Jeni Barnett

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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I was wearing all black. A strapless bra so that my top would reveal my shoulders which are brown from gardening. A pair of black balloon trousers over fancy pants.
I had a small red case.
Two books and my smart phone with several albums which the old git downloaded for me.
I had my tickets which my darling Nick – a trolley dolly of excellence -had organised for me through his employer British Airways.
I had chewing gum, scent and a new lipstick I bought at London City Airport.

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Where to begin.
My trip down to South West of England started inauspiciously.
I had stayed overnight with my writing partner, LSM. Her little West Hampstead flat is terrific, only I couldn’t sleep. I was like a time lapse film in a sleep lab. On my front, on my back, knees up, bum in the air, walking, hitting my head on the sloping ceiling, lying, sprawling, listening to my music, foetal, fatal. By the time the alarm went off at 7.30 I was panda eyed with sleep deprivation.
The trip to Waterloo was easy, LSM was carrying the new laptop and I was pulling a heavy red suitcase. Why I had packed so much rubbish is beyond me. She travelled with a toothbrush I with the bathroom sink.
Out of the tube up the escalator and my piggin shoelace got caught in the escalator step.
I fell flat, ripped my knee, halted the flow of Olympic commuters and felt like a complete pratt.
So began our journey to Axminster.

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So I stepped out this morning, having mowed the lawn. I wore a red daisy sarong and trainers. God Forbid I had an accident there was no underwear, clean or otherwise, to be seen.
I left the cottage my head full of lethal loops….’Will B ever get a music deal?’ ‘Will Jim ever work again?’ ‘Will my mother go gently?’ ‘Will I ever be able to sell my writing?” And so on around and around until I got to the open gate.
And there on the golf course was Gods Gift, wearing a hat that won us The Empire, his golfing partner sporting a titfar that would have done Lawrence of Arabia proud.
I snuck onto the green, knowing that my outfit would not have gone down well in the club house, watched the ‘oosbind hit a blinder, called him and he, as if it was everyday that a nearly naked woman commented on his balls, said.
‘Alright?’
And I answered;
‘Yes.’
As if it was everyday that I went onto the green to ask him to put the rubbish out, change the fuse in the humidifier, recycle the bottles and put a new light in the bathroom.
I gathered up my loins and walked the first bend.
The first stream sounded like cicadas hissing its way to the other side of the valley.

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I wonder whether the Great Bon Dieu understands the irony of old age, he takes away sleep when our bodies are in the need of rest. In my case waking at 2-4-6-a.m. is de rigeur. Insomnia is part of the package.
So at. 5.00 this morning, rather than stay in bed and wonder how to place my body so it didn’t get in the way of itself, I got up.
Across the landing and left into the little room. The sun was barely up. I did my Tibetan five which my osteopath tells me my body likes. It stretches everything in the right way, engages my mind as I count to 21 and works the breathing apparatus. In on the downward stroke and out on the upward, at least thats the theory.
I thought about going back to bed but decided I didn’t want to waste the morning.
See The Great Bon Dieu does understand that time is not infinite and when you get to my age it is patently obvious that sleeping your life away won’t get that novel written.

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