Gods Gift drove us to a 70th birthday do at THE GROVE in Watford.
Imagine twenty very noisy friends and family.
Imagine a dining hall full of tables with the same.
Imagine people who like to eat seated round those tables.
Imagine balloons and bouquets at the tables where celebratory parties gather to sample the buffet.
Imagine flowers and vases and Eastern European waiters.
Imagine whistles and finger clicks to get the attention of the aformentioned
Imagine the heat and the fuss.
Now imagine the buffet.
Shell fish, smoked fish, pickled fish and mussels.
Red pickles, green pickles, mayonnaise and chutney.
Russian salad, fennel salad, green salad and beetroot.
Bloody beef, bloody lamb, bloody Hell more meat than graze the ranges of Wyoming.
Imagine mountains or crispy roasted potatoes and plains of Yorkshire puddings.
Imagine hot woks and super-sized serving tongs that spring off into the gravy.
Imagine a chef wearing a white hat stir-frying your very own vegetable selection.
Imagine cheeses, and bread and more cheese and even more bread.
Imagine plates piled high with food and then some.
Imagine super-sized eaters shuffling to get their third helping.
Imagine cheese-cake, fruit-tarts, pear-crumble, fresh berries.
Imagine the colon of the guests.
Imagine water and wine.
Imagine stained white linen napkins.
Imagine the grounds.
Sculpture and lily ponds.
Flunkies on the hoof, sycophants in reception.
Imagine the bill.
Saturday night I spent alone in the flat whilst the old git drove home. He slept off his meat I slept off my roasted veg.
The Sunday show felt like a culture shock. Luke Doonan a living oxymoron. He is a conscientious property developer. But he is what it says on the tin. He bought us lunch. It’s official I LOVE HIM.
The us being me and Emma Leach, Phil Jones, Esther Stanhope and Amy. It was Esthers last show. I am bereft. Amy will be fab but I still have to shoulder my loss with maturity.
BOOH EFFIN’ HOO.
I left the restaurant and went to buy B some track suit bottoms from ‘Bik Bok’ a really good cheapish shop.
I walked to Shafstbury Avenue and took the 83 bus to Victoria. All was going to plan, I slipped off the 83 and sauntered to the bus stop outside Victoria Station. The 170 was coming round the bend when SPLAT.
And I don’t mean a little squit of a splat I mean a great big tsunami of a SPLAT.
Either a pigeon the size of a Boeing 747, or a flock of seagulls decided to target just me. It or them decided to off load their breakfast, lunch and scrofulottic dinner all over my head, my arms, my leggings, my bags my fingers and my bare toes. Thank heavens I wasn’t looking up with my mouth open….
It was a cold white shower of shite. If one more person tells me it was lucky I will scream.
Got back to the flat and showered vigorously, then washed my clothes, plonked down in front of the box and watched ‘What Just Happened’ a Robert de Niro film, I loved it. I also loved the fact that De Niro is the spit of my father. From his hair to his legs, from his glasses to his attitude. Called home to make Jim and B watch it and they agreed that Robert de Houseyourfather was indeed the living lookalike of my old man.
Read until 3.00a.m., then up at 7.00.
Shopped for salad, ate it on the front balcony, walked to the square for coffee in the sunshine, back to the flat. More packing, News at Nne, some more packing.
And now I will read in the sunshine on the back balcony, then off to D’Arblay Street to watch a French Film….
Them there pigeons had better scarper otherwise they’re gonna get it on behalf of their divebombing cousins….
KEPOW SPLAT to them….