Sunday the 12th of Never

It’s 12.14pm on Sunday the 12th of Never. Jim is on his hands and knees screwing screws out of one drawer so that he can put another drawer where the old one came from so that the first drawer goes in where the second drawer used to be because its easier to open the second drawer where the first drawer was and who cares about the second drawer anyway?
The cling film and tin foil have gone into the top cupboard which is full of Tupperware, plastic takeaway boxes and the bottom drawer with the first drawer in it now has only the silver service my mother gave to B to take away to university and a canteen of ersatz gold knives and forks my father no doubt ripped off from Walthamstow market when he was alive and still kicking.
Don’t you just love DIY on a Sunday morning? Especially since you have only had 180 minutes sleep, walked the dog, bought breakfast, done a radio show, put in the washing and made enough phone calls to keep BT in broadband till 2012?
My husband did a midnight matinee of Merchant of Venice last night. It was lovely, although it could have been seven o’clock, or nine, since there was no way of seeing the sky. The crowd were up for it though. I stood in the ‘yard’ preferring to be a ‘groundling’.

I loved it the second time around. My husband looked friggin’ awful as Old Gobbo with his fake beard and sightless eyes. But it was good fun being amongst the common folk. I stood clutching my red bum cushion but decided that I needed to park my old body at 2.30am, having had a two hour stint at LBC. In the interval, to keep myself going, I had a carton of chocolate-covered raisins, a carton of jelly beans and a carton of lukewarm coffee. It all laid heavily in my stomach as before curtain up (a figurative term as there are no curtains at the Globe) I had been treated to a pint of ice-cold lager accompanied by a bowl of crispy crisps and a bowl of tangy olives. So to the two of you who want to see the new me, forget it. The new me is a carbon copy of the old me with a couple of potato chips on my shoulder.
LBC was much better this week. We talked vegetarianism. A beautiful chef, who goes by the name of Adrian Daniel, came in with a basket of goodies. He owns and cooks at ‘The Gate’ in Hammersmith, West London. He’s gentle (that’s gentle not Gentile), unmarried and perfect for somebody who wants an Indian/Iraqi/Jewish boy with delicious skin tone, a stack of his grandmother’s authentic recipes, a conscience and a femaleness that is as close to having the best gay friend in the world that you can get. If I weren’t 78 years of age, I would nab him myself. The food he brought to the studio was utterly dribble-worthy and his two books are definitely worth buying.
A hypnotherapist and teacher, Lorraine Flaherty, drove up from Streatham. Tall, elegant, energetic, she’s the best advertisement for vegetarianism apart from Brad Pitt and Leonardo DeCaprio.
Renee Elliott from ‘Planet Organic’ called in from Tuscany and Dave Massey talked up carnivores from Battersea. Well, he talked up carnivores from everywhere but he phoned in from Battersea.
I enjoyed the show and learnt a huge lesson – not to over prepare. Mr Lowrie, the station manager, had advised me not to, but, as always, I had to learn the hard way. I lost bits of paper, lost my nerve, damn near lost my mind. But all was well in the end when I abandoned my carefully printed up notes and just concentrated on enjoying my lovely guess and callers.
I have to say that when Radio London called me up and asked me to read the newspapers this morning, I was thrilled. I thought it was on the back of Clarence, my nearasdammit son, who had put in a call to his old mate Eddie Nestor, a radio talk show host who has won every gong going. As coincidence would have it, the invite came completely by chance. I learnt more from observing him on his slot this morning than fourteen years of reading books or attending guru seminars. He’s calm, funny, generous, warm and very provocative. His studio is big and bright with squashy furniture. He calls his producer the Sergeant and played Nat King Cole. It was a fun way to start my Sunday.
To those of you who want to know who got their cum uppance… It’s for me to know and for you to find out. Hard lines!
My driver this morning was from Mauritius. He used to watch GFL and wanted to know why I had left the show. As you know, I didn’t leave it. GFL left me. But let that be an end to it.
This week I am working on a new TV series called ‘Food Poker’ for the Beeb. It has all our old friends working on it, which will be lovely.
Thank you for your concern about the dog. Yesterday Jim and I had breakfast at Mr Massey’s gaff, ‘Butcher and Grill’. We were treated like celebrities with bucks fizz, bacon and sausage butties, creamy cappuccinos and all the sunshine in South West London. The dog was given a bone. It was still dressed with meaty sirloin steak. He chewed it ecstatically until Jim and I hobbled home about 48 bucks fizz’s later. Jackson continued to nibble until I went to LBC at 4. Jim left for the globe at 6.00. I got back to the flat at 9.00, dragged Jackson outside for a wee walk and was then driven to the Globe at 10.30.
The show came down at 3am. We arrived back to the flat five minutes after Jim had got there. As I climbed out of the car, Jim was coming down the stairs with Jackson wagging his tail behind him. Jim was dangling a red striped plastic bag with a deposit that Jackson had carefully laid on the carpet. In between 10.30 and 3, he had lost control off himself. No worries. The bone had firmed up his resolve. This morning at 7, after 3 hours kip, I took him out and he performed for me again. So when I went off to Marylebone with my Mauritian driver, who told me about two restaurants in London that serve Mauritian cuisine (a cross between Chinese and French), I knew that my dog would not let me down. He even had Jim to help out but maybe he thought let sleeping dogs lie, so that would be both of them then.
In the event the old man crawled out of bed at 9.00 and took him out, leaving me free when I got home. I arrived at 10.30 this morning laden with organic bacon, sausages, fish cakes, bread, hallumi cheese, lettuce, eggs and chocolate brownies. Jim had already eaten his breakfast on the balcony. His only companions were the dog and the crossword from The Independent. The sun had hidden behind the clouds. I immediately made a baguette of butter and Guinness infused with Marmite. You either love it or hate it. I’m the former.
I also made a cup of tea. The water in London is dreadful but I don’t plan to pollute any more. I’m cutting back on all plastic bottles.
Although, I am funny about my drinking vessels. They have to be white or nothing. White’s alright, brown’s decay and black aint ‘that’. You see, I need to see my brew. Especially after a particularly salty fish cake.
Anyway, it’s now 14.13 and the drawers are in place. The washing is spinning, the dog is sleeping, the husband is drilling. I am collapsing, the sofa’s awaiting and hope is forever springing. Ta ever so much for it all.
Cusoon.