Dear Nit pickers, yes of course I meant to write September not December on my last blog, but the way the time is going it might just as well be Christmas.
The weekend has been absolutely manic, none of my doing I may add; it’s all the old mans fault. On Friday night he embarked on a spot of composition for a production of The Tempest, directed by his friend, which commanded the time honoured fee of committment and an invite to Yeats’s Wine Lodge. He arrived at the keyboard at 11.30 p.m and made musical statements until the following morning. When I woke up he was standing in the same place, his roll-up stuck to his lip, pressing buttons and creating sounds of the sea..
On Saturday afternoon he went and did his bit at the Globe then drove directly down to the cottage to complete his opus in the studio.
I did my LBC stint with allotment gurus, organic box purveyers, sausage makers and bee keepers. Good fun it was and I left Latimer Road looking forward to a restorative time by the river. Whilst in a traffic jam at Earls Court my mobile telephone rung. Twas the music man from miles away saying that due to his lack of sleep he had left the most important silver case by the window in the sitting room, could I find it in my heart to bring it to him in the cottage.
I heaved a sigh, clenched my teeth, girded my loins and cocked a snoot.
I arrived home by 10.45.
Bearing in mind that I had been up from sparrows fart, done a show and was still feeling the effects from a 5.30 jog on Friday, it was not surprising that I was a just a little schizoid.
I watched Johnathon Ross, who I am having increasing difficulty with. His ego is outstripping his wit, I finally went to bed around 2.00a.m. I awoke on Sunday morning next to an empty space. The composer was still mid chord. He had now totalled two nights and one day without sleep. I would remind you that sleep deprivation is used as a torture.
I read the Sunday papers, bought a box of Lady Bird books for Mia, my grandaughter, talked to Johnathon, mowed the lawn, made a cheese and onion sandwhich, watched Coronation Street, loaded my little car, cajoled the maestro to complete his manuscript so I could drive him back to London but he was superglued to the studio carpet. I left him at 9.00 and arrived back in town by 10.30.
I read everything I could find on Gail Porter in preparation for todays show,and kept awake until the ‘orrible little man arrived home, dazed and confused. I had phoned him every 10 minutes just to make sure that he was still awake behind the wheel. When he arrived back in London it was 2.30.
I went to bed, he came later YES LATER and conked out in a manner of seconds, on his back, the sound of his deep breathing rivalling that of a chorus of hyenas who have had a really good night out on the Serengeti Plain.
Inevitably I got up, put on my dressing gown and slid onto the sofa. By now it was 4 o’clock, the morning light was just breaking through. I fell asleep for 3 hours when the clatter of dishes in the kitchen woke me. Bee and her mate Hayes were making breakfast VERY LOUDLY INDEED!
They left and I went back to bed.
The disk of the composers music was being collected at first light, but the man didn’t come, because the man who should have come couldn’t get through to the composer who was comatose and had let his mobile run out of battery. So I had to make furtive fonecalls, or phurtive phonecalls – to three separate parties so that a courier could finally collect the composer,s cd. You may say it’s none of my business, but you don’t keep a man of mystery by standing idly by – remember behind every great man there is a very, very hard working woman who is making the phone calls, burning the sausages and wishing she had gone down the lesbian route.
After a bubbly bath it was off to LBC to interview the terrific Gail Porter. A feisty young thing who has really tackled her demons. Looked them squarely in the face and beaten them into submission. From depression to anorexia, from alopetia to self-harming. This 36 year old young woman penned her own memoir, with the help of editors, and having recovered from a suicide bid, now devotes her life to her 5 year old daughter, Honey, several charities, and a rekindled relationship with her ex.
She was a delight to talk to although Mr.Lowrie said I was a bit unfocussed in places, but to tell you the truth, after this weekend I’m surprised I knew where my mouth was.
It is now 22.21 The weary husband is biking back from the theatre. The boy wonder is learning lines in the sitting room. The daughter has gone off with Hayes to Camberwell to her new house, and I am keeping my eyes open with a combination of determination and Araldite.
Tomorrow I am interviewing a life coach and we are talking about self-esteem. Then its back into Soho for another two voice overs. I am thinking of having headphones grafted to my head to save me from taking them on and off.
Look I am not complaining I’m just tired, I want to get some real sleep in so that I can start running again, because the last three days have turned my legs into al dente vermicelli. But the weather is lovely, and when I can stop being cheesed off with him, so is my husband.
Iam going to make him two sausages with buttery cabbage, only I haven’t got any butter and the sausages have disappeared….probably to Camberwell…so he’ll have to make do with a bowl of cereal and a cuddle. What more do you need after a day at the coal face?
There’s loads more to say, no time to say it, I can feel the soft pillow singing to me, the fluffy duvet beckoning and the bouncy mattress drawing me. I don’t care what time the old feller gets in I am falling asleep first so that he has to listen to my nightly noises, poor chap.