Jeni Barnett

Here comes the sun

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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

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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.

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Moanday

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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.

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Travellers Tales

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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.

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Sleepless in See-Sussex

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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.

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The postman always rings twice

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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…

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JaTuzzdi

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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.

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Michael and Selby

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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…

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Nil by mouth

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By four o’clock today I had had enough of my own gob. No more yakking, no more voice overs, no more chit-chat. I had been at it from 7.15 a.m.
My day started with BB and I driving into Soho. We left early so that we could wander through the empty streets which always reminds me of Paris first thing in the morning. Everything lazily opens with a smattering of people sitting outside coffee shops having a morning brew.
We drove down Shaftesbury Avenue to turn right into Wardour Street, when there they were – 48 plastic cones and a barrage of metal railings. Half the street was being dug up. I turned the car round. I tried Greek Street, Dean Street, Frith Street, then Greek Street, Dean Street, Frith Street. Again, each time we were thwarted. They all went in the wrong direction round the one way system and by the time the clock had passed nine, we were suffering motion sickness from travelling in ever decreasing circles.
Eventually I made a calculated decision to try and park in Soho Square. Terrific except that now there are hardly any coin-receiving machines. By the time I had secured a parking slot, it was 9.30 and I had yet to telephone in my parking details. Voiceover studios are booked by the hour. Time is money and I seemed to be using up the valuable minutes like we had all the time in the world.

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Mr Brown goes to the palace

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As we were coming to the end of today’s LBC programme, I watched the television screen in front of my nose, and there they were – Mr and Mrs Brown holding hands and being cheered on from people standing on glass balconies. The B’s looked like royalty in creased suits.
As I write, I’m chomping on the most amazing chestnut bread that Paul Hollywood brought into the studio. He gifted me that and a lovely ciabatta loaf, fresh from his own baking ovens in Kent.
The radio show goes so swiftly. I know what I’m doing when I’m talking to people but my timing is as bad as a pregnant woman trying to calculate the date of delivery of her first born baby after a night out on ouzo with a group of drunken midwives – hic!
There was so much I wanted to talk to Paul and Ian Marber about but I had to keep remembering when to go to ads, news and weather. You would think after 498 years in the industry, I would know a second from a minute but I’m all over the place. It’s doing me brain in.

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