Gongs and things

Outside looks inviting, but inside has won out. Yes, yes I know I should be smelling the damp earth, digging up the weeds, I know I should be kicking over the leaves and planting snow drops for the spring BUT I cannot be arsed.
Why can’t I be bothered? Because I have had a long week of travel and talking, of shocks and shenanigans, a week of to-ing and fro-ing, 7 days of helping and hindering. I am therefore, still in my long purple house coat thingy, untamed and unwashed. I am, snoozing as I’m writing, mentally ticking off the list of things I still have to do.
Monday started innocently enough with a Tuina massage. David drives down from The River Thames, I lie on my front on the massage couch, he covers me with a sheet and before you can say Oooooh- oooeeey – eeeek – Daaaaavid – he is pummelling and slapping, poking and rubbing, my body responds instantly. He leaves after a coffee and I carry on with my life, only this week he released so much trauma and catastrophe that I fell asleep reading the newspaper. Fell asleep whilst vacuuming, fell asleep whilst falling asleep and lay on my back on the floor as the cat splayed herself over my catatonic body.
That was Monday.
Tuesday saw me driving to Brighton to have my hair trimmed and de-aged. My hair was so shiny and lush the 54 mile journey was bearable because i’m worth it.
Tuesday night the old git and I sat in the kitchen talking to a wonderful mother of three, with two adult autistic children and a third son who is falling behind because she is so caught up with creating a life for his brothers.
That was Tuesday.
Wednesday and Thursday I was on the Radio. The BBC have decided to change the tax codes for all of us – including we free-lancers. So now, after 50 years as a self employed media concubine, I am now deemed an employee on PAYE which means instead of coming home with peanuts I now haul home a string bag full of shells. And if anybody else tells me that I will get a refund next April I will show them my bank account and ask the to sub me until the spring.
So that was Wednesday and Thursday.
Radio Sussex won a gold, silver and bronze award at the annual radio Oscars – well done them – and Ms Feltz bagged the best breakfast show. Well done her brilliant team, without whom the fragrant Ms Felt would be floundering.
Today I was suppose to be filming but it was cancelled so I’ve done the accounts, made phone calls, eaten olives, cleaned the hob, made a list of me necessaries for four days in Galway, and Facetimed people who don’t mind my shabby chic.
That’s it. The sun has gone, the leaves are yellowing as I look at them, four tits are hanging on the peanuts and a big fat Robin Redbreast is bouncing on the Hibiscus.
Before I lie on the floor, starfish like, I have to fix my number plate, with is hanging off. It is stuck it on with Gaffer tape, but it needs to be properly secured. I swung into the garage and drove straight into the parked bicycle. I heard the crack but ignored it.
That registration plate is a bit like my life at moment, it’s all there but hanging off it’s hinges.
Here comes the pussy ready for her nibbles, a bowl of meat and a tickle on the tum.
The ‘oosbind said he would oblige should I ask him nicely……