Just how much can a girl fit into a day?
Robin Wlliams, The Mayor of London, The Duchess of Cornwall, Safe houses in Sheperds Bush, 'The Railway Children' at Waterloo Station, the 'oosbind, the daughter in Hackney, the mother it Herfordshire.
This morning I was up at 6.30 to do half an hour of excrutiating exercises so that my stomach learns to tighten up and not hang down to my knees.
I am going to have a bowl of porridge with cinnamon and Argarve syrup, wash, dress, put on my Nike Free 3 trainers and walk briskly into Leicester Square where I am interviewing Trinny and Suzannah.
I have to choose my outfit wisely otherwise the two invasive women will tug at my spare tyre, woman-handle my mammalian shelf and knead my muffin top.
THE RAILWAY CHILDREN is performed on the track in Waterloo where the Eurostar left from, another monument to wasted money. Us audience members sat either side of the track as stage-hands dressed, as Victorian station porters, pushed stages back and forth. The miked up actors told the story to the best of their ability whilst the audience watched the action. All of us turning our heads first to the left, then to the right, like a crowd of tennis fans on Centre Court. As a real life train, with its steam belching out, arrived on the platform at the end of Act One the audience applauded. I bet George Stephenson never thought a big steam horse would ever get a standing ovation or have thousands of pounds of merchandising created on its behalf. No I did not buy a red flag or a whistle. Although I was tempted to buy a bag of historical sweeties, my sagging tum reminded me that there is more to life than a sherbet lemon and a liquorice twist.
By the time I got back to the flat, changed, drove to Hackney, dropped off two bottles of maple - syrup grade B - to the bar-maid daughter, returned home to the husband dressed in a polkadot dressing gown, ate a bowl of salad and brushed my teeth, my eyes were glued together. I fell onto my bed and stayed their until the light woke me at 5.00 I resisted getting up until I knew my stomach muscles rebelled.
I am now all wobbly but triumphant in my regime. Trinny and Sizannah had better watch out I'm in fighting mood.
Whilst waiting for my escort to take me to Waterloo Station yesterday, I sat on a deck chair outside the Royal Festival Hall. Nelson Mandela's head to the left of me a troop of dreadful Eastern European musicians to the right. I was stuck in the middle of London basking in the hot sun as the Romanian fiddler played the same riff over and over and over again. They had the sense to wait for a new group of tourists to pass so that nobody noticed they were playing the same tune over and over and over and over again....precisely. Somebody ought to tell them to pull their socks up and change their acrylic brown sweaters, it was 28 degrees after all. I might just report them to Trinny and Suzannah for their musical slackness and their crime against fashion.
That's it Jim's calling saying it's time for some oats. Can't be bad at our age....
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