I had to get dressed today as I had an appointment at the opticians. I put on a pair of trousers that were loose enough to pull down when I needed to without having to undo the button or zip. Which was nice.
I put in my contact lenses, first time since April, and applied some posh lipstick and mascara. Which was nice.
Then I wore some fancy shoes that rubbed a bit but were casual and flowery. Which was nice.
Then I drove into T’wells.
I’ve got a moth that has taken up residence in my little red car. There are those who would tell me to roll up a newspaper and kill it but I can’t. I’m like the Hindus with their sacred cow. I have no desire to commit murder. The moth flutters around the cab and terrifies me in case it gets in my line of vision. It’s a big orange thing with a massive head. Where it lives when the car is parked is anybody’s guess, It’s a bit like Schroedinger’s cat. When I’m not in the car, and it gets dark in the garage, does the moth still exist? Or does it only materialise when I get into the car and turn on the ignition? Only Mr.Moth and Mr. Schroedinger will ever know.
Anyway, Mr. Moth (I’m assuming he’s a he but she may be a Mrs. Moth for all I know) and I drove through the traffic and parked opposite the Italian shop that has closed down because of the arrival of a baby boy. It’s taken them all by surprise. Making fresh pasta everyday and looking after a new born has obviously taken the biscotti because the windows are papered over and the shelves empty.
I walked to the optician and bought a pair of reading glasses to go with my lenses. Not in an accessorising sense, but to enable me to make out little print. You see, my lenses give me an overview. I need readers to help me see what’s in front of my nose. My mascaraed eyelashes were so long – and yes, unlike Penelope Cruz and L’Oreal, I am telling you the truth – that they pressed up against my new royal blue frames. But I bought them anyway ‘because I’m worth it’.
Jeni Barnett
Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll love ya tomorrow
Finding a structure is the thing. I’m told not to go to bed too late. But being on my own without a structure means I dribble around, reading, writing, telly-grazing and end up going to bed in the wee small hours. Last night it was 2am.
My last thought was to make a timetable for today, which of course I didn’t do. I got up at 7.00, creaked down the stairs to open up the kitchen door so that Jackson could go outside and relieve himself, then clawed my way back up the royal blue carpet and returned to sleep until guilt woke me.
Not having that structure, see?
Now, before anybody has a moan about me living the life of Riley, let me remind you that not having a structure is deadly. I am so used to working 5 days a week with 3 minutes respite between activities that an endless day stretching out before me is like flying over America. It goes on and on and on.
Here comes the sun
I got complacent and didn’t take Jackson out late last night. I opened the door and followed the trail of his widdle. Then we went for a brisk walk. I had on a t-shirt, fleece and my pyjama trousers. Half way round the ski centre, I abandoned my coat. The sun is now hot enough … Read more
Midnight at the Oasis
Firstly, I must tell you, Dave, that I have no comment to make about you know what.
Secondly, to my beaux in Brighton, the secret to attracting men seductively in the dance hall is to lounge against the wall, moving gently to the music and then whip out an Exchange and Mart and start talking about twin carbs and two in one oil. I find it works for me. Not!
And thirdly, to Mr. Engstrom in Swedenland: It is not polite to talk about horse wee as horse P***. We don’t like that in good old England, and as for your suggestion that I should be plastering the cottage with yoghurt… yoghurt creates moss, as any gardener will tell you, and anyway, the only yoghurt I have tops my blueberries, raspberries and strawberries for breakfast. P’raps you could join us sometime.
Well, today has been one of those scrappy kind of affairs.
B walked the dog, cleaned the kitchen, took the cloth off the kitchen table to expose the lovely blonde wood, threw out all the shoes that didn’t match and then buggered off to Soho to hear a band in Brewer Street.
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.
Travellers Tales
Jim shouted ‘I said get me up at 7.30’, but I thought he said 8.00 so the pair of us were running around like blue-arsed flies this morning.
He managed to get out in ten minutes. Off to the dentist, having had four and half hours of sleep.
I was more leisurely and dawdled around until I realised that I had to get to TWells for the 9.01 train and it was nearly 8.30 and the traffic and the rush hour and OMG! – So I kissed the dog and ran like the clappers to the car, ran back having forgotten the keys, ran back again and drove in the fast lane until I arrived at the car park. Then I leapt out of the car, put in my first pound coin – it came back to me. The second did the same. The parking machine was broken, so I wrote a scribbled note on an old receipt, ran to the exit where a working machine leered at me, bunged in 4 pound coins, too much money as I had no change, ran back to the car, screwed up the note and put the real parking ticket in its place, then walked very fast indeed to the station.
Got my cheap day return then into the coffeebarcumwaitingroom for ‘The Mirror’ and ‘The Mail’, both of which I hate, but both of which can be devoured in under 40 minutes and both of which have opposing versions of Alistair Campbell’s diaries, all of which makes… no, never mind as it’s just another pile of parliamentary money spinning.
I grabbed a seat next to an unusually long legged man and settled down for a read.
Now I don’t mind people falling asleep next to me, although I would prefer to have been formally introduced first, but this geezer stretched both his legs into my space, diagonally under the table. I had to struggle to put my little legs (I am only 5.1 and three quarters) up on the seat opposite which meant sliding down in the seat until my chin was resting on my clavicles.
When Long John Baldy started scratching his bits, I swear I nearly woke him, but he was so deeply asleep I thought it would confuse him if an aging traveller whacked him over the head with Alistair Campbell.
Sleepless in See-Sussex
Whenever my girlfriends come to stay, I burn the candles at both end. I have my cake and eat it, whilst biting off more than I can chew. All in all, I am clinched out, cream crackered and so full of chocolate, my airwaves are totally clogged up. I go to bed exhausted but can’t sleep because the conversation has fired me up. Hence sleepless in See…
We’ve just come in from Lewes. It’s about 20 minutes from the cottage. We went to see an art exhibition called ‘Body of work’, a free warehouse exhibition of stunning contemporary art. The show is on until 13th July, everyday from noon – 6pm. My cousin had created some wonderful splashes of colour with his arty bluebells, whilst one of his tattooed chums hung extraordinary pictures of blood and gore in the form of Buddha self harming and alienated figures literally crying their eyers out.
Mandalas, of intricate design, hung on one wall, whilst on the final corner, beautiful body casts were displayed. There was even a shuttlecock – which was just that. I should have liked to have met the guy who modelled for it.
I hope enough people support it, its so hard for artists to survive these days. We left Grant over-seeing the exhibition whilst five of us went for lunch in ‘Bills’ in Lewes.
The postman always rings twice
Well, just as I said, the postman arrived and I signed for BB’s ‘Love Box Weekend’ tickets. My, that sounds like a good day out, especially with the weather we are having. It snowed in Battersea this evening…
The postman and I talked about his grandson Zac, who is nine weeks old and smiling. His Grandpa swore he heard him say ‘dada’.
Then I walked the dog. I bought him a new rope lead. It smells good but he won’t hold it in his mouth. He obviously has an aversion to twine. It’s about the only thing he does have an aversion to. If any kind of food has been discarded, mislaid, masticated or eliminated, it will somehow find its way into his Labradorian gob. I now walk next to him and scream, tersely, just to remind him who is boss.
So, carrying my five birthday cards, me and the hound set off in the midday sun. He on his new lead and me holding it. I was feeling bright and cheery and awfully virtuous…
JaTuzzdi
There is an awful lot to do in the country. So far today I have juiced a whole pineapple and a massive papaya, taken the dog to the field and waited for him to widdle in the wet grass, sorted the mouldy coriander from the fresh, whizzed up my seed cheese, meditated, and left the door open for the postman. He’s a lovely geezer. His son went to school with my daughter so we’ve know each other for years. I’m awaiting tickets from some ruddy Festival BB is going to – I have to sign for them.
I’ve had a shower, responded to all my emails, and got dressed in preparation for the estate agent who is coming round at noon to evaluate the property. We’re not moving – I just want know how much we’re worth.
It’s Jacuzzi Tuesday today, the rain is teeming down. Last year Jim made weather boards in the front garden so that our cellar wouldn’t flood, yet again. He succeeded. Now it’s a dry as a bone, which is good because poor old Mr. Fenner doesn’t like the damp.
Michael and Selby
No, I can’t tell you what the food pilot is called. It’s not that it’s bad luck. It’s just that I’m not allowed to say anything. But thanks for your good wishes.
This morning I drove my daughter to Paddington. The traffic was catastrophic. We made it but I had to stop in a wine bar and borrow their restroom. Not literally – I left it fitted to the wall.
I had my pink Crocs on and slipped on the floor, landing on my knee. One of the regular drinkers looked at me and pondered as to whether to knight me with his ham baguette. He offered his hand instead.
I drove home in the teeming rain dodging all the traffic by taking what is a now a familiar route, West-ish, thanks to LBC.
I ate a lot, and continued to do so on the way back to Sussex, stopping off in Gypsy Hill for a spot or two of chocolate. I never normally eat it but the last week has reduced my strength and a good boost of milk chococrap really did the trick. Hello to the woman in the offy.
When I got into the suburbs of T’Wells I got lumbered behind a little white Robin Reliant.
I thought about how I never really watched ‘Only Fools and Horses’ as that kind of comedy ‘classic’ used to irritate me. I thought about how I could call the little white RR ‘Trotters’ something or other but felt it would be fraudulent since I don’t know the series that well…