Month: December 2012

No need for an alarm any more since I wake early enough to decide whether to stay in bed or get up in the dark. This morning I awoke at 7.07. Didn’t hear the rain, but decided to meditate first anyway.
I sat cross legged with Gods Gift lightly snoring beside me.
By 8.04 I had on thermal leggings, socks, sweater, yellow anorak – B’s trendy one – over which I put a massive blue anorak. I looked like the Honey Bear Monster.
The hood of the anorak is one that rolls up and gets zipped into the collar. I unrolled it and pulled it over my head, jamming my glasses and trapping my own head with my headphones. By the time I was ready, with purple gloves to boot – or should I say to hand – the rain was shooting out of the sky, on a slant, with just enough attitude to freeze what piece of face I had showing.
I took the back road.

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And so it is official I am still with BBC London 94.9.
Let me tell you the relief merited an almond milk latte and a gluten free cherry cake.
My inability to trust the process of the Universe has been tested to the limit of late.
‘Why?’ ask my esoteric friends do I not believe that all will be as it should be.
‘Well’ I reply ‘The last two and half years have been so dramatic, so brutal, so intense, that were I a disciple from Galilee even I would still have had my patience tested.’
Although somehow I have survived the force nine gale that has hit me, I have rolled with the punches, faced my demons, come up still breathing and still managed to write a script with Ms Majors, that even I am proud of.
Today I forsook a day of re-writes to go to Brighton with Gods Gift to see Maia, the step grandaughter, in her Nativity play.

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It has been far too long.
Far too long rummaging through the boxes and drawers of my past.
This morning I took the 7.19 train from Sevenoaks. The drive to the station was slow and cautious. The frost as thick as lard on a slice of white bread.
The platform was freezing. I hid in a shelter my fingers pulled into my pullover and a woolly scarf wrapped round my head.
The other travellers were stomping their feet and walking small distances to keep warm. The train was three minutes late, which given the temperature, felt like three hours.
I meditated on the train, sitting next to an oriental gentleman who had monstrous headphones. Mercifully the music stayed in his ears and didn’t bleed into mine.
We arrived at Charing Cross people running to all the exits like snooker balls.
I covered my head and walked out into the air. Cold. Sharp. Bright.
The bells of St. Martins in the Field clanged. The sun, crimson red, on the top of the Coliseum. I walked past the National Portrait Gallery as the last of the eight chimes rung out over an empty Leicester Square.
Where is Charlie Chaplin’s statue?
Its criminal that they have taken him, and his walking stick away.
I weaved through China Town, through Carnarby Street, past The Palladium, onto Oxford Street and exactly 20 minutes later I arrived at the new BBC.
A Christmas Treee stands outside the revolving doors. It has a protective barrier around it. That’s the Beeb for ya….
It was lovely to be back in the studio. It felt like I had been away for months.

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