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.
Jeni Barnett
The end of an era.
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….
the dating game
From vaccinations to hoodies, from summer houses, to dating. It is possible to feel the audience, in the theatre they are one animal. You can hear actors saying they were good tonight, or what a tight lipped crowd THEY were. On telly it may be just one person you are imagining you are talking to. … Read more
In harms way
There are moments in life that stay with you forever. The first embrace under dripping beech trees in Wales 32 years ago when the old-git looked like Paul Newman and I looked like Natalie Wood. Th moment the child looked up and said ‘Mummy I don’t need you to give me money I’ve got a … Read more
Dimanche 17th Aou
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.
Friday 15th of Aou…
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…
The Gums of Navalgazing
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..
Dog Day Afternoon
For thirteen years and seven months we had a big, soft, sloppy Labrador.
He was walked just about every single day.
When we were on holiday he was walked by friends and family.
When it rained we put on galoshes, anoraks and a happy face and braved the tempest.
We had short walks, round the houses, which took in chickens, the farm, the outdoor pursuit centre and most of the neighbours.
We had long walks that took in ponds, wood clumps, bluebell woods and scenery.
We had Camber Sands, Brighton beach, Ashdown Forest, and even the riverside walk in Battersea.
The Duke of Hazzard
One minute I’m talking about Prince Phillip and his prostate gland, the next Buckingham Palace have taken out a complaint against the Evening Standard.
I must say though, that it did feel just a little bit personal talking about the Princes privates.
It’s 18.30, I’ve tried to watch the news but the sun was shining in through the window and I couldnt see the screen. The flat feels like a Chinese Laundry, hot and steamy.
Last night was a reall tosser – at 3.00 I left the marital bedroom and slid onto the cool settee, unpeeling my body and hour later, I left the top layer of my epidermis on the brown leather to get back into bed with the hot husband. And by that I mean his temperature – we’ve been togther for 32 years for Gods sake.
Brooms and stuff.
Dear all,
I love that many of you want me back on UKTV food, but here’s the thing:
When GFL came off, last April, I mourned and moaned, wept and wished. However, the powers that be decided that having a hugely successful, highly rated, fun, brilliant, informative show, was not as good as having Market Kitchen.
Your guess is as good as mine as to why they felt I had to go. Age? I doubt it. New brooms sweeping the corridors of power? Probably. But more importantly they didn’t take into account the millions of you who watched it for all the wonderful chefs, their stories, and the cultural importance of understanding the politics of food.
When food becomes the province of the middle and upper classes you know we’re in trouble.
And we are. My industry is panicking, its arms flailing.
LBC has not only been a life line for me, but in 8 months I am constantly surprised by the power of real public broadcasting. I feel I have a usefullness matched only by GFL.
The fact that I am an unashamed exhibitionist makes being unseen a new experience but I love my job and heres why: