Jeni Barnett

And so it is official I am still with BBC London 94.9.
Let me tell you the relief merited an almond milk latte and a gluten free cherry cake.
My inability to trust the process of the Universe has been tested to the limit of late.
‘Why?’ ask my esoteric friends do I not believe that all will be as it should be.
‘Well’ I reply ‘The last two and half years have been so dramatic, so brutal, so intense, that were I a disciple from Galilee even I would still have had my patience tested.’
Although somehow I have survived the force nine gale that has hit me, I have rolled with the punches, faced my demons, come up still breathing and still managed to write a script with Ms Majors, that even I am proud of.
Today I forsook a day of re-writes to go to Brighton with Gods Gift to see Maia, the step grandaughter, in her Nativity play.

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It has been far too long.
Far too long rummaging through the boxes and drawers of my past.
This morning I took the 7.19 train from Sevenoaks. The drive to the station was slow and cautious. The frost as thick as lard on a slice of white bread.
The platform was freezing. I hid in a shelter my fingers pulled into my pullover and a woolly scarf wrapped round my head.
The other travellers were stomping their feet and walking small distances to keep warm. The train was three minutes late, which given the temperature, felt like three hours.
I meditated on the train, sitting next to an oriental gentleman who had monstrous headphones. Mercifully the music stayed in his ears and didn’t bleed into mine.
We arrived at Charing Cross people running to all the exits like snooker balls.
I covered my head and walked out into the air. Cold. Sharp. Bright.
The bells of St. Martins in the Field clanged. The sun, crimson red, on the top of the Coliseum. I walked past the National Portrait Gallery as the last of the eight chimes rung out over an empty Leicester Square.
Where is Charlie Chaplin’s statue?
Its criminal that they have taken him, and his walking stick away.
I weaved through China Town, through Carnarby Street, past The Palladium, onto Oxford Street and exactly 20 minutes later I arrived at the new BBC.
A Christmas Treee stands outside the revolving doors. It has a protective barrier around it. That’s the Beeb for ya….
It was lovely to be back in the studio. It felt like I had been away for months.

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I ate an Italian meal alone.
Not a good look, since Italians are all about family and conviviality. Still I had an appointment at 4.00 and had to fill three hours until ‘OUR BOYS’ at the Duchess Theatre in the evening.
I took my seat facing what I thought was an Italian mama awaiting her family until I realised that I was looking at myself in a large mirror.
I changed seats and sat diagonally opposite an American on my right and a young Swedish couple to my left.
Behind were four frightfully smart ex-militia. She piped up, in a far louder voice than was necessary.
‘White wine and we were in the LOIREEEEE.’
I choked on my soft bread roll and Anchor butter. I had difficulty unwrapping the little square of burro since the tips of my fingers are mashed with all the loading and unloading I’ve done over the last three weeks. They are so dry that I’ve used up all me hand cream on the kitchen window sill.

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Sleeping is easier since I pulled the suitcases from the top of the wardrobe, emptied my bookshelves, removed all the Jewellery boxes from the side of the bed and took down paintings that I had grown out of.
But last night I was spinning around in my head, what with one thing and another and another…. Went down stairs and read the Daily Mail gossip, tickled the cat, let her upstairs so she could sleep on the bed, and finally fell asleep around two.
I awoke to John Humphries talking about the Chinese Election – or was it Erection?

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So the leaves on the lawn have created a damp carpet of bronze.
Jim and I have been changing the cottage round, and have trodden thousands of wet leaves into the soft lawn. Apparently it’s been the wettest year since 1766. I have managed not to slip on the beech leaves. Walking gingerly with bags and boxes and piles of stuff. My broken toe still sore.
Intense work.
Intense pleasure.
Intensely unsettling.
Jim has gone into the studio ‘Le Shed’, and I have moved into the attic,
The attic was B’s home for years but since she now only visits I was told to reclaim the room.

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Mr first sacking was back in 1988.
I read out a letter on TVam about David Steel and David Owen….It was ten days before the General Election and I didn’t now about the Representation of Peoples Act. Each political party must have equal billing.
I had just had B, not twelve weeks before, was still breast feeding and didn’t know whether it was Day or Guy Fawkes.
I started the letter and couldn’t make sense of it I continued reading it until the bitter end. There was a deathly hush.
Max Bygraves was sitting on the settee next to me. In the gaping hole of silence Mr. Bygraves said quietly –
‘I hope your career lasts as long as that letter.
The studio laughed.
I was sacked two days later.
Max Bygraves died in Australia today.
RIP Mr. Bygraves.

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