I’m Not a Celebrity…

I’m told that waking up at four is what creatives do.
I’m also told that waking up at four is what depressants do.
I’m also told that four is when Chinese medicine says there’s an energetic peak in the lungs…
Whatever it is If I keep waking up before the seagulls do I am going to stay up and write.

Saturday night was food with friends. Long, time friends who served up just the right amount of everything including two new people to be added to our never-thought-we-would-ever-meet-any-more-nice-people-at this-stage-in-our-lives-list.
A late night meant a late rise on Sunday.
I went to Southside in Wandsworth, just round the corner from GFL’s studios. Nostalgic and a jolly good place for the pound shop, Waitrose fare and ridiculously cheap fashions that would make even woolley lambs look like mutton.
Today the old git had an interview with some decent theatricals. And if I don’t nag him says he will stay the night.
He’s just poured himself a gin and something which means he can’t leave so now I can make as much noise as I like since he’s unfit to drive…
I wrote the blurb for the book, then met up with my nephew in Battersea Square. We had coffee, one shot cappuccino with no froth for me, and a dark Americano for him. We talked about his father – my brother, my father – his grandpa, his uncle -my husband and parenting,at which he is fab, that’s him AND the old git.
I walked him to Clapham Junction, then I power walked back to the flat pulling my fingers into my purple fleece because it was frigging freezing.
Got inside and the heat steamed up my glasses. Hung the washing, Jim getting home just in time to help me fold the wet duvet cover into three.
It’s Monday so it’s slobs night in. 2 lots of Corrie, 1 University Challenge and the horribly addictive Jungle book.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I will never be that desperate that I would agree to faint or fawn to get noticed. If I wanted that kind of attention I would stand on my Battersea Balcony and get the old git to throw jelly tots at me. Inane, fatuous nonsense which I can’t stop watching. Help. I’m a minor celebrity get me out of there…