Garra Rufa fish pie

Sarah Laleham’s comments about me leaving LBC was a bit harsh I thought. Do read them dear bloggers and wonder, like I did, who Ms Murray is? It always intrigues me when somebody writes a nasty cyber blog why they are then not contactable.
Dear Ms Laleham I would assert that you are a lilly livered coward who hides beyhnind the anonymity of cyberspace.
I, however, put it out there, in the open, free and gratis for whomsoever wishes to participate.
And participate they did at my first ever evening at Grouchos. I invited 59 people – who showed up – and a further army of friends and relatives who were either in Bali, Uckfield, or bed nursing whatever virus is spinning round at the moment.
Having taken my clothes off in the snooker room in May my forfeit, as a member of The Groucho Club, was to entertain in the dining room for the delectation of Bernie Katz and his bar staff.
My watery eye was a distraction, but Jo Parkerson – she of LBC showbiz understatement – fielded the questions and guided me ever deeper into the lunacy of my life.
I could not sleep until 4.00 a.m. with the excitment of it all. I loved doing it. It is a bit like stand up and several of my audience members encouraged me to take up the cudgel of the lonliest job in the world, which I may well do. When I watch the film back, made by the lovely Vee and Katy for The Barry, I may decide to continue my Izzard/Rivers journey or jack it all in and become a painter and decorator….which is what I have been doing since Monday.

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Lachrymate me a River

Dear Joanna, I am not in the slightest bit depressed, confused, knackered, sad and excited, not necessarily in that order, is my state of play at the moment. But depressed I am not.
I am in the middle of the move.
I have cleared my office. It echoes when I type.
I have cleared my bedroom. It echoes when I snore.
I have cleared the living room. It echoes when I shout at the Murdochs.
I have been to my doctor, an optician and a pharmacist. They all looked at my eye and told me I need to go to a hospital. So on Tuesday I am spending a fortune on having it cleaned, cleared, syringed and sandblasted so I can stop dribbling tears in my porridge.
I am having to go private because the Coalitions waiting list to have a routine clean is so long I will me lachrymating till September the 28th by which time I will have cried so many rivers my cheek will have an oxbow lake indented in it.
I could go and sit in casualty for a day or so but who has that kind of time.

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I went to visit LBC last week. Courtney, the guy on security, hugged me, broke seven of my ribs and hugged me again. Sent me up in the lift and I climbed out on the third floor. Of course I burst into tears, it was as if I had never left.
I hugged Matt, and Jessie, I hugged Declan and Dan, I hugged Chris and a phalanx of LBC’ers, all of whom made me blub even more.
I left the third floor to take the stairs to meet Jo Parkerson but she had left – was on maternity leave – I turn my back and…..
So I met up with Jo a day later, cuddled her delicious baby Lois, and we sat and talked, munched on salad in Leicester square, shared water and vowed to see each other again.
LBC was such an important part of my life, when I walked out of the doors into Leicester Square I felt the loss all over again.
However the move from the flat is keeping me busy and I cannot deny the satisfaction I get from working at BBC London. Esther and the crew are warm, supportive and really good at their jobs. So I have leapt from one hot frying pan into another….

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Packing it up and packing it in

Soho makes me into one person, Battersea into another and then when I’m home in East sussex I transmogrify into the East End country bumpkin I really am.
It’s 12.30 am, and eleven hours earlier I was in Brighton cheering on my five year old grandaughter in her first sports day.
I was freezing having chosen a fairly affable outfit fit for Pimms in the park, as it turned out my lime green Hobbs jacket and Nike 3 Free trainers, though dashing, afforded me no comfort whatsoever, and I wasn’t even asked to run the granny’s race, since there wasn’t one.
Several young families pic-nicked on the damp grass as the red, blue, yellow and green teams, competed against each other to win a cup.
Maia was in the blue team, they came last – a family tradition….and the rain spitted to compliment the loss.
We went back to my daughters house, played with the two kittens Fred and something unpronouncable, spilt camomile tea all over the floor and left.

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I decided to go home after ‘Yes Minister’ on Thursday Night.
The roads were empty and I needed to be in the dark, peace of my home.
Arrived by midnight, the old git and I had words – of course – and then I fell into bed. Into my big, soft bed. His feet at the end of it. My pillows still with the indentation of my head from the weekend.
The sound of rain outside. The window open so I could here the splash of rain drops on the oak leaves.

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eye eye

Since Tuesday I have been treating a watering eye. I’ve used up more tissues than a tikker tape parade on the fourth of July in downtown Manhattan. I’ve had these drops and those drops, the other drops and then the ones that I spilt on the kitchen table. I have taken this remedy and that … Read more