I have had a really bad stomach upset over the last two days. Nobody told me that the remedy contained morphine…The result is I am dry of mouth, bleary of eye and concrete of stomach.
The last few days have been a whirlwind of wierdness.
One minute I have a regular rhythm to my life the next I am standing at the gates of Bedlam.
Seka Nicolic was laying her hands on me to get my left leg back to working order after my crazy fall in Battersea Church Street, I had intended to go to her book launch, but the gremlins got into my system and I felt like somebody had crumbled Garibaldi biscuits in my eye-lashes.
Talk about Annus Horribilis; from chipped bones to broken backs, from rattled relatives to bruised hips. From a regular timetable to the announcement that LBC no longer wish me to work for them.
I shall miss my lovely team; all young, intelligent and fiercely loyal. I shall miss the kitchen with their wretched microwaved green beans that I ate in portions of three. I shall miss the banter from the CHOICE FM boys to THE HELP A LONDON CHILD girls. I shall miss my daily walk into Leicester Square and of course I shall miss my thousands of listeners. In 2007 I came in as a radio virgin and left quite the opposite. Although to be fair I dont know what the opposite of a virgin is – since the Popes in town I may just send him an email and ask for some clarity.
After two days in bed and messages from uncredibly supportive work colleagues and friends from as far away as Beverly Hills and as close as Cork. I now face an unstructured future.
In the scheme of things it’s about as important as a gnat on the bum of a rhino, but my little world has been knocked, and I am reeling. I will of course, pick myself up, dust myself off and dance all over again, given the state of my morphine raddled brain, in may take slightly longer than normal.
Today we went to Brighton to take my daughter to a delectable German. Not an ounce of fat on him, white t-shirt, immaculate minimal decor and Ayurvedic wisdom. I’m seeing him on Tuesday so I can get to understand wind, water and why chicken soup really is the food of the Gods.
My feet are cold, the girl’s singing in the attic, the ‘oosbind is stir-frying in the kitchen, the Popes wearing a sparkling gown so all really should be right with the World.
I’m off to nick a pair of woolly socks from the old gits drawer, drink a mug of homeade chicken broth and settle down for Friday night telly.
Thank you all for your lovely messages of support, talk soon.