Month: November 2013

Can’t blame my exhaustion on jet-lag, but can blame it on crazy schedule and deaths.
I’e been trying to rock myself to sleep by intoning the San Franciscan itinerary, but I get lost with all the drive-bys and hotel changes.
Whilst you lot were letting off rockets and eating hot potatoes round your bonfires I was winging my way to The West Coast of California, alongside Robert Redford.
He had his seat, I had mine Ollie Smith lounged in the first seat, first class of course, we all read our papers and watched our films, reclined our chairs into first-class beds, then after hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours in the sky we finally touched down in San Fran airport.
Tyson, the baseball cap wearing Oregonian, collected us. Loaded up our cases and off we went on a four hour drive to our first location.
The first bed was in a hotel worthy of Nicholas Cage.
Huge room, orange decor, cold, cold, cold. Coffee in plunge jugs and food in coin operated machines.
My chest-cold had transmuted into Bronchitis and then a cough that made me sound like Dot Cotton.
77 degrees in the shade and Holly S, from one vineyard, gave me YINCHIAO herbs and I started to function again and off we went with our camera crew filming;
wine growers, their vineyards, ranchers, their cattle, cowboys and olive groves.
But not necessarily in that order.

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I’m waiting for my boarding card to be printed.
Gods Gift is in the studio sorting out the finances, the dawter and bestie are at the shops buying food for the Sunday Roast, I have a pile of clothes with me here in the attic, which has to be transferred to my bedroom, then my suitcase.
I spent all day yesterday trying to open the fecking thing. Couldn’t remember the numbers. The internet helped but still I couldn’t open it.
I tried so many combinations – birthdays, anniversaries, lucky numbers, went through the whole family. I tried sliding the slider and going through a ritual starting with all the ‘0’s then adding each number and feeling whether it was stiffer or loser, still no joy.
The ‘oosbind tried, the dawter and her bestie tried, we closed our eyes and imagined what my mother would have used as a code, since the case was originally hers. Then in the kitchen this morning, the old git standing by the trolley eating his bacon sandwich the girl under a towel steaming her cold, and me with my brain wave. Tried again. Wowser. The catches flew open. Now I can pack for San Francisco and California. Six outfits and a wash bag.
Surprisingly some of my trousers still fit, which is always a bonus.
It has been nuts since I got back. I’ve been sitting in at Radio London but only for three days as the storm grounded me on Monday and Tuesday. No electricity, no trains, no respite.

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