As I walked through the ticket barrier at Victoria tube station I was stopped by a security bloke.
‘Show me your picture pass.’ he said.
I had no idea what he was talking about.
‘Show me your ticket, id, your pass with your picture on.
So I gave him my freedom pass and the card with my picture which makes me look like a mad Easter European opera Singer.
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘ I didn’t expect to see that.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Because you don’t look old enough.’
That was a jolly good way to complete my day.
I am cream crackered.
On Friday night I was the oldest dame at a dinner party in Westminster Abbey. I was shabby chic alongside a telly designer, a Thai Princess, a choreographer, an artist and nine gay men. The food was exquisite, the conversation oiled by rum and red wine, whilst the evening was charged by the bells of Westminster, the night was too short.
I got home at 1.45a.m. I had to shout, sing and scream my way awake as I drove down the M25, The A21 and the A26. The old git had made his own supper but we stayed up until nearly three talking about life, art and the fact that only I could end up with nine spiritual homosexuals drinking green cocktails on the most religious night in the Buddhist Calender.
The evening begun with a Latin grace followed by a Sanskrit song. The tuna was cooked in a special way, the sticky chicken wings were laid out on a big plate surrounded by limes, the vegetables were just burnt which made them twice as tasty whilst dessert was a handful of exotic fruits from custard apples to mangosteens.
I fell down the steps into the bathroom, scraping my palm, all worth it. The walk into’ and out of, the Abbey meant stepping on stones graced by Thomas A Beckett, under the quadripartite ceilings looked on by Elizabeth the First and slipping down the paving stones that lay atop more famous bones than Dewhursts’ Abattoir.
The conversation was so erudite when the Canon asked me to keep up, I hadn’t left the starting blocks.
Saturday was car maintenance, body maintenance and sitting with B at a wedding party. The evening was spent cleaning my dresser in the kitchen. All the glasses are twinkling and I have hung away the ugly mugs.
On Sunday I cooked for eight of us. Four and half hours for a very slow cooked lamb shoulder with every vegetable known to man cooked in an assortment of ways.
Root veg in maple syrup to pureed broccoli and cauliflower in cream and coriander. Pud was, blue…rasp… and strawberries with vanilla sugar and American cheese cake. Always a winner. When conversation stops and the only sound is that of distant mewing you know you’ve pulled a flanker.
This morning I went to the hygienist and dentist. looks like I may have to have an implant so that my teeth stand a chance of staying in my head for the rest of my natural born. I will have to pay off in installments since one implant costs as much as a Ford Fiesta….
B, me and her friend watched ‘Sex in the City’. We all cried. I went to bed knowing that my days of Prada, Louis Vuitton and pink Champagne cocktails were over. That wasn’t why I was crying though, I was crying because romance always looks so much better in Hollywood HD.
The most romantic thing in my life is knowing that the VAT has been paid and we can afford to have the studio damp fungus removed. Tell Sarah Jessica Parker that.
Me and a very clever young woman have made an audio blog of the end of GFL. It’ll be coming out on a cybernetic howsyourfather near you soon.