Jeni Barnett

Hello, you lot. Darling Rod, my swarthy flight attendant, I am flying back on Sunday 20th, the evening flight. Cancel all your plans. I need you to see the new me. Now, thank heavens I can fit into one seat. What a relief.

As for you women who think I am being brave, it doesn’t take bravery to do what I am doing. Just iron resolve. But let me tell you walking through San Diego with the smell of a thousand island restaurants assaulting your senses is just about as testing as it gets. I am hanging in though to get rid of five years of hearty, happy, totally unhealthy eating – and it’s working.

As we speak, Josh, my host, is cooking up a steak with mushrooms, onions, cilantro (coriander) and a large helping of olive oil. Zoe is lying on the settee, as she is unable to move her legs from being made to work out so strenuously by her live-in-lover that she can only walk a few paces before applying for a legal separation. She’s not ill and is happily injesting the smells. I’m salivating as he chops up my lettuce, onion, tomatoes and sprouts… little live sunflower seed sprouts that take a year to chew and make your enzymes scream with delight. But, you see, it’s all in the mind. My three lettuce leaves, and the organic fly that Zoe so lovingly laid on my plate, will taste just as wonderful as his big, fat, juicy, sweet smelling, unctious slab of best fresh beef from Henry’s the organic supermarket, and yes, vegetarian pigs might fly.

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Well, as I slurp yet another green juice, you are all safely tucked up in your beds.
It’s 5.40 Pacific time which makes it nearly 3.00a.m. so if you are an insomniac, Good Morning.

The drive down to San Diego was utterly uninteresting. Maggie, my host, drove. Sybil sat in the back and I nodded off in the front. I’m not sure that Maggie realised I was asleep. So sorry, Mags, but I was understandably anxious about giving my body over to a bunch of Americans. But we arrived intact.

The weather was hot, the receptionist cool, though friendly, whilst I was shaking in my sandals. Sybil and Maggie drove off and I waved goodbye feeling like the new girl at nursery school.

My room was being cleaned by the ‘maid’ (don’t you hate that and just one of the many differences between us and them) so I wandered around the campus. Yes, it is called a campus because people come there to learn. There are palm trees, and birds of paradise, lots of lawns, lashings of sprinklers – it’s near the desert remember – and loads of loungers and soft cushioned chairs for the inmates to sit on.

A few guests were scattered around the place, casually dressed and sipping what looked like cloudy water.

It was indeed cloudy water- Rejuvelac- to be precise, which is actually fermented rye juice. It puts back the probiotics in the gut and tastes like off lemonade. But it’s worth getting used to.

I was eventually shown to my room. Twin beds, private bathroom, chest of drawers and Venetian blinds to block out the movement of the cars on the 70 lane freeway outside (and the movement on the inside of my bathroom).

Most people turned up by nine and my first overview of the other inmates was one of horror. They were all American, durr!, apart from Neil The Liverpudlian Comic and Michael the Mancunian lingerie salesman. I spent my first night tossing in my single bed, kicking off the nylon throw and wishing that I was back in Blighty.

When we checked in we were given a huge filofax diary with all our classes which after a cursory perusal only served to terrify me even more. What did ‘Circle’ mean? And ‘Elimination’ for an hour and a half? ‘Implants’? What the Hell were they going to do to us?

I had come to detox, not to end up looking like Dolly Parton. Not that I have got anything against Dolly but implants I don’t need!

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Alex Baldwin is on the telly talking about parental alienation. Sybil the soothsayer is having a lie down. Maggie, my hostess, is in the kitchen and the last remnants of the gecko have been retrieved from behind the armchair. Sam the cat has just entered the room but mercifully his mouth is empty.

Sybil took me to Venice Beach. I have never, in all my life, seen a more seedy, ugly, unfortunate area. The palm trees line the walkway. The sand dunes lead down to the Pacific Ocean. All sounds good so far, but back on dry land we have:

1. very bad musicians playing very bad music for a donation
2. not very good artists doing not very good paintings for donations
3. wasted men sitting cross-legged holding hand-painted cardboard signs with the legend ‘We will **** for marijuana’
4. a jolly good juggler, so I did leave a donation
5. okay jewellers making okay jewellery, for a donation
6. tarot readers reading tarot for, you’ve guessed it…

There is a 26 mile bicycle track that runs parallel to the ocean, which I’m sure is a great ride, but the walkway is so depressing, whilst the food is reflected in several large human beings who have partaken of too much sea(side) food.

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Well, finally I am able to get into the site. It has taken three days and countless long distance phone calls and emails, but I think we are there. Here’s hoping.

It’s 10.10am my time, 6pm your time.

I’m forever counting eight fingers to find out what time it is back home.

I am nearly over my jet lag. My homoeopath gave me a remedy which I keep popping. I wake at 1.15am (9am in blighty) – then at 3.15 then 7.15. This morning I got up at 6.30 and called Jim. He told me to stop ringing him. I called B who told me stop ringing her. I called my mother who said ‘Hello, goodbye!’ And then I hung up. My hosts have a deal with a telephone company so the bill is tiny.

The journey out on Thursday morning could not have been simpler. Jim kicked me out of bed at 6.30. I was all packed, if a little nervous. Oh, come on… it’s a trip to a retreat thousands of miles away with nobody to talk to and no bread to comfort me. Jim waved me off. I felt like I was going off to a new school, which I suppose I am.

The driver was a fascinating Algerian geezer who spoke French, English, Algerian and a lot of sense. As we sat in a traffic jam on the way to Heathrow, we talked about exile, cooking and the Sahara desert. He told me about the Bedouins, their hand-crafted shoes to keep their feet cool in the sand, and the exodus of the young into the cities.

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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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