Shrek in Chelsea

To Jill, I know it’s hard to find work when you’re sixteen. My twillage employs all the young folk in three supermakets and, of course, I don’t approve. But I am not so naive as to think that all the yoof of today will go out and get jobs husbanding trees or picking organic strawberries in the local biodynamic farm. Surviving in today’s climate is tricky at the best of times, but really tough when you are skint and in need of a pint of cider and the fare money for the only existing bus service to take you to the cinema which is now re-located out of town and costs the price of an awayday ticket.

My daughter refused to work in Waitrose, not from any political position but because she hated the fabric of the uniform and thought the dress and blouse, like the job, wouldn’t have suited her. I thought we would never see the back of her, but she trawled the back streets of T’Wells and landed a job behind a bar and kitchen of the local arts club.

I know they are few and far between but sometimes the young folk do surprising things when left alone. Mind you, I’m still waiting for her to pay me back-rent for nine months free board and lodging in my luxury womb with a view.

BB and I have just come back from watching Shreck the Third in Cineworld on the Kings Road. We shopped for some salad first and drove past a house that was so swanky, BB asked me to drive past it again. It was like something out of a Richard Curtis film. All big front doors and white carpets. The family were assembled on the front door mat, the small boys had long shorts and long blonde hair cut into the ubiquitous boarding-school bob so favoured by the independent sector. The men had jackets, shirts and ties straight out of Boden Magazine. One even had a light blue sweater casually thrown over his crisp linen shirt. My daughter crowed with astonishment that tribes like that really do exist.

You cannot tell a book by its cover (although I admit you can get a pretty good idea from the colour scheme and choice of font). I’ve just finished reading Nora Roberts, a romantic novel of such mind numbing predictability that it was one of my most enjoyable reads to date. Her book cover was all pastel shades and big writing. So I could tell that book by its frontispiece. Anyway, my point is that the Kings Road is so affluent that both my daughter and I felt like the poor commoners from the cottages.

We sat near the back row, the light dimmed and six blonde sloanettes came in and nibbled their way through their popcorn. My family wouldn’t know a nibble if it came at them out of Nobby’s Nuts. My lot crunch and splutter and make more noise than an old nag chewing it’s way through a bag of carrots. Even my laugh sounded decidedly sluttish tonight. Ouch, is that a pomme frite on my shoulder? The film was okay. Not brilliant, but a pleasant enough diversion.

Jim is motorbiking back from the Globe. Bethy is grabbing some sleep. She has been up all week working till the wee small hours, and I am exhausted from driving the length and breadth of the M25 to celebrate a family birthday.

Tomorrow I shall prepare for the lunchtime slot -1 till 2- on LBC, but now I am going to slip into something a little more comfortable, like my bed, and ponder global warming which seems to have deserted us. I don’t know about you but South London feels like an autumn night in Alaska.

Pleasant dreams and hopefully cu2morrer.

3 thoughts on “Shrek in Chelsea”

  1. Hi Jeni – just back from our week in Eastbourne. Lovely weather when the rest of the country seemed to be raining! Anyway, your lunch in Uckfield brought back memories of our journey…I love the countryside and little villages along the A22. Unfortunately, missed your 2 radio broadcasts but will be avidly listening between 1 and 2 from tomorrow.

  2. Pah to Shrek (although I hear Ian McShane’s voice is in it, mmm).If you want to see a film that will make you really miserable go to see “La Vie En Rose”, when the credits rolled the whole audience just sat there stunned, probably collectively wondering how to slit their wrists. Crikey, poor Edith Piaf, but it’s magnificent in its misery and the actress who plays her should get an Oscar, except you know she won’t cos it’s a French film. Go and see it Jeni et al, it’s very sad but good n sad. If you knowwhatimean like.
    (Good luck JB for the morra. You’ll be fab as ever).

  3. Hi again
    I responded to another entry prior to this one asking about your radio time, but do see you’re on between 1-2 which is a doable time for me downunder…
    I do hope my Mr 12 starts some amazing things he owes me just on $1500 for the phone bill,I swear I must have looked like I’d had botox treatment when I opened the envelope…I will take your advice, leave him alone and wonder if he’ll ever offer me the dosh back…too bad I cant send him down the mines (jest kiddin’)…We too saw Shrek3 Mr 6 enjoyed it bought him a special shrek drink container which was of course broken before the lights came on…always sit in the back row easier to get the kidlets to the loo…
    I havent read a book in a long time, but will make a note of the title and when my life returns to some kind of normality I may have the time to read again.
    Will try tuning in to you tomorrow…

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