Acting is all about honesty, if you can fake that you can fake anything.
Worra palava. When somebody dies that’s the end of it. Except it isn’t. The will, death certificates, unpaid monies from our ISA , which I think is about tuppence halfpenny. It doesn’t phase me, it just makes me fidgety and irritable. Endless bits pf paper through the post asking for signatures and fuck knows what … Read more
The old git wanted an Eastern European song, at his funeral, sung by his three dawters. Close harmony with discordant intervals. I drove my kid down to Brighton and dropped her off. It was hot and sunny. Very hot and very sunny. Brighton was scorching. I drove left at the Pier, towards the Marina. Squillions … Read more
It’s been a month since the old git flew the nest. A little robin visited perching on the back of the garden bench and hopping around on the garden table. Sid decided to satisfy his cravings and kill it. We couldn’t be angry with the cat, he’s missing the ‘oosbind too. So now we await … Read more
32 days since the old git passed. People ask me how I am. ‘Fine.’ I say mechanically ‘Really I am. Fine.’ I put the telly on to watch Wimbledon. Endless commentators talking about Serena Williams, and her age and her career and her comeback. John McEnroe said something and I caved. I broke, after 32 … Read more
The inevitable happened. After years of treatment, years of discomfort. The old git finally gave in. He was 6stone 10lbs and weak. He didnt shave so he had a white wispy beard. He took to his bed and slept. From morning till night. He didn’t move. Maybe a shuffle here and there. He stopped eating. … Read more
I’ve just got back from a 70th birthday party. I sat on a garden settee surrounded by young folk, elderly gentlemen and retired nurses. I sat with my hands clasped like a genteel spinster, which I sort of am now. Looking up at the luscious canopy of friendly trees. The catering was sublime. Choux buns … Read more
The dawter was 2, the old git 44 and I was 40. I found the video of the surprise party, with all our friends, who had come together in the garden. I smoked roll ups, had luscious black hair. Th oosbind was funny and strong whilst the dawter was more cute than cute. As you … Read more
For twelve years I didn’t know what an evening was. Well not in the way that most people have evenings. The ridiculous life of an actor meant that evenings were all about entertaining others, if you’re lucky enough you find a tribe to work with. At school I was guided by Mr.Rangely who grabbed my … Read more
Vesta Tilly, the famous male impersonator and heroine of Queer chanteuse, and Clara Butt a wobbly contralto, lived in St. Aubyn Mansions in Hove actually. Both music hall artists there are two blue plaques declaring their residency. If you walk a few paces towards the pier you will arrive at Marroccos, a wonderful Italian establishment … Read more
How times have changed. In Hansons, a tea shop cum sweet shop, in Boreham Wood high street, Sundays was a trip to the back room for an ice-cream soda. Delicius home made ice-cream; the Sunday papers waiting to be read, the smell of vanilla and the innocent soundtrack of 60’s conversation. Should teenagers wear winkle … Read more