Jeni Barnett

The wind is up again. Gusty gusts that make the trees hummmmm.
I posted off Susie Pearls book to a friend, it is the best gift to anybody who wants to rearrange their life. I sent it from the little sub-post office on Green Lanes behind my house. The new post mistress is Indian with a great taste in jewellery. We had a chat and she popped the parcel in the sack.
It’s nearly difficult to type as my eye is now watering – well it has been ever since it started but some days its worse than others – today its watering out of sympathy for me.
I drove to Brighton to have my hair cut. The Barry says I look younger than ever I think I look like an old lady who has put a stocking over her head. There are no photos to prove it.

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MERRY YULETIDE TO YOU ALL.
Have a peaceful holiday.
I am working Christmas eve, 3-7 on BBC London. Then sitting in for Vanessa from Boxing Day for a week.
Do join me.
I dont know about you but this year seems unlike anything I have ever experienced. The tree is up, has been for two weeks, the lights are lit, the candles burning, the fire filled with logs. But I feel about as festive as a verruka.

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I look forward to ‘Strictly Come Dancing’, I really do.
I was invited to go today to a recording of the show but family bits got in the way.
I like the judges, the music, the costumes and the dancing, I cry when they get it right and marvel at the speed of the improvement of their fleckles.
Two weeks ago I would have changed channels to watch The X Factor. But forgive me it is so crass and meaningless that I can’t bear it any more. Not to mention the sadistic nature of the judging, and I was in love with Gary Barlow. Now he sounds like a smug, Mancunian millionaire with not a lot of compassion.
‘You Tube’ is full of little clips of American X Factor, Japanese X Factor. English X Factor, Mongolian X Factor. I hate it all. Sitting in front of a screen with nothing but the will to criticise poor wannabees without a thought in their heads accept their 15minutes of tawdry fame

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Todays soup was leek and potato without the potato, I used flagelot beans instead.
I was joined by Allie Stewrat, so called by a misprint, should have read Stewart….
The old man is soldering silver goblets together, they were as black as tar having spent decades on my mothers shelf hidden by gew-gaws and worthless trinkets. I spent this morning rubbing them with Brasso and shining them, I waited for the Genie but all I got was blackened fingers.
I collected a pile of stuff from my mothers flat yesterday. Loaded up the bamboo shelves, trolley and kick step ladder. Loaded up several fallen angels and bowls and mugs and pictures of me and my brother, photos of the family we were all stuffed in brown envelopes.
I loaded up her crocheted blanket which she had crafted herself, I piled her coats and scarves into the car. Left with everything at 2.30 and with the wind and angels behind me arrived home at 4.00
The old git complained when he walked in, the floor covered with worthless crystal vases and a box of chocolates from my mothers neighbour, 24 years of living spread over the carpet.

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Everything comes to those who wait and shout the loudest.
After months of yelling and compromising, after months of crying and beating my head against a brick telephone finally I have what, we hope, will be a beacon of light for my mother.
Jewish Care, a formidable charity, have a home in Brighton. It is light, airy, and friendly. It smells good. It has open doors into all the administrators offices. It has a view of the sea. It has its own little Synagogue. It has pictures on the walls, it has a lovely refectory, it has big telly screens, little telly screens and a garden where the fish swim around a fountain. It has people who have been there for nearly thirty years, thats the staff. And residents who have lived there for a long time. People come from London, Leeds and now Hertfordshire. I am keeping my fingers crossed that my mother will like it.

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Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the The Wells, your blood sugar rises as high as the heater gauge in your little red car and havoc is reeked.
So there I am having my porridge at 6.15 this morning. All bright eyed and bushy tailed. I’d added cinnamon and agarve syrup.
The moon was still out but the birds were giving it full throttle.
Climbed into my car and Aled Jones, on Radio 2, was also giving it full throttle – it’s a pity my car wasn’t.
“For those in Peril On The Sea.’ one of my favourite hymns, was echoing out into the early morning.
The mist was rising everywhere and the smell of loamy leaves hung in the air.
Through Tunbridge Wells and Rod Stewart was belting out ‘I am Sailing’.
Then another song rung out about the war being finished but the war not being waged to stop wars, a geezer singing ‘Turn. Turn. Turn.’ I sung along with every season blah blah blah, and then Joan Baez warbled the Gallipoli song about not dancing to ‘Waltzing Matilda’ any more because the man in the wheelchair had had his legs blown off. All songs chosen to commemorate Remembrance Sunday.
I started thinking about poppies and the use of them, about the political implications of poppies on footballers jerseys, of the sale of weapons, of arms dealers….
As the moon went down and the sun came up I thought how lucky I had been to live outside a war. How I probably wouldn’t have been very good in that kind of crisis. I thought about the strength of my parents.

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Vanessa Feltz was unwell. I got the call on Wednesday night.
Dressed myself in jeans and jacket and took the early morning train to London Bridge. Mangled brain slowed down for a minute and reminded me to take the Jubilee Line to Bond Street.
Walked in the rain to Laura Miller – the producer – and the lovely team to do Thursdays show.
Thank you all for contributing. Can’t remember what we talked about now.
I was then asked to sit in on Friday. Can’t remember what we talked about now…..
So I hot footed it to Groucho’s and booked myself a room.
Singletons lunch in a Vietnamese restaurant where I ate hot and sour soup, turnip fritters and 1,000 year old eggs. Well however old they were they tasted like the paper you find in the drawers in an old chest of drawers.
Lounged around with Barry until it was time to get to Turnham Green for GFL’s ten year reunion.

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