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.
Jeni Barnett
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:
From Camelot to Cornwall.
Today Sanjeev Bhaska talked about his role in SPAMALOT.
I went last night with BB to see the show. I always thought the Palace theatre was huge. Actually it’s quite small and sweet with wonderful ceilings.
There were two hysterical moments in the evning and Sanjeev was totally charming on stage.
Do the Locomotion
The rain has lifted the humidity.
I have enjoyed the heat though.
I travelled through London with the roof down on my car, the 30 degree sun pounding down. I played Stevie Wonder very loudly on my car stereo and wondered why I was SUCH an exhibitionist.
Had tea with my agent on his balcony – the Gherkin to the left of us – and arrived back at the flat in time for Coronation Street which I forgot to watch.
Marrakech – Part Five
Marnie and Will sent us photographs of their Riad in Marrakech.
Pretty.
Light.
Beautifully clean.
I felt SO hard done by.
Jim says I will never be able to have a good holiday because I don’t know how to relax and because I want everything to be perfect.
My nephew says I don’t know how to have a good holiday because I am not practiced in it.
I had my first holiday, in England, when I was 35.
My brother and I were not shown how to have a good time, it’s not my parents fault they weren’t shown how to paint the town red either.
Road to Marrakech – Part Two
Waking up to the call to prayer made a change from the East Sussex starlings. Our room overlooked the garden with two tortoises an array of plants and an old fishing net.
Once we got the electricity back we could see that our room was big, the bed semi-soft, the shower cubicle red earth colour, whilst one wall in the bedroom was tastefully covered in mutli-coloured woven bamboo.
The wavy lines, however, were not conducive to sunstroke, local beer belly or extreme exhaustion. It was like post boat spin when you’ve travelled to Zebrugga and back in a force 8 gale and then have to interview Mr. Roy Hattersly at the House of Commons – but that’s another story.
blighty
Apart from sun stroke, food poisening, exhaustion, and shock, I am very well thank you. Once I have unpacked, mowed the lawn, done the accounts, sorted my washing, driven to London, found the post box key, paid the bills and emptied my head I will be back to normal. See you then.
Sunday funday.
After a breakfast of scrambled eggs – Bill Granger style – bacon, fresh coffee and toast, I drove Aj back to his car.
21 year old boys who play American football really are sweet arm candy.
The wind was fresh, although this evening its even fresher. The branches on the trees, over-looking the balcony, are waving their leaves around foppishly.
BB drove back into London so Sunday took on a bit of the-old-folks-at-home-scenario.
night time reveries
The cottage has a hole where the dog used to be.
Emmy, the cat, sleeps on the bean bag. I wonder if she is missing him too. But It is only my vain imaginings.
The clematis flowers, huge great big purple ones, have burst their buds round Jims shed.
The re-potted purple sage has kicked up a fuss. It did not like being moved into a new terracotta pot. So now the roses, instead of having their purple companion, drop their petals over a dishevelled droopy herb which looks like its sulking.