Moanday

Rum time I say!
What with the weather and all.
I don’t know what day it is.
I made a list of all the topics I wanted to talk about but lost the list.
The weekend was so short. I saw Jim for Saturday night and Sunday morning – sounds like that Alan Sillitoe Book – and then it was noses back to the grindstone. Jim disappeared about nine. I then left the phone off the hook and didn’t realise until very late that he hadn’t called.
I am dealing with my alone time by watching Al Pacino. Endlessly. I think Jim is ever so slightly jealous, Mr. Pacino ticks all the right boxes although sadly most of the films are at least eleven years old so that glint in Mr. Pacino’s eyes now are probably cataracts. Anyway, after ‘Carlito’s Way’ Jim and I said our telephone goodnights although they were actually good mornings.

When I awoke this a.m. I didn’t know where I was and why Jim wasn’t with me.
I meditated, felt a bit down, and then nipped off to my osteopath, who is still trying to get my left knee right. Well, not right as in left but right as in fit, although fit now means something completely else. Anyway Mr. Bibby laid his hands on me and I could feel my body unwinding. I hope that it’s sorted soon – I miss my running. Mr. Bibby told me he wanted me to do cross training or cycling. Yuk to both of them. I like the outdoors.
I struggled into my car, which is very low down for a woman of my advancing joints, and sped off to my beautician. Only I wasn’t welcome. I had arrived two hours too soon which meant I had to cancel as I had to get into town for a voiceover. So I re-scheduled Amanda Day. And that doesn’t mean a day specially dedicated to Amandas. It happens to be Ms Day’s name.
I then drove home and took Jackson out for a small walk. He is 13 on October 22nd so long walks are not good for him. I did, though, take him for a long ramble on Saturday and by the time we’d reached the pub he was panting.
A little 20 minuter is all he can handle these days. So It was down the hill and through the field. A big adder lay in wait. Jackson stepped on it, I screamed, the snake disappeared into the hedgerow, and we continued on our way.
I can’t keep talking about transformation in my blog, but every time I get miserable, out slithers another reminder that the only certainty in life is change.
Before I forget, Dear Jeremy Jacobs, why didn’t you care for Mr. Littlejohn’s documentary? I must confess to missing the last quarter of it.
The weather today has been very French. Dry and heavy, but I have noticed the lack of buzzing bees this year. I miss them.
I was wearing the perfect outfit for today’s humidity – a pair of dalmatian print dungarees big enough for the whole of the reserve team of Tottenham Hotspurs. On me they hang loosely thus allowing air to freely flow throughout my bodily areas. They came from ‘The Inn’ in Little Washington out in the US of A. They were given to me as a gift when we filmed there years ago for GFL.
‘The Inn’ is a double five star hotel/restaurant. The food is sensational, and the decor is so camp it would make Danny La Rue look like Danny La Craig whilst the bedrooms have more chintz than all the Boutique Hotels in Brighton. My bed had been slept in by Paul-don’t-call-me-salad-dressing-man-Newman. I snuggled into every corner just in case Mr.Newman had left anything of himself behind.
The dining room is magnificent and the food is plated up – laid down – in a moment of balletic synchronicity. The cheeses arrive at the table wheeled in on a life-size wooden cow replete with cow bell strapped around its perfectly carved wooden neck.
When service is about to start a thurible is swung round the opulent kitchen. Incense fills the air as the catholic head chef and all his sous and commies get in the mood for an evening of healing cuisine. People come from all over the country to partake of, what will be for some of them, their last supper. They come to experience the theatre and majesty of the place.
The two gay men who own and run ‘The Inn’ have dealt with the conservative attitudes of Washingtonians as well as buying up enough land to grow their own organic produce whilst still finding the time to rescue dalmatians.
The dalmatian motif runs through the whole place. A shop, attached to the restaurant sells mountains of memorabilia, all spotty and doggie fashioned, whilst on arrival guests are greeted by a pair of real-life dalmatians lounging in the wooden panelled hall. A bitch and a dog, both rescued. She wears a string of pearls round her lovely neck and he a bow tie. They are looked after by their very own personal nanny who makes sure they are groomed to perfection so that they adorn the lavish lobby like a pair of porcelain pooches.
I didn’t realise what a tit I looked in my dalmatian dungas, however, until my daughter dropped me off at the station. They may have made me feel cool but I now realised I certainly didn’t look cool. My ‘beat your depression fast’ handbook advised me to smile a lot as smiling makes it hard to feel depressed. So, when I purchased my return ticket, my spotty romper suit flapping in the breeze, I wore a big cheesy grin as well. I did notice quite a few stares, tuts and looks of sympathy. I think they thought I had been let out for the day.
The journey into town was uneventful although not so the return trip. A pair of, shall we say, intellectually-challenged male members of society started slapping each other in the carriage behind me. I was ear-wigging a conversation about weddings and babies when one of the girls said, ‘Oh! He’s just slapped him’.’ We all heard the slap – like a clap it was. Then suddenly everybody from their carriage ran into my carriage, like a swarm of hornets they were, all a runnin’ and a fleein’. I immediately thought it was some kind of terrorist attack until I realised that it was the two street fighters having a ruck. I shouted ‘Stop’, which usually guarantees some sort of response, but they took no notice. I dialled 999, and hung up when the fighting ceased. One of the men was dripping blood all over the floor, although interestingly he had a roll of unwrapped lavatory paper in his carrier bag. Maybe he had foreseen some kind of trouble. He dabbed his bloody eye which was visibly swelling to the size of a large cantaloupe melon.
When we arrived in TWells, my phone rang. The cops had tracked me down and berated me for hanging up since my silence could have signalled an attack on me. Had I waited for them to take all the details, they could have intercepted the bully at the station. A woman with an Yves San Laurent bag knew the bloke who was lamping the other poor feller. She had employed him to collect her outstanding debts. I must say I shouldn’t like to owe her money in a hurry. We convinced the geezer with the massive eye bruise to go to the police station and off I went to my daughter who had been waiting patiently for her mother to come home from a quiet day at work.
I had been into town to do a voiceover for ‘Project Sierra’, a charity which helps victims of war and abuse in Sierra Leone. A worthy charity indeed.
I nipped into Randall and Auburn, in Brewer Street, and had a coffee with Ed Baines, who looks just as dapper as ever. Then into the Italian shop in Old Compton street for cheese, tomatoes and basil, and finally home.
It’s 1.24. I am knackered but I want to watch Anjum Anand on her new BBC2 series. I’ve recorded it. She’s lovely and I hope her show is a success. It will be if we all watch it. Olly Smith and Mayernosh Mody are her guests. All the little chicklets are doing well. Long live talent.
Have a peaceful night and cusoon.