Blackberry Hill.

Little blue shorts and purple vest thingy, my trainers and a hair clip.
Yesterday I went to my brilliant beautician, who I have been seeing for 23 years, and spent an hour and a half having all my naughty bits removed.
First she slathered anesthetic cream all over my face and neck, then I held a metal rod which kept the current going round. Then she pricked me with a sharp little needle and cauterised all me blemishes. When the feeling came back into my face it felt like my skin was mmmming and humming, mmmming and humming.
Today I look like a Garibaldi biscuit. I may have mentioned that yesterday.
This morning , wearing my purple ensemble I ironed and tidied up before my wonderful cleaner arrived. I wanted her to do things in the kitchen which four baskets of ironing would have prevented.
Anyway ironing is one of those right brain activities which allows thinking. I kept the radio off and mulled over all sorts.
My writing partner.
BBC London.
Voice Overs.
What to cook for supper.
How long I would look like a Garibaldi.
Then I called my nephew – DAN THE MAN – who is so sensible and wise and clear and delicious. By the time I had pressed the last pillow-case and duvet-cover he had sorted me out.

Then I went for my constitutional.
I ate so much rubbish at Jim’s birthday do that I’m right back on my regime. I cannot afford to let it slip I do not want to EVER go back on diabetic drugs again.
I went down the hill, the air heavy, the tips of the Oak tree leaves just beginning to turn.
Turned right and all the golden barley had been mown. Made me want to read Thomas Hardy.
Down my avenue and a hug with Mr. B, my beech tree, who quite clearly told me that everything happens for a reason even if it is discomfortable.
Is that a word? Maybe it’s Beech talk?
To my first blackberry bush. Big and blebby. Sweet and juicy. All the plumptious fruit that faced the sun was also hidden by nettles and holly. My second blackberry haul was slightly acidic. Which is why they work so well with apples.
Past the million year old rocks to the road.
Left or right? I had to make a decision. I decided to go left. The road wide, the smell of sweet pepper in the air. More blackberries. I only took enough to cover me for a few footfalls I felt guilty taking away the birds food.
Across the big road and past another field that had been tended.
Down a steep field and left past the stream. Not as high as it should be. Trees had been felled. It hurt my heart, stumps with their bark ripped down. I hope the farmer has a good reason for it.
No other human-being was around, a bird swooped out of a tall tree and whistled a thrilling trill. I’ll have to look it up. An ancient high piping song. As I was all alone I could make whatever noises I wanted. But wouldn’t you know it, from out of nowhere, up popped three children and two grandparents stuffing their faces with blackberries. I had to laugh.
‘Nice day?’ Said grandpa. ‘Not too warm.’
I raised an arm, preferring to remain silent. I wanted him to think I was foreign. No engagement see.
Then a swift left up the slope, slaloming through dry mole hills and saving the best till last, the biggest plumpest, sweetest blackberries of them all. I gorged myself till my fingers and lips turned black.
Walked through a tunnel of wooly headed thistles. Hundreds of plume heads, thousands of hairs flying in the breeze, then up a very steep hill to the style and the orchard. Green apples, red apples, hard Granny Smiths, bigger Coxes. Not many windfalls. But then a right turn at the sign post and there they were. Sturdy pear trees heavily laden with hard pears. I screwed one off a branch. When I heard a tractor, I panicked and stuffed my half eaten pear down me blue shorts.
Stood aside so the little old lady, with her trailer full of storage boxes filled with pears, could pass me. I finished nibbling and chucked the core into the undergrowth.
One and a half hours later I arrived home. Totally pogged on pears and blackberries, which my diabetic book tells me are very good for me and my cholesterol.
So my foraging has been health giving.
It’s 2.30 and the world is spinning as are my chakras…..

4 thoughts on “Blackberry Hill.”

  1. Hey Jeni
    Loving the blog but so sad to hear you are leaving radio London.
    Do hope we shall hear you back on the radio very soon.
    Regards Carol,x

  2. Jeni dear!
    Are you really serious about next Sunday on air being your last?! Please tell us what happened this time. I hope it was a choice you made on your own will. What a crying shame – who will liven up our Sunday mornings?! Who will talk about their Bubbah (or Boobah!). No-one can replace you! We will follow you wherever you go Jeni so let us know where that would be.
    On the back of the Jewish new year, I wish you all the success and happiness you deserve and a bright future.
    Keep up your dedicated fitness regime, I admire your efforts!
    All my luv,

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