Jeni Barnett

I sat in the bath wondering what to wear for the funeral.
Ken Campbell was a man of vision. A luminary, some would say a nutter. He could have cared less what I was wearing. When we worked together he wore a faux fur loin-cloth whilst I strutted my stuff in a drawer string sack that scratched like buggery.
‘Stone Henge Kit The Ancient Brit in the End of The Woad.’ hit the Edinburgh Festival over thirty years ago. I wore orange peel for teeth, cooked dog food on stage and had to apply wet coffee grains to Pans pants to make him look like he had – well you get the picture.
I was nominated as Best Actress and Ken Campbell was deemed to be a genius for our time.
If it all sounds a bit luvvie, forgive me, Ken taught me everything I know about being in the moment. He died in his sleep two weeks ago,
I was about to make my way to Epping Forest Burial Park – a cemetery for our time – which is why I was sitting in the bath wondering what to wear.

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There are two reasons for my being naked.
The first:
Walking into the flat.
Off with the outdoor attire, on with the body. I sit here, like Spike Milligan, or Monty Python”s lot, naked ‘cept my wedding rings, necklace and my three bracelets.
The ring on my wedding ring finger is white gold with diamonds studded round it. I’ve tried to count the diamonds but I keep losing my place.
The ring on my index finger is pure gold, a single band. Both bought by the ‘oosbind.
Bracelet number one was given to me by Sylvie. It’s a collection of 10 little wooden blocks 1cm long and two little balls either side of them. Each wooden slab has a Saint on it. Some clearer than others. Elastic threads through the beads and the blocks. The elastic is loose even though the ‘oosbind tightened it for me recently. I wear the Catholic gift with pride. It’s mean to bring we luck, life and peace.
Bracelet number two was given to me by Jim. A pink piece of elastic, is joined by two bits of fancy plastic to a white piece of elastic. It’s meant to keep me alive, repelling radiation from computers and mobile phones.
Bracelet number three was given to me by Ursula. It has a little hand on it and a tiny disk with Hebrew writing, both in solid silver. They dangle from a red ribbon. So who cares that its Kabbalah its meant to bring, long life, protection, love and prosperity.
My left wrist is indeed prophetic and weighty.
My Necklace is a good long silver chain on which hangs a little silver heart and tourquoise eye to ward off evil from Bee.
An Om sign in solid silver which sings out the sound of the Universe, from me to myself.
And a big silver thingermybob that’s meant to ward off pulsating evil from everything around me. Jim bought it for me.
Between Sylvie, Ursula, Bee and Jim nothing can get to me.
The fact that I clank and chink and have slouching shoulders from the weight of it all is irrelevent, nothing dares get near me.
The second reason I am naked is the washing cycle.

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I used my gymstick this morning.
A stick about so long, with two rubber foot stirrups. Rubber tubes that can be curled round the stick makes the length longer or shorter. The aim, by working against the stick, is to strengthen muscle groups by maiming yourself in the process.
10 lots of bicep curls three times.
10 lots of tricep curls three imes.
Sit ups, sit downs and a 12 minute run.
The old git turned right to go home, me left and then a gentle run – 6 minutes to Battersea Bridge and 6 minutes back.
On the way there I spied a lone trainer under the honeysuckle bush by the seagulls. Somebody must have lost it out of their bag, tripped out of it, or discarded it so that I could meditate on its presence. It occurred to me that one trainer on its own was absolutely useless, unless of course, you were Long John Silver.
One trainer is possibly the most exasperating thing on earth. The poor cyclist who had dropped it out of their saddle bag? The shopper out of their basket? The runner out of their ruck sack? Then the endless wondering where they had left it, dropped it, hidden it. Looking for it in all the nooks and crannies, wondering whether they had left it in the kitchen, the bedroom, the cupboard under the stairs. Then the realisation that perhaps they had probably dropped it somewhere on the way to work, but where?
I pondered, for a split second, wondering whether I should put it on the ledge by the ‘flooding’ sign but decided against it.
Then I felt overwhelming compassion for the owner of the one perfectly heeled trainer. They would have to buy a whole new set, for a big pile of money, as nobody, to my knowledge,sellls one trainer at a time….

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Samedi’s sandals had done the trick, but Dimanche demanded firmer footwear.
Team leader Linda, and I had decided on our itinerary, we knew where we were going and we knew how to get there, we were ready to go by 10.00.
A quick sleush with the uber shower, on with the dalmation dungarees, which by the way are white with black spots, not black with white gaps, and then the elevator down four floors.
I slipped off the step, opened the metal door and we were greeted by a warm summer Sunday.
Sunday is still Sunday in Paris. The supermarkets close their doors, the background noise of the city is muted and most of the shops are shut. The ambiance is different, lazy, lazy like a Dimanche morning….
Left over the roadworks and right onto Blvd. Edgar Quinet, where instead of fruit and veg there were artists. Real, live French artists who smoked, individualised their paint splattered jeans, and hung their canvases under white linen tents.
It was Marche Parisien de la Creation. Tous les dimanches, give or take a couple of acute accents. Every Sunday 120 art and crafty types set up shop, open their big sudoku puzzle books and settle down to sell their wares. As we sauntered between hand-touched photographs of India and naked torsos fashioned out of wire, my stomach started to rumble. Linda thought I was getting excited over the whole art-work thing, I hadn’t the heart to tell her it was because I had a hole in my belly where my breakfast should have been.

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I travelled to Paris with a bag that measured 16″ by 10″.
It contained three pairs of black knickers, one tooth brush, a bottle of Chanel No. 5, a Mac red lipstick, a bergundy passport, a return ticket, an Oyster card, just enough money, 2 door keys, 5 pens a red notebook and a plastic raincoat that rolls up into a ball.
I left LBC at 4.00, threw all the above in the bag, leaving the rest of my life in the middle of my bed and ran out of the flat at 4.45.
I continued running for the 170 bus to Victoria.
Ran down the stairs at Victoria Tube Station.
Smiled on the tube,as I hung on for dear life, all the way to St. Pancras.
The beautiful building was full of Friday night excursionists.
Bought one bottle of water and a double Mars bar.
Clutched my free Independent and the Evening Standard magazine for my hostess, who just loves it…
Waited for the train steward to call us then walked the platform. The train comes in so precisely that the platform is painted with the coach numbers. I kept looking down until I passed coach 15. Then I climbed up the steep step and took my pre-booked window seat, in Coach 16 on the 19.00 hours Eurostar to Paris, I had specifically pre-booked the window seat in Coach 16 on the advice of my hostess who said it would cut down on patform walking when I arrived the other end.
I settled down when…

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Bugger Uranus – or maybe it’s Saturn!
Having had the proper holiday its noses to the grindstone until Paris this weekend. And before you waggle your finger and accuse me of living the life of Reilly, I’ve been invited to stay with a friend who has promised to give me a guided tour of the romantic city so that when the time’s right I’ll take the old git on a guided tour of the city that I would have had this weekend..

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