Jeni Barnett

I’ve had my fix of ‘Corrie’ and eaten last night’s left overs. I’ve talked with Jim, who’s in the flat, and written up a treatment for a new show so now it’s time to reflect on Sunday and today.

I spent all weekend cooking. I made so many curries that I swear my underarms smell of Madras chicken. I took BB back to halls last night, then drove across London to the flat and delivered Jim his bag of clothes and goodies. He drove up to town on his motorbike.

Now before you think ‘how grand are they with a flat in town and a country residence’, the truth is that when I worked at GFL the studio rented me a flat so that I could work 5 days a week. Since I started at sparrows fart and knocked off anywhere between lights out and ‘time gentlemen please’ it was eminently sensible to stay in town.

I used to have a wonderful driver called Flav, who collected me every morning at 6.00 and took me home every afternoon. But four hours travelling, every day, took it’s toll and soon Flav was as exhausted as I was. We agreed that his money would become my expenses, that he would go off to pastures new and I would stay in London Town.

Uncle ‘Eo, my lovely floor manager, knew the area, so he came out flat hunting with me. The second property i saw was overlooking the wonderful Thames, opposite Chelsea harbour. Very posh with 2 bedrooms, a kitchen and a little utility room that got so hot my smalls dried in 10 minutes. My larges took a little longer.

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I know it’s late but BB called and asked me if I was tired. When I said no, and I should have seen it coming, she asked me to collect her from her University halls so she could finish her essay at home tomorrow. I couldn’t say no, had no excuse, and anyway – it’s lovely to be asked and good to see her. So, off I went in my little red Nellie. Half way down the M25 the frigging roof blew off.

I felt like I was in a cartoon with a big massive falcon snatching me from above.
In the event it was just the catches that had come undone. I don’t know why or how, although I was travelling a bit fast. Alright, maybe a little faster, but I had a girl to collect, a petrol tank to fill and three programmes on the telly to watch. No, not ‘Marmshjeyg Krapklposefuteb’!

When I hit Lewisham, there was a huge traffic jam – at 9.30 at night! By the time we got home and had eaten my rather marvellous curry, it was ten before midnight.

I mixed lamb and beef in a marinade of yoghurt, hot chilli, coriander and garlic, then sweated down some onions, browned the meat and added water. Thank you, Manju Mahli. Her recipes are brilliant, simple and easy to follow. Check out her recipe books ‘Brit Spice’ and ‘India with Passion’. Well worth the money.

By the time I arrived home with the child and all of her smelly washing, Jim had put the rice on, Patsy Kensit was sitting on Jonathan Ross’s stomach, and the curry was perfectly cooked.

But now it’s over to you.

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Right, first things first.

Thank you for the cat pee suggestions. Especially Vinegar John in Shotts. Jim said he thought of it first, and told me to pour vinegar on it last week. I don’t think he did but then he says I never listen to a word he says. At least, that’s what I think he said. When I get the magical spray from the geezer in Penshurst I’ll let you know.

Secondly, I do the ‘Heat’ magazine adverts. At least, I did for a long time then they changed the campaign. But now, just when I need it, I may have another batch to do.

Voiceovers are a funny business. Most of the sound studios are centred around Soho, so it’s great if you want to buy fruit from Berwick Street Market or books from Walkers Court. Given that the book store is next to Raymond’s Revue bar, you will understand that the kind of library they stock is not quite to my taste although Ed Baines’ ‘Auburn and Randell’ is just round the corner, so if there’s time you can slip down an oyster.

Having arrived at the studio, there’s always a very lavish couch to sit on. A runner will appear immediately, offering refreshments, fruit, chocolate lollipops. They are a favourite since a dry mouth is fatal when voicing an ad. Listen for dry lips sticking together – they haven’t had a long enough suck.

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The weather was so fresh. The old geezer and I went for a walk. Jackson on the lead. Over the main road. In through the gate and there’s the orchard. The trees are budding quite late so there is no blossom.

I had a copy of ‘The Merchant of Venice’, and tested Jim whilst he did his lines. We were both declaiming the bard quite loudly when two women pruners stopped and smiled at us. ‘Bloody exhibitionists!’, I bet they thought.

Down through the apple and pear trees, right at the sign post, left a bit and then down the grassy bank to the gate. Jackson sits very patiently until his masters voice tells him to get a bloody move on (please read that in a Leeds accent).

Down the hill, where BB lost her phone as she and her mate rolled down through the long grass, helplessly sceraming with laughter. Past the mole hills, which Jackson poked his nose in, and down towards the stream.

The water moves gently and Jackson cannot resist it. Even at 94 he can’t stop himself from jumping in, scrambling out and finding some deer dung to roll in. He gets so excited rolling around. I hope I can do that at 94!

Through the big field, past the cut corn and there it is, all along the river bank – lush green leaves. Bunch after bunch of wild garlic.

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What’s the worst I can do? Lie.

Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie. Somewhere deep inside my addled brain I really thought I would go to India but here’s what happened. For three nights I haven’t slept. I’m not saying I am the New Messiah, but when I rose this morning I knew that something had shifted.

I showered really early. So early that the dawn chorus was just clearing it’s throat. Then I jumped into my little car and set off for London. Don’t be silly – of course I got dressed first.

I have a two seater red Mazda MX something or other (I don’t care about that bit) with a soft top and a very good sound system, although Jim reckons his controls are better than mine. (What is it with boys and their knobs?) I clambered into my seat, put on a wooly Tibetan hat that makes me look like a very sad old meer cat, checked the time, 7.00a.m., and put my foot down.

It wasn’t exactly cold but it wasn’t warm either. By the time I reached Streatham, I’d thawed out. I arrived at the flat in time to check my emails (lovely people you are), strip the bed and change into my trainers.

Then I walked very briskly. So briskly that when the white van men honked their horns, I knew it was less about my hour glass shape and more about certain body parts wobbling and my little legs taking me as fast as they could. I arrived in Sloane square with 30 minutes to spare.

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