Public Announcement

Oh Dear, Mrs. Jones, having to nit-pick after hours.
Like most creeative poeple I ma extreemely bad at speeeling and grandma.
The frost on the lawn, this morning, was a most welcome sight – normal November weather. Hurrah!.
The old man got up to go to the theatre whilst I lingered a little longer in bed.
When I finally got down stairs the dog was so happy to see me he nuzzled his head between my knees; I had to tickle him behind his ears until Terry Wogan had finished.
We went out for a sprightly walk, then I went out again for a run.
On the way I phrightened a phlock of pheasants who phlew up in the air. I wanted to count them but they were too quick phor me.’Phlip me’ I said phonetically.
On the way back past Mrs.S’s cottage I heard Selina, the nurse, say, ‘Don’t forget, we’re going to the pub for lunch.’

And then I realised, quite, why people in the countryside need their public houses.
If you are alone all day, in your tractor, cutting your hedges, a pint and a chat is welcome.
If you are alone all day ploughing your field, a packet of crisps with a neighbour is just what the doctor ordered.
If you are alone all day in your cottage, writing, then a quick trip down the pub is precisely what the homeopath suggested.
So Jackson and I put on our collars and off we went.
He trampled through the 6 inch pile of fallen leaves whilst I walked down the middle of the road.
Don’t panic, the road has been closed for years. We only have tractor traffic, locals, the pub runners and the occasional Morris dancer.
The pub was very welcoming.
The log fire was smoking.
Mrs. Mac was behind the bar.
The dining room was full.
Two elderly men were having a pint and a chat on the table next to me.
Mrs. S, her husband, Selina and Molly the dog were sitting by the door.
A couple were talking very loudly about their family. The man had a crumpled, red, shiny face and a look of a disgruntled old sea-farer; the woman had her back to me – as backs go it was quite presentable.
Jackson lowered himself to the floor and I lowered myself onto a little old wooden chair at a little old wooden table, ordered a tuna sandwhich and a coffee then set about writing a speech for Saturday.
I’m opening up my Nearasdamnitson’s coffee shop in Streatham, but more of that later.
After I had caught up with all the news, pocketed the menus for Christmas and New Year, talked about Mr. Mac’s bagpipes on Burns Night, reminised about our memorable wedding reception some twenty years previous, and given the dog the last of my tuna sarnie, we sauntered home.
I worked on my speech and ruminated over last nights gig at the Assembly Rooms, Tunbridge Wells. Jim and I went to see Phil Jupitus and The Blockheads The support band was Rosie Oddie and the Oddsquad. Rosie is Bill’s third daughter.
We’ve known Bill and his girls for as long as they’ve been alive, virtually.
Rosie is young, talented and a bit moody; The Blockheads – old, talented and a bit mental.
‘Punk, funk, jazz, rock, music hall, all rolled into one.’ to quote my musician husband.
Jupitus was the stand-in for the now decease Ian Dury. He was extremely comely and funny.
He said it was the most ‘surreal Jim’ll Fix it’ moment ever, since he was working wiv ‘is heroes ‘wot ‘e ‘ad grown up wiv – Trevor.
I completely understood. As an ex-musician those 8 geezers, up on stage, made me want to dust off my vocal chords, get out my Fender and jump back on stage – okay, not jump exactly, crawl – alright, slide; alright already, get Jim to help me up!
The audience was made up of old fans like us, blokes, new fans and young people who didn’t get it at all.
Norman Watt-Roy, the bass player, puts hairs on your chest just listening to him whilst Chaz Jankel, the guitarist/pianist was the sexiest grandpa I’d seen since Jim.
It wasn’t so much nostalgic as a pleasure to be sat in the middle of such great music.
I felt positively re-invigorated.
Jim and I came home and ate newly fried hot sausages (I still had three packets left over from the weekend) with roasted vegetables which along with the weather, the music, the bangers and him turned last night into an exceptionally good one.
This evening I will write a speech welcoming people into the newly opened FRESH BEAN CAFE in Streatham High Road.
If you live anywhere near it’s worth a frothy coffee.
We’re all going to be there on Saturday; friends, family, and the local bobbies. It’s across the road from the cop-shop so we’ll all be on our best behaviour!
Thank you for your terrific stories about ‘Food that has changed your life’, there’s still a couple of days to go so the rest of you get writing. The ruder the better Mrs. Jones.
As for now, I’m off to watch that nauseating American woman put her hand in a hole in the jungle.
I hope she gets bitten – it’ll repay her for snapping at everybody else.
Have a good rest of evening and
cul8tr.