Beware the Ides of March

Caesar was stabbed in the back in 44BC, but I had a stab at my Caesar salad earlier today at the hairdressers. The woman who runs it has won every colouring award in the business and the clients are rich, very rich, or, like me (with bills paid for by their employer). I told everybody I was sixty next birthday, which is a lie because I like to hear the gasps of astonishment (how sad am I?) then I walked back from Mayfair, through Hyde Park, down Sloane Street, up the Kings Road and into a mini drama. Two little lads ran past me, jostled my shoulder and I knew they had done a bad things. You can tell. So I dialled 999 and watched as two very elegant men gave chase.

The men must have had personal trainers on because the last time I gave chase when a hoodie nicked a handbag off my table in Battersea Square I employed the high knee technique to give me speed, which was what the geezers were doing, and to keep the arms next to the body and work the legs. I couldn’t walk for three weeks because my quads stiffened up. My trainer was very impressed but utterly unsympathetic. She still gave me interval training. Anyway, back to the robbery. I got through to the cops but the men had nabbed the kids. The WPC wanted details but I said everything was alright and that I was sorry for wasting her time. She insisted that maybe I should report the incident and then I felt like an idiot for getting involved. But all’s well that ends well.

As I said, I knew the kids were naughty when they bashed past me. I felt like I was in ‘Babel’ or the ‘Kite Runner from Kabul’. The kids had that look about them.
My feet were throbbing by this time: a) because my new trainers rub, and b) my big toe on my left foot has got creaky cartilage. So, to tell you the truth I was pleased for the pause.

I walked onwards down the Kings Road, left down Beaufort street over Battersea bridge, along the river (which looked slaty grey and smooth) and right down to my flat. I then unlocked the door just in time to pick up a ringing telephone from my mad husband who nearly missed the matinee because he hadn’t heard the call yesterday. He arrived just as they were finishing the scene before his first entrance. Cool as ever, he got his laughs. I bet he won’t do that again. Still, all’s well that ends well.

Talking of which, Levi Roots loves Shakespeare. He was on the show today.
We re-enacted the death of Caesar with me stabbing him with a whisk. It didn’t hurt him or his £2,000 Ozwald Boateng suit. He was on the show because he had just made a killing on Dragons’ Den and won £50.000 for his ‘Reggae Reggae’ sauce which he made from a secret recipe his grandmother Miriam had taught him back in Jamaica. He has seven children by six different women. He loves them all and I have to say had I been thirty years younger, he would have another child on the way. He cooked his vegetables and salmon in the secret sauce, which is now being produced in his factory in Wales. We ate it and loved it and he promised he would have me in his Rastaurant during the Carnival in August.

A very sprightly show.

I am now the worse for wear. I’ve had too much champagne. It’s almost midnight. I want to go to bed, but I have a script to read and need to do the washing up. I had a dear girl over who needs to live in the snow but didn’t realise it – except she did really… Funny, isn’t it? We all know what we really should be doing but we’re all afraid of listening to ourselves and doing it in case we might just get it right and no longer have anything to whinge about.

Enough of the whingeing. Off to bed I go. CU 2morrer.

1 thought on “Beware the Ides of March”

  1. It’s a fine state of affairs when I have to read your blogsite to find out what you’ve been up to – dobbin’ on a couple of little kids who were just trying to make it through this crazy mixed up world. Must go now – Tottenham look like they might beat Chelsea.

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