I went to London
I went to London on the train.
I went to London on a train to do a voice over.
Like old times.
Didn’t know if I would make it as my legs don’t carry me in the same way. But after putting on me dungarees and a new t-shirt. I travelled light.
The dawter accompanied me so I could hang on to her should I need to.
We parked the car and took the 12.45 train.
Walked through two carriages and ended up sitting opposite each other. The lavatory was to my left.
Horrible visions of the inside of a British Rail toilet, so I kept looking at the passing fields to squeeze out any images of grubby lavatory pans.
And then a well dressed geezer opened the flimsy door and went in. I couldn’t erase the image of him next door holding his todger and relieving himself.
He was a smartly dressed fellow with a waistcoat,scarf and stubble.
The door unlocked and he stood one inch from me and said
‘Arn’t you Jeni Barnett’?
I assumed he had washed his hands as held out his right hand to shake mine. I felt grubby knowing the had just used the water closet still I responded warmly.
‘Yes I am.’ Because today I was Jeni Barnett not Jennifer Bywater. I was the Jeni Barnett who worked in the medja.
‘Well’ said the mannequin ‘I’ve known you for over twenty years but we’ve never met.’
Turns out he’s married to a woman who lived in the same block of flats, in Wapping, that the old git and Iived in 40 odd years ago.
This delicious human being sat down next to me and we talked. He’d been an actor then became a therapist and was having a meet up with his therapy friends having trained it all the way up from Hastings.
We exchanged telephone numbers and swapped stories.
‘I have a legacy and you have fame.’ he said. Turns out he was instrumental in getting boys vaccinated against cancer, whilst I was telling jokes over a pork chop.
We parted under the clock in Charing Cross, vowing to meet up sooner than later.
I held onto my dawters arm and we walked through Leicester Square. Right onto windmill street and right again to Great Pulteney Street.
My voice over wasn’t for an hour so we had lunch in a Japanese restaurant. I had Udon Noodles with tofu and she had salmon teriyaki. We shared a dry red paste bun that stuck to the roof of may mouth.
It was but a five minute walk to the studio.
We found number 32 and pressed the buzzer.
Up two flights of stairs – how I managed it was beyond me – but into the waiting area I slumped onto the leather settee.
Archie the engineer joined me and the produce and h directed us to the studio.
A safe place for me. Mics and lights and headphones. A newly minted script and my voice.
I read it once. Then twice, then again for luck. I was out by 3.18.
‘We’ve nailed it’ said the producer.
Which was a bugger because if I had screwed up I would have had another session on Thursday. Still there’s no accounting for experience.
I left the dawter who had gone off to meet her pal in Covent Garden.
I sauntered through China town, the sun shining. The smell of dumplings and the chatter of noisy diners.
Past Wyndhams Theatre, licking my ice cream cone. I treated myself to a Chinese frozen yoghurt with strawberry balls that pinged in the mouth.
The sun shone. The bells chimed. I was back to my old self. Trudging through St Martins Lane with a smile and a spring in my step.
I say spring it was more of a feeble wobble. But I managed it. I’d had a normal day in London
Not a thought about kidneys or potassium counts just a bright jaunt into sunny Soho.