I put the radio on.
6.00a.m
Weather forecasts, news bulletins, round and round it went until 8.15.
I left the house and drove to the Memorial Hospital.
The sun so bright I accidentally parked in two different bays.
A young woman unlocked the automatic doors.
I had been told to arrive for 8.35.
At 9.00 I was still waiting.
I read three magazines.
Two ‘Country Homes’ and a ‘Hello’.
Turned the pages of sunken baths and sunken cheek bones.
Finally I was allowed in.
The podiatrist looked at my right foot. The little toe sadly affected by two ulcers.
She cleaned the area, placed a square of silver over it then bandaged it.
She put a big black boot on my foot and remade another appointment for next week.
The roll call of my health gets worse by the day. From eyes to feet I’m fucked. From heart to head I’m crumbling.
I fell onto the settee and mulched into a misery.
Then I thought I saw the old git standing by the stove.
He came and went.
I howled.
I await a heart operation. I am in the system.
But until they decide I am bad enough I twiddle my thumbs.
I watched the News at 1.00.
Endless footage of men behaving badly.
I would like to slap Putin. Go up to him close and just slap his face.
I would like to tweak his ears and kick him firmly in the nether regions.
It is beyond me that diplomacy goes on and on but nobody does anything.
We all know that Russia is destroying the Ukraine but nobody with any clout is doing anything.
Missiles are bought and sold, lives are destroyed whilst the men in suits do nothing.
The sun shone brightly as the leaves flew off the trees.
The dawter made me one of her spectacular coffees.
The cat twirled round my feet.
When it got dark I lit the fire.
My eyelids closed slowly.
At the moment my dreams are frustrating.
I have to climb out of bed to clear my head.
I dreamt that Hegseth was standing by a stage. I couldn’t remember the word for something to do with rain so I had to get up and look at synonyms for wet weather.
Hegseth just stood there as the crowd thinned and I panicked at my lack of vocabulary.
Time it was that I had great dreams.
My favourite was set in the London Hospital in Whitechapel.
My great aunt was in bed her manicured nails gripping the counterpane.
She asked me to go and look at her shit.
I squeaked on the beige Lino into the cubicle through two swinging doors.
Took a breath and stared down into the lavatory pan.
There nestled in the bottom were’Good News Chocolates’
Milk and plain.
Little crystallised violets and strawberries on top of them.
I went back to my aunt who looked at me and said
‘See nothing’s as bad as you think.’
Now that’s a dream worth having.
Sometimes I dread going to bed.
So I meditate with two hot water bottles.
I suck on two magnesium gummies and set my little alarm for 20 minutes.
I imagine a blue waterfall is washing over and through my body.
I get woozy, turn the light off, and settle down.
I’m told to remain patient.
I’m told this a process.
I’m told to trust that my body will eventually get stronger.
I’m told to surrender.
I’m told that looking back is bad.
I’m told to ask for help.
I’m told to do something everyday so that the blood flows through my body.
I’m told I’m not being punished.
I’m told that all will be well.
I’m told I am strong.
That my life force is strong and running through me.
I’m told I’m not ready for death yet.
You could have fucking fooled me.
If these blogs are meant to be uplifting then I shall share my Tuesday lunch with my exec producer from GOOD FOOD LIVE.
We went to a fancy Indian restaurant in Tunbridge Wells.
Atul Kotcha the Michelin starred chef owns it.
We gave him his first telly job.
Atul is a doll.
We were sat on blue velvet banquettes and brought two Lassies in punched metal goblets, the yellow mango juice swimming in big ice cubes.
Nick had lamb I had squid.
We had meltingly delicious poppadoms and talked.
Since 1988 we have worked together, and here we were, he 58 me 77, chewing the fat.
Bibi, a food writer, took photographs of us and talked bout our legacy. I bathed in the praise.
My walking stick hidden, for an hour I was the old Jeni Barnett.
Today I wallowed in the sadness of my life, tonight the fire has lifted my spirit.
No point in submerging myself in the cock up of crippledom.
Tomorrow is a new day.
The end of another week.
The gardener will sweep away the dead leaves.
I’ll settle down in the armchair and allow myself some deep seated, guiltless, rest.
I will ignore the telephone and look forward to the weekend.
I will be grateful for small mercies and Apple TV.