It’s already tomorrow and I haven’t been to bed yet.
I went to North London early this morning. Victoria Tube Station was jam-packed with commuters standing, long-faced, at the ticket barriers, as the screens showed hoards of morning travellers shoving themselves into carriages. Nobody was allowed onto the platforms until there was space. Full trains wizzed through. The announcer told us to be patient…
Japan here we come I thought, it wont be long before we have volunteers pushing weary workers into carriages, all clutching their free papers, all readng the same nonsense, all arriving at their work places exhausted before the day has begun, all swigging cold coffee through the little hole in the top of their paper mugs.
I turned tail and took the circle and district line instead, changed at Westminster and walked to the Jubillee line.
Westminster Station feels like a futuristic film set. Huge pipes, steep escalators and lots of female parliamentarians with briefcases and trainers.
I arrived at my appointmet fifteen minutes late.
Last night I went to the first night of The Jewish Film Festival. A wonderful film at the Vue. But I was feeling so grotty, what with the last few days, that I felt I didn’t have a reason to be there as I didn’t have a platform any more. They were wonderfully generous and said it didn’t matter about my status I was welcome anyway. A true turning point.
I was invited to dinner afterwards but decided to go back to the flat instead. My shoes hurt, I had left my purse on the bed so I borrowed twenty quid and walked barefoot to Waterloo Bridge. It’s becoming a habit with me now arriving looking glamorous, leaving looking like a rag-bag clutching borrowed money.
When I woke up I was chesty, coldy and ready to flop.
So finally, after my camomile tea, Seka Nicolic finished working on the patient before me. The young woman told me my show had changed her life. From the ‘Artists Way’ to Dr. Amir to Seka. She said she was going back to listen to me and I said she’d have a hard job as I wasn’t there any more. She cried, I cried, Seka cried, the receptionist cried and the next patient, who had no idea why we were so emotional, joined in just because she could.
Seka then worked on me, took away my pain, enthused me with her wisdom and off I went to SW11.
I stopped off in a health store for a protein ball and a bottle of Goji Berry juice. I sprinted down to the platform, talked to the old git on my mobile, whilst handing my bottle of berries to a young traveller who, without questioning, opened the tight cap for me and handed me back my drink.
The Goji’s and the protein meant I achieved more in four hours than I do in a week…
Packed the car, collected Bee from Hackney, took the roof down of the little red Nellie and off we drove to East Sussex. The warm Indian Sun delicious. We played one of the daughters new songs and a very heavy dub Reggae which had me gyrating in my bucket seat.
Took Jim to the garage to drop off the car for an MOT, then mowed the lawn. Oh the joy of newly mown grass. My tomatoes are big and red, my lettuces limp and green, my courgettes round and yellow and my broccoli a disaster. By the time I had finished the lawn my eyes were streaming and my nose running, a small price to pay for the satisfaction of grass cutting.
I made carrot and sweet potato soup with coconut milk and cumin – for them – and a cold, raw soup of tomatoes, cucumber, onion, garlic and the garden lettuce pour moi. They had seconds. I didn’t.
We spent the evening with music and chat and now it’s tomorrow morning. In seven hours time we go to the Neurological Centre where Bee had her back operation, her first check up with the surgeon.
From August 7th, when she went under, to September 23rd I think is seven weeks? It feels like the shortest, longest time, she’s changed, I’ve changed, the ‘oosbind has changed. Something about gratitude for new beginnings.
Whatever we were at the start of August we sure as Hell aint the same now. And to be honest, I think we are all better off for it.
The Virginia Creeper is a deep red, the Michaelmas Daisies a gentle mauve, and the blue crate a mess of brown and green bottles. Yes the old git ‘s been at the booze again, good job I’m home.