Jeni Barnett

Houseshirk

2008-11-18T17:00:12Z

I know it's shameful five days since blogging BUT.

Well excuses are just that arn't they an exemption from a task and then seeking pardon for the said exemption.

I hope you will pardon me I am exhausted and I've only been back two days.

Radlett looms.

I'm not sleeping.

Getting back into the rhythm is hard.

I'm not exercising.

I feel miserable, anxious and now I have to go out to the theatre.

I say I have to go out - I've chosen to go - but what I really need is a sleeping draught/draft/.drapht.

Last night I opted to cook for three wonderful women as opposed to going to see Angelina Joli in her new film. I MUST BE MAD.

I drove up at 5.00 a.m, arrived at the flat at 6.15. Jumped into bed and slept until 10.00. I felt I had gerbils nesting in my sawdust brain.

On Sunday I did all the ironing in the cottage. I have now FINALLY decided that when I get a week off I am going to go away otherwise I come back to LBC more exhausted than when I left it.

Saturday night was Nigel Smith's 'Thank God He's Still Alive' party and Friday was a fine dining experience in Mayfield.

All in all by the time I woke up this morning - I use the expression loosely - by the time I hurled myself into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, washed my howsyourfathers and dumped the rubbish I was ready for bed.

The show today was exemplary. SHIELA McQUEEN, ex model, dress shop owner, mother of two and soon to be under the knife, told us about her family in Grenada, growing up in the Carribbean and the loss of 13 women relations, all dead from Breast cancer. She is about to have a double mastectomy. Quietly and calmly she talked about her faith, her fear and her future hopes.

She invited me to be at the op. I think I may decline.

I am leaving this flat in 20 minutes to drive to Tottenham Court Road to watch a play about homophobia. I'm taking Bee and my purse, she's bound to want something.

Tomorrow Jim and I are eating Argentinian in Spitalfields. Thursday I'm doing a two hour voice over before the show. Friday I'm collapsing and at the weekend I am NOT doing any housework whatsoever.

If Quentin Crisp and Simone DeBeauvoir can live in dusty squalor so can I.

Half Term

2008-11-13T10:33:40Z

I made a decision to stay at home in the 'Cottarge' instead of going away.

I made a decision that sitting in front of the fire with the old git would be preferable to hanging around an airport, travelling through the night, being in someone elses bed and not knowing what the weather was going to be - and I was right.

Staying at home is out of the ordinary for me as I am always in London working, The cottarge feels cosy and welcoming. The colours are deep and warming and being in my own big bed with my books and the silence, waking up to the 'oosbind and the cat, padding around on the carpets, having a bath in my own bath and listening to the wind in the trees, really is exactly what I need.

Not that I've been idle. For that I really do need to get away. But I have enjoyed my week so far - give or take Wednesday....

On Monday the weather was so dark and damp that even venturing out doors felt like a mission. So I pottered and de-cluttered, nibbled and trundled off to Amanda Day for a facial. I had a choice of this and that so I opted for a massage which Bee bought me for Christmas. I wanted to get back to the fire and jimbo but Amanda insisted I relaxed for ten more minutes.

When I awoke from my gutteral snoring I wiped away the dribble and was ready to drive. The room, the fire, the massage, the aromatherapy oils, were all perfect.

The day ended with me on the armchair, the old man on the bean bag, my feet in his hands the remote in my hands and an evening of catching up on all the recorded progammes, including The Neil Young documentary.

Tuesday came around far too quickly but the sun was up. I thought Tuesday was Wednesday, so when the telephone jangled very loudly and Jenny the Hairdresser asked me where I was said

'I'm on my way.'

I lied.

I jumped into the little red car and drove like the clappers into TWells. After eventually finding a parking place I sat down in Jenny's chair with the unforgiving light shining in through the window onto the unforgiving mirror. God I looked like my Auntie Dinah who died ten years ago.

The hair was a success, as was the latter part of the afternoon.

Giles - my ex-son-in-law and his partner Tim, arrived with a huge bunch of flowers. AJ, Bee's best friend over from La La Land, arrived with his Californian muscles and the sweet smell of youth. I made cheese salad sandwiches and Rooibosh tea, lit the candles and settled down for real tea-time chat. The Giles and the Tim left for the flat, they're there for a week, I like it when it's in safe hands. Aj decided to stay, as I write he's still here. He and Jim are calling me down for breakfast.....

Tuesday evening was a drive into the heart of East Sussex. We had dinner in a bungalow that could have been located in Switzerland. Rugs, deep armchairs, lots of homemade food and good conversation. Why we even left with a doggy bag of home-made berry tart.

Yesterday arrived with a blue sky and a trip to the dentist.

This week has been fitting in all the folk that work on my unworkable bits.

Given that I have been using cutlery for 50 years it came as a shock when, last week, I bit onto a fork. I forgot to take it out of my mouth I heard the crack as my choppers collided with the metal tines, apparently all due to tiredness. As my dentist pointed out I had lost the art of eating, he dealt with my chipped tooth and bruised ego. He also said the Rooibosh tea stained the teeth brown.

Tunbridge Wells was all frosty and dripping trees. The yellows and golds of the dead leaves mitigates against Autumn. I was so enjoying wandering through the Pantiles when my phone pinged - messages.

Could I get into Oxford Street by 5.00 to do a voice over. The clients would pay me half my normal rate as they only wanted me for 20 minutes.

'No.' I said 'I AM ON HOLIDAY.'

They called back.

Could I get into Oxford Street for 5.00 to do a voice over they would pay me my normal rate and....

I had no choice.

I shopped for some more Rooibosh tea and Colgate once-a-week teeth whitener, as recommended by my dentist, and some cat food for the cat silly, then I set off for London.

I parked the little red car in a car-park that was free. All the machines had broken it was a good omen.

I walked 8 minutes to the station, bought a return ticket and climbed aboard the train. Now I know why I dont travel by British Rail. The train was late, always a concern when doing voice overs as time is money and lateness is frowned upon. Fellow passengers take a little getting used to, due to the arrangement of the cheap-seats as they are all a little too close for comfort.

I changed trains at Tonbride and sat opposite a delicious looking young man who unfortunately was sorting out horse-boxes with his brother-in-law, very loudly, on his mobile, it was effing irritating.

I tried to concentrate on my thriller - not a normal choice - but even the slick writing couldn't cut through his intermittent chatter. Then two children, their mother, the push chair their grandmother and a waft of stale smells sat next to me. Granny handed out doughnuts and coconut covered pastries, that along with with the dead wiff of tobacco made for a heady cocktail. Can you see why I moved?

Whilst standing I decided to use my mobile phone to Google Map my wearabouts. so that when I arrived in West One I would know where I was going. My spacial awareness is not terrific, when I got to Margaret Street I walked the wrong way. I could feel my newly whitened teeth grit as hoards of unconscious shoppers slammed into me. Mobiles on the go, staring eyes, noisy headphones, mindless humanity. When I live in London I don't notice it but three days in the Cottarge and it felt like I had been dropped onto the head of Medusa with her snakes writhing.

I eventually found the studio. I was hot and bothered. I was placed into a tiny booth. I knew it was going to be difficult. A team of creatives, none of whom knew how to describe what they wanted, shouted out directions. I couldn't hear my self think let alone voice. The fennel tea I had ordered was makine me sweat. Finally I turned up my own headphones and did what I hoped they wanted - dark brown, but light, sexy but not porno, old but not ancient, young but not juvenile, offhand yet gripping. Trying to make your voice into the one they hear in their heads takes a a little time. But I think we got there in the end. The sweat was sprouting off my forehead like a Tom and Jerry cartoon. byong byong you get the picture.

Coming back on the train was just as bad. I sat next to a woman with red hair, not that I hold that against her but she had the voice of a woman with little self esteem. I knew she was intelligent, the way she was sped-read her book, but she wanted to be liked just a little too much by her friend who sat opposite her. There was a needyness in her enforced cackle and a cry for hel[ in her very loud cough. Her companion, slim, dark haired and headphoned-up, controlled the conversaton. Mr.Travelling Man, sat next to her and opposite me. His palatal, monotonal voice indicated a lonely fellow who laughed too loudly when he was told my the girl on the end of his cellphone that she was going away for a few days.

'Great. Peace and quiet this weekend.' he giggled.

'Great I'll have the place to myself ' he said to nobody in particular, which was a good job as nobody in particular was listening, only me.

He picked away at the scabs on his forehead and laughed out loud to himself at stories in the Daily Lite newspaper. If that doesn't smack of desperation what does?

I was getting more and more anxious as the announcer kept telling us that the first eight coaches were going on to Ore whilst the last four were being disconnected at TWells - we were in coach twelve. I couldn't relax not knowing whether I would ever be able to get off the train.

Th man at the next table was reading a book on line and then swapping the pages for James Bond. I hoped it was a legal copy. The woman behind him was reading a book and then writing about it on her lap top. It felt like we were a travelling office concomitant with all its hang-ups and interrelated problems. I half expected David Brent to jump out into the aisle and give us his dance.

And here's me thinking I can give up the flat in london and commute....

I got home later than expected because a slow train had held us up. But I arrived back and got stuck into making a really good fish stir-fry. Prawns and fishballs which I had bought in a supermarket in China Town.

I ripped off my clothes, pj's on, and then we watched Spurs thrash Liverpool at Whiteheart Lane,. Simon Rimmer eat your heart out.....

I've eaten breakfast. I am now going to finally peel all my apples and make them into apple thingemybobs. I may go into the studio with the old git to write some Jeni-audience-with-Music, I may even scrub the kitchen floor. I may not. I may just climb into the bath and relax with my thriller.

As for Friday. wells its, lunch with a girlfriend, supper with Jim and two dear chums.

Saturday is a party,

Sunday is sleeping and Monday

Well Monday it's back to LBC 97.3.

If I don't write before I'll see you then.

No Complaints

2008-11-06T22:22:32Z

The problem with venison stew with parsnip mash is that there is a fare bit of sugar in it - innit.

I'm all a bit spinny and nauseous.

My evening with the girls was short but sweet.

Thursday at LBC went well if a little frantic.

Jim's at home with the apples and B is on reading week which means he's having a lie in and so is she.

I, however, am sleeping too little, watching too much Obamatelly and trying to cram in a book a day. The result is that my eyes close at the drop of a lid and my head is rattling with information.

This morning was a pre-record with Sir David Attenborough. He is publicising his new box-set of DVD's. His very own encyclopaedia of life on earth.

Sitting opposite this most eloquent of men with his familier, fluid voice was surreal. Me trying to have a conversation about conservation at 11.30 in the morning was not easy as the morning had got off to an explosive start.

I had my teeth whitening gum shields in and a rosewater face-pack plastered over my face. The mud was brought back from Morroco.

My tightened facial muscles did not stop me calling the daughters letting agency.

I calmly threatened law-suits and negitive publicity if they didn't mend her kitchen tap by yesterday. I sounded angry, but more interestingly I sounded like a South African Bushwoman with braces, surprisingly I was still able to to assert myself despite my rubber teeth and stiff upper lip. Joanna, the estate agent, talked at me as if I were unable to understand english, not surprising really..

Anyway by the time I arrived at LBC I was all maxed out on anger and adrenlin, Sir David is so laid back he's practically horizontal.

After the interview it was head down to make the running order,a phone interview, organise my thoughts by the time it got to 12.30 and my cross over with James O'Brien, I was exhausted.

James and I had a bit of a run in yesterday. He was rude to me on air, and rude to my editor off air. I told her, on the stairs that I thought JOB was a rude man and I didn't like the way he talked to her. No sooner had I finished my sentence than Mr. O'Brien came down the stairs. We faced each other, he had heard every word. I grasped the moment and told him I didn't like the way he talked to me either. It was an encounter that had undoubtedly been orchestrated by the pixies just to cause trouble. Trouble was bypassed, however, as we laughed about it on air.

The 12.30 exchange was fine, after a quick pea soup it was up and ready for the show, which surprisingly went very well.

Then Rob The Agent turned up, although I had forgotten he was coming, and we drove back to the flat where I made a horrible cup of coffee. After a brian-storming session I drove him back to the Elephant and Castle, and then it was thirty minutes of Obamatelly before seting off to Hammersmith for dinner with the girls.

The venison has made me sick, the horrible coffee with the boiled quinoa milk has made me sick, the bread dipped in olive oil and balmasic, although lovely, also made me queasy. I have a headache from watching too many Presidential programmes.

But them girls are young and hip, they remind me of a good time in my life. Food and fun.

I am having a good time now but tomorrow is yet another celebrity interview. Interviewing celebrities is tiring since they all need to be listened to properly. Not that normal people don't need to be given the same amount of attention it's just that celebrities know the score so you have to be vigilant, and I should know I'm a D-Lister myself.

I dedicate this blog to Elaine because she told me off for not blogging enough. Sorry Ms B.

Have this one on me.

Bedroom antics

2008-11-05T21:46:03Z

When I interviewed TARELL ALVIN McCRANEY last week I had no idea I was in the presence of genius.

THE BROTHERS SIZE and IN THE RED AND BROWN WATER are two plays about young black people. Their relationships, using Yoruba myths, movement, music, theatricality, poetry, are played out with poise and power.

I went to see 'Red and brown Water' last night to quell my excitement. I went to see the 'Brothers Size' as an antidote to all the excitment today. Brothers Size was as rivetting as Mr. Obama. Both brilliantly rivetting.

As Barak Obama's fate was played out on my little telly screen so the slipknot of Mr. McCraney's dialogue lingered in my mind. The lilting melody of the Southern States of America. Where, not surprisingly the Republicans held their power.

I watched the fist part of the election from my armchair. Lolling over the arms and keeping up my energy with fish balls and Rooibosh tea. By midnight I had de-camped to my bed.

I lay all night watching the bitty international reports with the Older Dimbleby doing his upper-crust stuff. I sat bolt upright at 4.00 a.m. as it became clear that the 'skinny man with a funny name' was about to take the prize. At 5.00 a.m. I was fully awake, by 5.30 I was blubbing into my fizzy vitimin c drink. By 6 I was drowsy by 7.45 I was up and showered and into LBC to interview Steve Coogan the man of a thousand voices.

He was a charming guest.

It's now nearly 1a.m. I'm tired but elated that the world now has its first African American President.

I'm thrilled that he is real, is going to buy a puppy for his daughters at the White House and totally relieved that the greedy old order are having to lick their wounds.

I do not want to hear talk of war, money markets, poverty, violence, and ineptitude for a very long time. Mr.Obama has been charged with helping up the Yankee cripple from its knees.

I am optimistic enough to believe that this time he may just do it.

well done them

The night before tomorrow.

2008-11-03T21:08:57Z

It's not the politics of envy but a fear that achievments are only ever described in pounds, shillings and pence, not to mention the yankee dollar.

Lewis Hamilton stands to be the first ever Billion Dollar sportsman.

One Billion dollars for a boy who drives a car round a track. No it isn't any more complex than that. Yes he's a 23 year old role model but worth one billion dollars? I don't think so.

As homeless people treck miles, barefoot, to hide from death and find a life away from the killing fields, and as we await the outcome of the American Election, a single car driver stands to rake in more dosh than the Gross National Product of the Democratic Republic of the Congo - cockeyed values if you ask me.

And tonight, November 3rd, I dare to believe that Obama will get in.

As the old order totters before our eyes like a drunken sailor, replacing anxiety and fear with optimism and courage must be the only way forward.

Today I was interviewed by Channel Five for my opinions on Ross and Brand. Yet more money talk.

I had missed my breakfast as I started the day in the dentists chair. My mouth wide open, unable to comment, as my wonderful dentist glued back my gold tooth. So I dribbled on my bib instead as the tooth-man wished the American Election was just a post-script on todays news.

But it cant be, I would have said if I could have, we are inextricably linked with the United States.

By the time I had finished spouting off about the Branding of Ross I had missed my lunch, my reading time and my moment. I was too hungry to tick off Mr. James O'Brien who was his normal rude self.

The interview went on much longer than any of us had expected so I started todays show with a big baked potato and huge portion of beans plonked in front of me. I hope you couldn't hear me nibbling on my spud with dreamy tomato topping.

This evening I have had my fill of money talk. So tired of a persons worth being counted out in coins.

So tired of success being counted out in dollar bills. Lewis Hamilton is a role model because he focussed on his dream then attained it not because he will become a bill board for yet more mobile telephones.

Teaching young people to achieve for the sake of achievement must be the way forward.

The fraying of our society is a direct result of an embarrassment in having values. Not puritanical, tight-arsed values. But a rule book based on respect.

Tomorrrow will be either the most exciting day in history or yet more of the same.

We await the outcome.

Lesley Douglas.

2008-10-30T19:14:52Z

ch-ch-ch-changes

I am sad that Lesley Douglas has resigned from radio 2.

I am sad that it came to this.

I am amazed at the backlash. Yes I think it's time all broadcasters everwhere, including myself, are made responsible for everything that comes out of our mouths.

I feel sorry for Mr. Ross's family. I feel sorry for Mr.Sachs.

I do not feel one iota of sympathy for the grandaughter in question. I think she's milking it for all it's worth.

I think it has been a media circus. The heir aparent Sleezy Cameron is having a-holier-than-thou field day.

We must be wary that the right wing Puritans don't silence real humour, real debate, real daftness.

I accept that what the BOYS did - and I use that word advisedly - was crude and childish.

Maybe they had to be made an example of. Maybe we'll go back to real humour not schoolboy smut. But not for the lovely Lesley Douglas to be made to resign.

Yet another male skirmish where women pay the price. As always the casualty of idiot boys indulging in rough and tumble results in the innocent suffering.

Opening my Heartburn

2008-10-29T23:37:22Z

i finally got my earphones from the travelling agent but I cant use them until I go back to the country, which I will do on Friday and then you won't see me for dust.

The snow has melted, the ratings are out and Tottenham scored 4-4 with Arsenal.

My lovely Sybil the soothsayer, out in sunny California, hates me for watching football but it's a family thing past down from father to son to nephew to radio broadcaster. My father would be turning in his grave if he thought I didn't care about Harry Rednapp....

Now I've been a bit quiet for three reasons.

1) I was worried about my audience figures.

2) I was worried about interviewing Michael Parkinson (Sir)

3) I was worried about interviewing Leona Lewis.

In the end it was all okay, of course, but at the time.........

In television I was shielded from the ratings. They mattered but everybody else knew the numbers before I did. In radio it's much more critical.

All the broadcasters know their ratings, their audience share, their target niches, their listening flock - you get the picture, or should I say you get the sound bite - I can't bare the idea that I am only doing my bit so that I can sell advertising and build an audience, it's like writing a song for Eurovision.

I do the job because, when I get it right, I really enjoy it, the added pressure now of whether my market share is bigger than Mr. James O'Briens, or that I'm peaking when the sun goes over the yard arm is all a little stressful.

Indeed I didn't realise quite how stressful until I'd eaten my fourth slice of toast with honey. All washed down with a glass of cool, clear filtered water. from the Brita Jug a present to myself.

But the pressure is off, well for the time being anyway.

Mr. Parkinson was charming, I'm still basking in his glory.

Ms Leona Lewis is utterly herself. Quietly determined, gently ambitious and delightfully oblivious of quite how magical she is. I wish her well. I have analysed why I was quite so nervous about meeting her - in one word AGE - that's mine not hers.

How would I talk to a 24 year old songstress and not make it sound like I was her granny at Christmas asking her about her new 45" record, that was my concern. In the end I was interested in her and she was professional enough to be interested in me.

I have, henceforth, decided to dump my ageist approach to life. I am what I am. I am as old as I feel. I am as old as I look, on a good day, so I am going to try and censor the words I AM OLD.

Only the brave and open-hearted dare to allow themselves to be vulnerable. I hope I have the courage to take down all my walls and expose myself. No! not in that way..

I've been using age as a defense mechanism to keep me separate from all the others at LBC. They are so much younger than myself but so much more experienced. So I intend peeling off my mask, letting down my guard and freeing myself from my birth year,, I will become age-less, anyway it's SOOOO last century!

Daring to be vulnerable and open is my next challenge.

Gawd Blimey I sound like a hippy from the 60's. There I go again.

I must stop though, that toast has given me heartburn, it's my age. STOP IT!

Hard hats and microphones

2008-10-27T21:48:40Z

How can a person lose an earring twice within as many weeks.

And they are fine earrings. I've looked in my drawers - chest of - under the dresser, in my clothes. It has jostled me.

But it is now bedtime. I have done me bit today.

I've got blisters from wearing size 3 wellington boots, I'm size four.

Heat rash from wearing a mans sized yellow anorak with zipper.

Itchy follicles from wearing a white hard hat on my little hard head, all in preparation for a life times experience of seeing a shopping city before it opened.

WESTFIELD is big, so big you could spend an entire life time there and still come out with exactly the same shopping that you can get in Bluewater, Thurrock, Chelmsford and Galway.

Still I am one of those folk that has divided opinion about WESTLIFE.....sorry WESTFIELD.

A tall man name Matt, Dan, LBC's very own reporter Toby Anstis, and myself, were given a guided tour of the massive shopping experience, otherwise known as WESTFIELD.

Mr. Mayor is opening it on Thursday. There will be celebrities, champers, hangers on, but mostly there will be a shopping city opening up near Hammersmith.

Dan Freedman taught me how to work the tape recorder, then holding a whopping great microphone with a big pop-sock on it I interviewed Lindsey and Zoe, two young things that are getting the building ready for Thursday.

3,000 Eastern European builders and me wandered the miles of marbled, beech-wooded corridors of the gargantuan shopping city known as WESTFIELD.

My blisters are a testimony to the size of the joint. It's like Centre Parks without the chalets. If you like shopping, eating, shopping, moving stairways, shopping and eating then WESTFIELD is an ideal day out for you.

Not only am I interviewing Sir Michael Parkinson tomorrow I will be giving you the life experience known as WESTFIELD.

I bet Sir Michael never thought he would be upstaged by a shop.

But now I have to nurse my poorly feet and go to bed.

Sarf East Fashion

2008-10-23T21:10:06Z

There are good days and sometimes better.

Today was sometimes better.

William Roache - KEN BARLOW off the street - is a gentle, sweet man. He believes what he believes. Doesn't try to make anybody part of his gang. The paperback version of 'SOUL on the STREET' reveals what drives him. Describes his philosophy. He has humour and humility, if Steve Allen had not gone on holiday I wouldn't have met him.

So thank you Mr. A.

And then CAROLINE TAGGART, came in to talk about her grammar book. She reminded me of a Simmental cow. We have eight of them in the farm next to the cottage. They are smooth and light, blonde and langorous. They have a gentleness about them, their folds of chamis leather skin hanging down by milky bellies. Caroline had that lightness about her, with the smoothness of the Simmentals. She was funny and clever, when the phone started ringing it 'Was such fun'. to quote one of you callers. I had no idea just how many of you got wound up by bad grammar and pronunciation?

Caroline lives in Pimlico which is why I drove that way to Borough.

She said that a lot of people of 'our' generation knew that area.

As it goes Lupus street housed a squatting photographer I knew in the 70's. I have just used a misplaced modifier or a dangly bit, according to Caroline. The photographer wasn't actually squatting he was in a house that was a squat - see.

I like dangly bits, they always make me chuckle.

Anyway I decided I would drive directly to Bermondsey Street for the opening of an exhibiton at 'The Fashion and Textile Museum'. Rather than go to the flat first I dribbled over to SE1 to meet up with Laura, who is studying fashion design.

Latymer road, over Brompton Road, over Earls Court Road, over Fulham Road, over the Kings Road, and instead of turning left into Worlds End I continued round the bend to the river.

The light was dimming, Whistler on my right and Beaufort Street on my left. I stayed in the left hand lane. Past Chayne Walk, ever so posh and distinctly Central Parkesque, past Royal Hospital Road, down past the Albert Bridge, Chelsea bridge, snaking down the embankment until Vauxhall and the green lego MI6 building, bilious in the sunset.

Hanging a right under the arches by the gay bars and motor bike-shop and swooping into the Elephant and Castle.

Sarf East here we come. I drove round the roundabout and wiggled my way into the back streets of Borough. Parked opposite a nursery school, safe I thought, took the radio out and locked it in the boot, bunged in an hours worth of parking and wandered off down Bermondsey Street.

The estate agents are flourishing - what with all that rented property, as are trendy pubs and flower shops, paper shops and coffee bars.

I stopped off for a soya-skinny-latte, if you don't mind, and a plastic pot of vegan salad. I know, I know, but I felt like it.

Then I wandered around until I found the FTM. All pink and orange like a big juicy chew...

Then I collected my car and drove round the back streets until six thirty where I found a parking spot right in front of the museum.

I bought two pink and two orange gerberas, the colour of the museum, for Bee and Nathan, a bag of shopping for them, and stuck them in the boot of the car ( oops! another dangly bit...I didn't stick them in the boot it was just the shopping) I was dropping in on the way home.

I've known Laura since she was 2, she's now the most delectable young woman and has just started fashion design at Kingston. A good place I am assured.

She turned up wearing red boots, blue tights, a dress as short as a garter and a smile as wide as Warsaw - her dad's Polish.

She came in as my guest. With the aplomb of an 18 year old fashion student, she held her champagne flute aloft. I reminded her to have her questions ready for Zandra Rhodes at al, in the event she was struck dumb......

The place was heaving with skinny, red-lipped models. Mountainous women with wrap-around headresses, wrap-around linen kaftans and expensive multi-coloured dresses that would have housed the entire Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma.

Oh Yes, big bank balances abounded as did brazen bracelets and an abundance of bangles that could have anchored a cruise ship.

Men with little rainbow skullcaps and chinese collared suits posed in amongst the papier mache models who swung on swings all wearing Bill Gibb's outfits. That was the purpose of the evening. An exhibiton of the designs of Bill Gibb.

Twiggy gave a speech, Zandra Rhodes gave a speech. Both of whom I had interviewed in my last incarnation so Laura got to shake hands with heroes and heroines, Bruce Oldfield, David Reeson, and nearly Richard-The-Rocky-Horror-Show- O'Brien, he was too preoccupied with looking cool.

A two foot reflective dragon fly hung round the neck of a man with aging feline features who kissed all the cheeks he met side-on.His companion wore a hat so precariously perched I marvelled at its gravitational precision, the hat-pin that held it to the head of the comely matron was as bold and brilliant as her dazzling cohort.

Voluminous dresses and Isadora Duncan scarves wound their way round the room.

Bill Gibb dresses hung upstairs and downstairs. Beautiful creations from the 70's and beyond.

Chiffon, silk, taffeta and toulle floated inbetween the be-decked, be-jeweled fashionistas. Pictures of Twiggy, Twiggy herself. Pictures of outfits, the outfits themselves. Zandra Rhodes, still with pink hair and orange lipstick, opened the museum years ago. It used to be a cash and carry, she now resides in the roof whilst bright young things visit daily soaking up the style of then, trying to turn it into the style of now.

Laura took out her camera and recorded an historic moment. She had no idea she was in the presence of such greatness. It was merely a room of the past parading before her young eyes.

We left at 8.00 after nearly two hours of high fashion, high camp and high society. Laura skipped offf to Kingston as I drove to Brixton to drop off the gerberas and provisions.

I had Jasmine tea with the daughter, and then set off back to the flat. My dungarees splattered with Chinese tea and French Champagne.

Laura texted me to say she was back safely, that she had thought of a thousands question for Zandra on the train and that she had forgotten the name of that tall old man - that man being the forever young Bruce Oldfield.

Celebrity comes and goes but real art lingers on. Go to the exhibiiton,if you can, it will take you back to the swinging sixties even if you were never there.

1.37 and time for bed.

sleep well

Zeit who?

2008-10-22T20:33:17Z

Zeitgeist: the spirit, attitude, or general outlook of a specific time or period.

The spirit of our time.

The Zeitgeist, as I write, is uncertainty.

Politicians blaming each other.

Money lenders counting their gains behind closed doors.

Even the scientists in New Delhi, having sent their first rocket to the moon, are being haranged by their countries poorest people.

'Whilst you visit the moon, we haven't a grain of rice to rub together.' they call.

Why today, even I cracked whilst eating salad off a fork. I have used a fork for nigh on 60 years but today the Zeitgeist got to me too.

Instead of taking the fork out of my mouth as I bit down on my beetroot, my teeth met the metal tines and before you could say Zeit who? my front tooth bit the dust, well not the dust, but you know what I man. That's another trip to the dentist.

The period just before birth is a dangerous, difficult one - out of the old comes the new and all that...

But when the Zeitgeist is fearful, painful and just a little lonely, trying to stay positive can appear fatuous and not a little condescending.

As Woody Allen said;

'Life is divided into the horrible and the miserable',

and yet I will not allow myself to slide into the pit of despond.

As long as there is a heart-beat there is hope. Or as the fabulous Johnny Mercer wrote:

You've got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive

Elim-my-nate the negative

Latch onto the affirmative

Don't mess with Mr. In-between.

And on that note from 1944 I will retire to my bed..........

Walk On By

2008-10-21T18:38:26Z

Two hours of television and my eyes spin round like fruit machines.

I watched Gok - not sure what I feel about him.

I like Joan Rivers joke - a lollipop named after him is a Gok Sucker....

Then I watched Steve Coogan in SUNSHINE. I cried so much it sounded like I had adenoidal trouble.

This evening I walked very fast over Battersea Bridge onto Kings road then turned left towards Worlds End.

I like left away from Sloane Square. It feels real. The people are locals, not blow ins, and the shops are not supermarkets.

The charity shops aint 'alf bad either. Posh stuff sold cheap.

On the way back I was thinking about walking. It took 394 paces from the Square to my flat. The evening was crisp and the twilight sky was a dusty lemon. There was a young artist painting the same river that Turner had recorded. He was doing a very good job. His easel was slight, his box of paints oblong under the easel and his expression calm and serene, even though Old Father Thames was really choppy.

I wondered whether he knew that Turner had sat and painted from the church 50 paces from where he was standing.l imagined he did, in the event I felt that a lady in a yellow anorak, walking briskly, teaching him to suck eggs was as bad as his granny doing it.

It's now 22.41. I'm all emoticonned out.

I have to read a book by Thursday and get me beauty sleep as well.

I want to do my running but the agent has sent me a pair of headphones which havn't arrived. My earholes are just too small for the little ones you shove in. Until I get my new headphones it's hard to do my musical running. I have a podcast of 9 weeks worth of Californian running. From the sofa to the marathon....

The geezer who made the podcast must be 7 feet tall, I cant keep up with the beat. Jim suggested I run in triplets......

This morning I had a dawnmare - really horrible.

Was doing my Radlett gig. I was totally unprepared. Didn't want to get changed, lost my bags, didn' wear my lenses, lost my prop box.The jokes fell flat. The audience left. I tried to talk my way out of it but to no avail. The 'oosbind was unsympathetic and I was dashed.

The embarassment was gripping. I have never had an anxiety dream like it. I hope it's the last.

I promise if you are coming to Radlett I wil be more prepared.

I now have to wash my face, put on my creams, take to my bed and read about William Roach. Yes, Ken Barlow from Corrie.

Two days to bone up on a life of 70 years.

The idea that a life long lived can fill 399 pages is really depressing, it's like house clearances. Black bin bags containing a persons entire existence.

I hope my auto-biography is more thicker than thinner.

Until then I'd better get some sleep so that I am well enought to tell the tale.

sleep tight dont let the credit crunch bite......

Pillow Talk

2008-10-20T20:03:21Z

On Saturday I made beef stew with horseradish dumplings, buttery cabbage and celeriac mash for seven of us.

We had apple crumble made with the apples from our garden.

There was not one crumb left. The satisfaction of the perfect quanitity.

We have 3 apple trees they have all done well this year. Some of the remaining apples are as big as melons.

On Sunday morning I made scrambled eggs, bacon and fresh coffee. The table was laid with smoked salmon, cream cheese, bagels and creamy butter.

There was not one crumb left. The double satisfaction of two meals completed.

By 11.30 my 5 guests had gone.

I drove to the garden centre and bought bits for the balcony in battersea.

Then Jim and I drove up separately to see Sarah Silverman at the Hammersmith Apollo.

She was dreadful.

Truly awful.

3,500 people didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Jim left for home this morning.

I did not sleep well last night. The weekend had come and gone and I needed more green-leaf time.

So now, by way of recovery I am going to bed.

I will be back on form tomorrow.

Onwards and upwards eh?

goodnight.

Out and Ashout

2008-10-15T22:38:13Z

I arrived back at the flat and spent 45 minutes shouting.

SHOUT NUMBER ONE

I had a delivery delivered. I wasn't home. because I do a daily show on the radio....

The man I spoke to made it quite clear that I should be on duty at all times to collect my delivery. When I explained that it was not possible for me to be here when he was he said he couldn't tell me when he would be here.

'What are we to do?' I sighed.

'Ain't you got no neighbours.' he said sarcastically.

I breathed heavily.

An impasse.

Having hung up with a humph I knocked next door. Kat said she would be around for him when I wasn't. Problem solved.

I took some staphisagria - a homeopathic remedy to get rid of my anger - and phoned the delivery people back. The remedy had worked I was as nice as pie.

Hopefully my delivery will be delivered tomorrow and all will be well.

SHOUT NUMBER TWO

I phoned the electricity company to pay my bill.

There was an automated woman on the end of the line. She had an automated smile programmed into her voice. That made me really mad.

She asked me questions with-a-huge-pause-between-words so I couldn't do anything quickly. Sometimes I had to press the star key, other times not. I wanted to take the neck of the scrawny automated accountant and ring it. But it was the phoneI I had to ring instead having hung up in frustration.

She spoke to me thus:

Invoice number?

No problem.

Bank card number?

No problem.

Expirary date?

No problem.

All going well so far.

Issue number?

'2'. I said.

'Issue number 2 zero'. she replied.

'No. 2.' I repeated.

'2 zero. Say yes or no.' she said smugly.

'NO' I raised my voice.

'2 zero?' she enquired.

'NO.NO.NO.' I screeched.

I hung up. If only I had had a phone I could slam down. I took another remedy.

After walking round the flat. Taking some deep breaths and changing the nural pathways in my brain so I didn't have an aneurism I dialled the number again.

I spoke slowly, quietly, clipped and tersely. She finally got the message. now I have electricity for the next 12 weeks.

SHOUT NUMBER THREE

Shout number three started in the car, on my handsfree, continued on my mobile up the stairs, transferred to my land line, at which point I had to abandon the call beore I had an angina attack.

I pay my Congestion Charge monthly. I paid my congestion for the whole of September.

I had a courtesy car for one week mid-month, I called them to tell them so.

The recorded message, on Septemeber 13th, did not tell the full story. But you can't argue with a recording.

The moronic humanoids did not charge me £2 quid for a change of vehicle they just added the courtesy car to my account. The new car was not covered by my monthly charge as my monthly charge only covers MY primary vehicle. Are you following this because I'M GETTING ANGRY AGAIN.

The result of this cock-up is a penalty charge of £300, sent to my lovely garage in Tunbridge Wells.

Its simple. I asked the CC people to do something, they didn't do it, so I have to find three hundred pounds to pay for the privilege of their mistake.

I tried to tell three different people on the end of the line the same story. 'DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?' I bellowed down the phone.

By the time the clock hit 6.00 I was purple with apoplexy. All my good intentions to be calm and clear flew out of my dirty windows - but that's another story.

I tried, really I did officer, to sort the whole thing out this evening, but the clock was ticking, the offices were closing and I had a date with a playwrite who was taking me to the movies.

I called my garage and have left it in the hands of Lee in Services. But tomorrow I may well have to sort it out again.

It's now half past midnight and I cant go to bed just yet I'm all over the place now having re-lived my recent past.

Deep breath..........

If all goes to plan my parcel will be delivered to the Kat or me.

The electricity is finally paid for.

And I cant do anything about the congestion fine until tomorrow. I shall not let it lie, but neither shall I get angry. I will be assertive, focussed and deadly.

So having shouted for England I went out to see a film at the preview theatre in the Charlotte Street Hotel. ELERGY stars Penelope Cruz and Ben- don't-call-me-Sir-Kingsley. He is self-important, mannered and about as sexy as Gary Rhodes on the dance floor. Penny is beautiful. It is a love story about age, cancer and repressed feelings. I could no more snog Ben Kingsley than I could Darren from the Congestion Charge office.

But hey-ho you win some and Cruz some.

My companion drove us to Battersea Square for liver, green beans and fresh cold tap water. I guessed the bill and made mine host tip the waitor in pound coinage and paper money.

Now it's past my bedtime. All that shouting, and Ben Kingsley, has made me jittery and over tired. I have no honeycombe to suck on but tonight I think I will sleep the sleep of the just.

When I am PM I will make electricity free, ban automated answering machines and the idiots who man the lines for the Congestion Charge. I will also punish macho delivery men who think that the only place for a woman is sitting by the letter box waiting for them to shove their packets into. Oh! Yuk! It's made me think of Ben Kingsley again.

Roll on the Revolution.

Until then it's goodnight from me - speaking in my real voice with not an automated sound in sight if you see what I mean.

Bedtime Stories

2008-10-14T19:15:49Z

I went to my acupuncturst. Chatted for a bit and then I lay down on her couch.

The room is tiny. One little white sink on the wall, a mirror hanging over it. A trolley with needles and assorted acupunctual accessories stands in front of an antique medical chest of drawers. in front of which is the aforementioned bed.

The distance between the trolley and the bed is big enough for the patient and acupuncturist to hug.

A chair sits in front of a small desk which sits in front of the window. Books, a malleable skeleton with all the meridian lines drawn on it, various pen pots, card holders and files are neatly laid out on the desk top. A vase, which today held three 'penis on plates', you know those lovely rude flowers, stands on the windowsill.

The patient takes the seat. A big, wooden and metal in-laid,antique Chinese chair. It is rounded at the back, has two arms, inner arms, foot holder and a red cushion on the seat. It's extremely comfortable. The consultation takes place from the chair to the desk, afterwhich I have to pull out the step from under the bed so I can climb on top of it.

I am only small.

Today I had needles in my head, my belly my toes all to help me sleep.

My lack of zzzzzzzzzz's, otherwise known as insomnia, was the first topic we discussed.

Lavender in the pillow, sucking on honeycombe as a sedative, exercise and childrens story tapes were all advised for a good nights kip.

I can't sleep when the 'oosbind is in the flat. We eat too late, the bed is not big enough and everything is all just a little too warm.

I was up at 3.30 a.m making porridge. Good old organic oats with my fave soya milk, in a yellow box. I'll get the name later.

So any kind of advice to keep my head on the pillow was welcome.

Then we talked about the best pub in London, which is The Jerusalem Tavern.

I bigged up the WOODMAN off Battersea Square. Huge soft settees, great sausage and mash, drop down telly for football and very nice human beings who frequent it.

School Governors, pushy mums. You were very quiet about them two but then I interviewed a young woman who suffers from bi-polar disorder.

SOPHIE PELHAM has written a one woman show CALL ME IF YOU FEEL TOO HAPPY which she is playing at the OLD RED LION in London. She was a fascinating young woman who has used drama to entertain, educate and elucidate. There but for the grace of God go you or I.

By the time we had finished the show I was cream- crackered.

But managed to get to the acupuncturist in time, please refer to the top of the blog for info on her room....

I hope you will try and come to THE RADLETT CENTRE, on NOVEMBER 29th, for an AUDIENCE WITH MOI!. It is a Saturday, not Friday as I have been telling everybody....

The details of the location and ticket getting is on their website.

I trust you are all manageing to keep afloat after the last few weeks.

My boss asked me today whether I had any savings.

'No' I said with the upward inflection of a spoilt teenager.

'But you must have some?' he said amazed.

'Nothing' I laughed; 'I owe money in this account, that account and even more when the Vatman calls.'

'At your age you should be loaded....' there was a tiny note of pity.

'Look.' I said, 'When you get to my age and wake up in the morning that is bonus enough.'

So assuming I do wake up tomorrow, I look forward to talking to you.

You lot sleep well - I bloodiwell hope I do.

cuallsoon.

Monday blues.

2008-10-13T22:46:39Z

croaky voice, credit crunch

felt quite queasy all through lunch.

Lots of calls helped me out

I whispered, spoke and tried a shout.

Drunk my tea, listened more

At 4.15 was out the door.

Shopped for meat

Cooked it down

Made Bee laugh

Made Jim frown.

Now its really time for bed

Nice clean pillows for me head

Time to sleep, to dream and snore

then I'll be there from one till four.

do join me.

Random Acts of Kindness Again

2008-10-10T16:07:28Z

I do not like doing the credit crunch, the economy, the wall street crash, or the city shuffle.

I so believe in you reap what you sow that all those predatory speculators deserve evything they get. The problem is innocent people have to suffer their greedy ways.

LBC tell me what to do within reason. I am told I have to be topical, react to the stories that come flying off breaking news, but just sometimes I balk.

I did have a little shout but not enought to wound any body.

I sat down with my cup of 'Clarity' tea....I dont know if you know the PUKKA brand, but their teas really are magnificent. 'Cleanse' has nettle leaf, peppermint leaf, fennel seed, dandelion root, licorice root and aloe vera, how they came up with that combination I don't know but it don't 'alf do the trick for me.

Anyway I settled myself in my seat having done an interview for a magazine, written me bits and eaten a healthy lunch of salad with coleslaw. I am addicted to the LBC coleslaw.

So settled I am and off we go. Talking to an expert in Mental Health - the repercussion of the recession is likely to be depression from repossession, the rhyme is unintentional.

Then an expert about the Icelandic debacle..

Then an expert about the ramifications of George Bush's speech.

I know it is important but it sounds like gobbledegook and I'm tired of listening to language that doesn't really mean anything to me.

In between the minefield of money matters I came across the story on page three of The Evening Standard

32 year old stand-up comedian Tom Wriggleswade, who works a lot at the Comedy Store, took a paper bag from the buffet on a Virgin train and collected 50p's, £1 coins and a wadge of £30, all generously given, until he had £115, which he then gave to the dear 75 year old woman who had got on the wrong train and was being forced to pay up £115 quid for the privilege of travelling from Bolton to London. The Virgin Manager wanted her savings that she had put by for her grandchildren.

The idiot jobsworth bullied her into the transaction. Our young hero collected the money and handed it to her. Understandably she burst into tears. The manager had a go at the boy. Our hero got off at Euston where he was about to be reprimanded for BEGGING!!! Other passengers flocked round him and corroborated his story. When the real police intervened they listened, and without further ado, walked away. Hurrah!

I and thousands of my listeners thought Mr. Wriggleswade a hero, Betty and Joan didn't but they are twisted and bitter.

Ireland, Brazil, North, South, East and West London called in with the most wonderful stories of random acts of kindness. And so be it. We are living in changing times and it's time we changed with it.

Virgin trains are going to have an internal investigation to find out why the manager was such a schmuck.

Well done Virgin, well done Wriggleswade and well done you for making it such a life affirming prgramme.

I'm off now to Arcola Street in Dalston to eat at 'Mangola' the best Turkish in town. After which the old git and myself will cross the road to the Arcola Theatre to watch our mate give us his turn

I haven't seen the 'oosbind for a week so I'll have to give him a kiss and a cuddle. Well you have to don't you otherwise he may just run off with another old age pensioner.

Begging or Random Act of kindness what do you think? Let me know and

cuallsoon.