Sun Day

So I stepped out this morning, having mowed the lawn. I wore a red daisy sarong and trainers. God Forbid I had an accident there was no underwear, clean or otherwise, to be seen.
I left the cottage my head full of lethal loops….’Will B ever get a music deal?’ ‘Will Jim ever work again?’ ‘Will my mother go gently?’ ‘Will I ever be able to sell my writing?” And so on around and around until I got to the open gate.
And there on the golf course was Gods Gift, wearing a hat that won us The Empire, his golfing partner sporting a titfar that would have done Lawrence of Arabia proud.
I snuck onto the green, knowing that my outfit would not have gone down well in the club house, watched the ‘oosbind hit a blinder, called him and he, as if it was everyday that a nearly naked woman commented on his balls, said.
And I answered;
As if it was everyday that I went onto the green to ask him to put the rubbish out, change the fuse in the humidifier, recycle the bottles and put a new light in the bathroom.
I gathered up my loins and walked the first bend.
The first stream sounded like cicadas hissing its way to the other side of the valley.

Read more


I wonder whether the Great Bon Dieu understands the irony of old age, he takes away sleep when our bodies are in the need of rest. In my case waking at 2-4-6-a.m. is de rigeur. Insomnia is part of the package.
So at. 5.00 this morning, rather than stay in bed and wonder how to place my body so it didn’t get in the way of itself, I got up.
Across the landing and left into the little room. The sun was barely up. I did my Tibetan five which my osteopath tells me my body likes. It stretches everything in the right way, engages my mind as I count to 21 and works the breathing apparatus. In on the downward stroke and out on the upward, at least thats the theory.
I thought about going back to bed but decided I didn’t want to waste the morning.
See The Great Bon Dieu does understand that time is not infinite and when you get to my age it is patently obvious that sleeping your life away won’t get that novel written.

Read more

33 minutes and 40 seconds

Now 33 minutes and 40 seconds in London crosses boundaries.
Battersea to Chelsea.
Clapham to Wandsworth.
Hampstead to Camden Town.
But 33 minutes and 40 seconds where I live takes you into the rain forest the only boundaries are the hedgerows full of ancient plants.
The first fifteen minutes had me marvelling at the dogged ‘Unofficial English Rose’ which looks like its having a field day.
I have never seen so many flowers. Blousy and open, their faces flat to the sun.

Read more


Clock ticking. The thwack of a bird on the window pane. It nearly made it into the bedroom. Managed to relaunch after the window pain. . The post now arrives at 10.30. The letter about an idiot woman who banged into the ‘oosbinds car 18 months ago and still they are bellyaching about who pays … Read more

canary wharp

I have been staying in Canary Wharf. Eleven floors up in a flat with panoramic views over London.
The flat is being payed for by an Olympic outfit that have more money than conscience. Drop a towel and its picked up by the MAID every Friday. The fridge is American huge, the bed sheets Egyptian cotton, and the atmosphere as sterile as the magnolia wall paint.
The concierge MALAIKA – which was the name of my daughters adopted elephant when she was three – sits all alone in the foyer.
Come out of the flat turn left, then right. A five minute walk to the Hilton Hotel which is even more souless than the apartment. Men in sharp suits hang around the ashtrays screwed to the walls, puffing on Marlborough Lights and talking to other men in sharp suits. Their ears plugged with rubber speakers.
JACK DASH HOUSE is to the right – he would be turning in his grave to see what they have done to his Docklands.
Over the silver clickety clackety bridge and through the swing doors into the Mozzerella restaurant.
Two choices; down the escalator into the shopping mall before working your way to the Jubilee Line, or through another set of swing doors out into the open air and the Reuters print out. The share prices pass round and round and round as thousands – and I do mean thousands – of city folk, earphones firmly lodged, ipads, iphones and Macbooks firmly held, make their way to offices in the banking towers.
Its big, its rich and its as cutoff from the rest of us as Mr. Diamond is.
I stayed from last Thursday and arrived home today at 2.00

Read more