his music, is his fine film making son.
When I arrived at the flat I was all sugared out. So I sat in the sun on the balcony and ate a huge salad with Swedish meat balls.
Suzy arrived with her recorder and mic ( just like the kit I used for Vivienne Westwood ) and off we went for an hour and a half recording my blogs starting with February 2007.
When we got to Jim putting batteries down my knickers I couldn't stop laughing. Jim chuckled went to the shop for fags and cheese and Suzy and I realised we may be onto something. I hope so.
It's now 23.37 and I need to negoiate the 6 footer whilst the 5 footer watches adverts on veruccas and Nicholas Cage running rings round Angelina Jolie in Hollywood.
Sybil has just called me from that very place. We talked about life and art and I realised that Sybil lives in the home of Paris Hilton and little bitches in bags. I think I prefer Battersea and big dogs in kennels.
Jeni Barnett tells of her scrumptious time at Good Food Live in her first audiobook! Download NOW from iTunes
What about the wheelchair?
isn't it James Stewart in Rear Window? One of my fave films anyway.
I've been chuckling at your whirling dervish antics, perhaps you should do one of these YOGA shows that I religiously SKY PLUS every day then have to delete later because I haven't watched it, done it and have ran out of room on my sky plus box. But if I was watching you it would be more of an incentive. And infinitely more amusing I would guess.
Lerve xxx Fee