I met up with Nick Thorogood, quite by chance at The Ivy. He was there with his partner, an ex-teacher and a publisher.
I perched on the arm of his hair, snaffled his olives – his partner said nothing -and chewed over old times.
Mr. T was responsible for the relaunching of my career, a huge amount of fun and creating the fabulous ‘Good Food Live’.
When my date turned up I continued to hug Nick’s seat – his partner didn’t bat an eyelid – popped in a couple of his nuts, spicy cashews, and then left to talk over supper.
The Ivy Club is grand not even faded. It has deep sofas and wing back chairs, the staff are wonderful and they even have a roof terrace which is perfect for a fag, if you smoke, which I don’t.
The food is gloriously retro. My liver and bacon was so perfectly cooked that I almost forgot to shovel in the mash. My starter of scallops went down in precisely 33 seconds, and my pudding, I’ll rephrase that – our pudding – was apple and blackberry crumble with custard, although The Ivarians preferred to call it Sauce Anglais.
The evening was so relaxed that today, instead of feeling wasted, I felt positively energised.
I am on a new regime to get my sugar level down, I haven’t walked for a few days owing to my virus, but I am thinking about it.
Todays show was one hour on working women and how we are now solely responsible for fat, ill, lazy children. Were we to stay at home there wouldn’t be an obese child in sight – yeah and piglets might fly.
The second hour was devoted to Gordon’s speech from brighton. A Labourite would have loved it, A Libertine would have liked it whilst a Conservatory would still be spitting gravel.
Gordon was introduced by his wife who told us all why she loved him, and the conference stood as one when he announced support for our boys in Afghanistan.
Get ’em out of there altogether and I would have given him the clap he deserves.
After the show I had a very green, freshly pressed apple juice and met up with a producer who is going to try and make a mad idea of mine happen.
I ate some sushi on the back seat of the bus, carried half a dismantled table from the No.19 for a small French girl who was struggling with her legs, got back to the flat and switched from dungaree wearing broadcaster to pyjama wearing blogger.
This evening I am finally starting work on the book for real – I sound like a Brixtonian – and if there’s time watch some tv.
Last night I drove home playing B’s music on my car stereo. I passed my favourite shop in Battersea Square as my favourite Battersea Square shop owner came out of it.
‘That’s nice music.’ she shouted.
She crammed her beautiful dreadlocked frame into my car and listened to B’s CD, she has known my daughter for years.
‘Im shock’ she kept saying. ‘I’m shock…’
Which loosley translated means she was shocked that the kind of voice that comes out of my daughter doesn’t fit the image of the girl. Next week she has invited me and the offspring to a recording studio in Brixton to meet a producer who she thinks may like B’s music.
So playing your music loudly round Battersea of a Monday night really can be of some use after all.
I’m now hot and ready to work, so night night to you all and cu2morrer.