I took the 4.15 train to Hastings, Jim met me at Tunbridge Wells station. We had intended doing the Friday night curry thing but in the event I was still husky and hoarse and the first thing that called when I entered the cottage were my pyjamas.
Cancelled all of Saturday, after buying yet more remedies for my ailing body. Jim and I bought supper from the farmers market and spent the rest of the afternoon reading and sleeping in the garden.
Saturday night is now taken up with ‘Strictly Come Prancing’ and The ‘L’ Factor, recording and channel hopping, which is why it’s become the Hell factor. Did you read the Beeb could be fined for re-scheduling Saturday night. As always the public suffer when decisions are made behind closed doors.
I get increasingly angry when I realise that decisions are made on my behalf by big- wigs and politicians who are so removed from any reality that before you can say I don’t want horrible dull light bulbs, all the apricot soft tones have been taken off the shelf and your left with neon compact fluorescents. I know they are meant to be better for the environment but I WANT THE CHOICE…..
I vacuumed the cottage this morning. I am no Melanie Griffiths but I do prefer to do my housework naked. It’s that thing of being able to whip round the place without a tassel in sight. Emptying the rubbish is a bit tricky though as the dustbin is outside and there is always a potential sighting from the neighbours. Jonfan could care less, as he’s gay and anyway he does his housework in the buff, whilst Number 3 have recently got married so their interest in me is minimal. The moles and door-mice couldn’t give a tuppeny and the cows over the fence are too interested in chewing the cud, but that little moment of naked trashing always gets me in a dither. This morning I wrapped myself in a quilt that was made for BB 22 years ago by my wonderful Canadian fiend Soryl. In the event of an emergency the quilt, though falling apart, does cover my most censord areas.
But the cottage looked all shiny and neat when I left. Jim stayed behind to empty the tumble drier – don’t ask – and followed me to London.
I re-dressed myself in the flat then took the 19 into Leicester Square. I sat in the hot seat, literally, in the front seat on the top deck. The sun shone through the big windows. London is wonderful on a Sunday. People, couples, single with maps, ice-cream, tourists, REGENT STREET was closed for a market, vacationers milling. It was lovely, I sat in for the ‘Food Show’ one hour from 4-5.
I interviewed THE BLACK FARMER. WILFRED EMMANUEL JONES. He lives in Wales, is the Conservative candidate for Chippenham, and directed me 22 years ago when I worked on a telly programme fro the Beeb. Back then he was rude, opinionated, pushy and curt, so much so I left the shoot by hitching a lift with the postman at 5.30a.m. and doing a runner.
I reminded him of this on todays programme, he had no recollection whatsoever.
I am not sure what kind of politician he will make if he cant remember that kind of incident, maybe I was just toooo insignificant for him, but given that he comes from a family of eleven from Birmingham, I would have thought remembering his roots now that he is a 40 acre landowner is paramount, after all it’s us commoners what puts them philanderers in the Palace of Westminster.
In the second part of the programme I stuffed my face with lots of delicious curry as I talked with a restrauteur about ‘The Curry Festival’ in Brick Lane.
Jim met me in China town, we had coffee in Fiori’s then went to see SURROGATE with Bruce Willis.
The film is okay. I wouldn’t take my girl friends to see it but it was fun sitting in row ‘N’ in the the big cinema in the middle of Leicester Square.
It’s now 21.12. The river is travelling East and I’m about to read.
Tomorrow is the last week of September, isn’t that when the big ship sailed on the ally ally oop?
Dr. Max is taking me to The Ivy for supper, I will stare at the other diners and bitch about them behind my napkin, now that’s what I call an evening out….