No 80.

So the rain rains, the sun shines and Amy, our new land girl, is attacking the mint which has taken over the garden like a Triffid.
She is bonny and quick, youthful and tattooed. No dragons that I know of, but she certainly has the feist that Stig Larsson would be proud of.
I cannot wait to get out there myself but right now life is seeping under the door and through the cracks in the walls.
The last few days have been so emotionally charged that Downton Abbey wont be the first for a clutch of Emmies. I’m up for most hysterical wife, Gods Gift is up for most understated husband and B’s up for the most hyperbolic musician.

Jim had to visit the doctor last week, in 35 years I have never known him so grey and wretched. I blame fags, nicotine and everything that goes with being an aging rock star. Thank God for our new doctor who built him up. He is on the mend, so much so, that we are finally arguing again. Thank heavens for a few hot words, the idea of having a compliant geezer sharing my bathroom was getting a little too much to bare.
The dawter is back at work, after a few days of cold, flu and a wrenched back. Terrifying after her ordeal last year.
Big up for The Bibby who puts his osteopathic hands all over the body one Bibby session and the body sighs with relief.
My mother is being 89. Which can sometimes take more energy out of me than running the marathon on Monday, The Great North Run on the Tuesday, the pentathlon on Wednesday and something for the weekend from Jeff Capes. The question is how to get the social services to take on board that a lonely person calling the paramedics four times a week and twice on Sundays is not efficient and seriously costly to them and the taxpayers, however, watch this space, I ain’t giving up.
My eye dribbles and dribbles. Have another appointment at the eye hospital next week.
I took them to a healer on Saturday. All three of us drove down to Brighton. Parked the car on Marine Drive and pushed the bell to number 80.
The rooms were situated on the ground floor of a tower block. One room with books of testimonials and waiting patients, of every possible size, shape, class and temperament. There was a kitchen for the making of tea, and a bigger room where RAY BROWN, the healer, practices.
After a cursory chat, a cursory lie down on a couch behind a hospital screen, a cursory examination Ray Brown marks a body diagram with different colours, tells you what he’s going to do, sends you off to a team of healers and makes another appointment. People come from all over the place to see the ex-builder do his stuff. Testimonials from Norway, Liverpool and even Prince Charles, lend a modicum of rationale to the whole proceedings. I have no idea whether he can cure my eye, the old gits lungs or B’s dropped foot, all I know is that whatever money he gets he uses wisely and whatever money I have I will use to try and get this family of mine to optimum health.
I really respect and like our new allopathic doctor but I’m using whatever I can in my armoury. I believe its called the belt and braces approach. I so don’t fancy having my poor old eye cut and pasted.
I want all this ill health to leave my life.
Sundays show was good, if you listen back to my vintner guest trying to open up a bottle of wine it will have you laughing all the way to the sink. I nearly lost it completely on air.
Today I have a meeting with The Barry in Leicester Square, then a screening of ‘Tinker,Taylor, Soldier, Spy’, and a Q/A with Gary Oldman. Then it’s a train ride home.
I haven’t been on a night time chuffer for years, it’ll be interesting.
Right it’s 2.10 and time for a swift shower before I take the train into Charing Cross, as my Hollywierd friend says….catch you later….