Patronising Pickles

Thank you all for your embraceable comments. It really is like getting a distant hug.
I’m on to my second mug of lemon water. I’ve juiced two halves separately and am drinking it between avocados, herbal supplements and meditation.
The flat is empty, the old git on the way to ‘The Arcola’ and the roomie on her way to Surbiton.
He’s just called. The bus was late, there was a hold up at the tube a signal failure at Kings Cross so now he’s in the back of a cab at Liverpool Street. I hate this Government, they invest in nothing but themselves.
The new Arcola Theatre is in an old paint factory, round the corner from the old Arcola which was a shirt factor. A play has been commissioned by Rebecca Lenkiewicz about William Turner because he purchased his paints from the very factory that the ‘oosbind is trying to get to.
Turner is being payed by TOBY JONES – look him up you’ll know him immediately – whilst Will’s dad is being played by B’s dad.
Yes the old git gets to practice his parenting skills in front of an audience of millions, ok thousands, alright hundreds, well definitely me and the family.

I’m back in the flat after a fleeting visit to the cottage. The garden is covered in leaves, which shows you how lax I’ve been in maintaining my home.
I spent all of Saturday night in front of the box. I made a fire with paper, fire lighters, kindling and a load of dry logs. I need to order more from Mr. Rapson whose been delivering truck loads of logs since 1984. When I see him its a testimony to how much time has passed. He wears the same bobble hat but his belly gets bigger and his hair a little greyer with each load.
Fire lit, pea soup in mug, telly on and I settled down for an evening of addictive telly. It’s not just me 20 million of us sit down to watch cruel tv every weekend. So I watched dancers being disqualified and singers being sacked. This is positively the last year I’m watching The X Factor. I think it’s awful. The music, the comments, the singing, the people. The expectations, the lies, at my age it is literally a waste of my life to watch the facile leading the facile.
I did the accounts on Saturday and panicked at the amount of money I spend on crap. Then on Sunday, when I was on my way out to rake the leaves we had a visitation from two dear people.
Coffee on, milk warmed, natural biscuit bars laid out, by the time they left it was too late to rake over anything accept the hot coals from last night.
Friday was a day of familiarity with unfamiliar people. WARREN BEMAZ, quite the best photographer I’ve worked with, took a series of pics of me whilst I was filming some more stuff for the website.
You will get to see them as my website gets developed.
It’s all very exciting every time The Barry newly explains it to me I understand less and less. Suffice to say that by the New Year you will see new things popping up on Jeni Barnett.com that will make your hair shine, which is what Warren did with his natural light control and little black box.
We went to THE TRAFALGAR STUDIO to interview Tracy Bennett. If you can afford the fair and tickets it really is a must see. Whatever you think about the play, or Judy Garland, put it aside because La Bennett’s performance is outstanding. It will stay with me forever. She is a dot of a gel with the voice of a theatre belle and the soul of a tender thing. I loved her. You will see the interview on the website next year.
We decamped to The Phoenix Club for postmortems and praise. Then Lozzie and I jumped into a taxi and arrived back at the flat at the same time as the old git.
He ate some chicken casserole and I had a huge crispy salad then we left, in separate cars to go home.
I was so tired I had to make noises to keep myself awake.
BIP I screamed to surprise myself, or FLUM, or SHIIIIIIIIIIPS. Making myself jump every time I screamed. I had the radio on VERY loud and the windows open and made it in time to watch Graham Norton.
We came back last night, Jim drove and we listened to the radio, which is how I wake up every morning.
This morning I was woken by a certain MR. PICKLES, sounds like a mangey cat, THE LOCAL GOVERNMENT MINISTER, talking a load of bollox about how councils have to be more imaginative about to spend the little money they don’t have and wont get. This friggin’ government makes me feel ill. Pickles was even more patronising than Osborne, if that’s possible. I hate this government, I only hope that the young disaffected keep up their shouting, I’ve all but lost my voice from shouting at the tellybox….