Penultimate yoga class this morning.
I’ve just read that Yoga does nothing for aging. Interesting if you put ‘for’ and ‘aging’ together you get FORAGING aint that what you do when you get older. A bit of a forage here a bit of a mooch there?
Anyway whoever wrote that Yoga does nothing for aging is not a sprightly 65-year-old with a spring in her step.
This morning, despite Solly eating into one of the presents under the Christmas Tree, I ventured out into the damp, grey morning to sweat my way through an hour’s hot yoga.
Then to the post office to send off 40 odd cards – yes I know I’m late, but I haven’t sent cards for years. Now that everybody is dying I thought I would reconnect with the living.
Ad Infinitum
Year of the Goat
The fire is blazing, the telly silent till ‘Mapp and Lucia’, one cat asleep in the red bean bag, the other perched on top of the sofa. Emmy growls. Solly stares at her and she moans like an old wart hog. There was the possibility of going out BUT, well there’s always a but; we’ve … Read more
Christmas Cheer
Pj Sunday
November came and went. Parties, voice overs, writing and cooking. Not a lot of walking – I’m sooooo lazy at the moment. Meditating, yoga and film watching. Went to see PADDINGTON in Brighton. We all cried. The dawters gigs. Squash soup on the stove. Red cabbage bubbling away in fancy red wine. Belly of pork … Read more
O A PLEASE.
And now I have finally re-entered the world. Been strange, tricky, but with the help of homeopaths, witchy healers, friends and the old man I’m feeling more grounded. There’s something about this ageing stuff that makes me panic. The light at the end of tunnel is almost visible. The reality that what ‘was’ is greater … Read more
Potatis Bravas
5.30 and its dark outside. The moon is half hanging in a big sky. The telly is burbling on in the background, whilst the old man is mending a pair of my favourite trousers. I collected my little red car today. She is all brand spanking new, shiny and bump free thanks to a Mr. … Read more
Homely sweet homely
There is an air of suspended animation. Leaves clogging up the path. Apples dropping off the trees. Overgrown Basil and green tomatoes. This mornings breakfast Brussel Sprouts, the last tiny courgette, all the overgrown Basil the last few kale leaves and those green tomatoes sliced thinly. Cooke in olive oil and black pepper. Followed by … Read more
Coccyx Capers
The fight with the bathroom floor started to take its toll.
The pain in my right thigh was so persistant I had to take painkillers. Two trips to the osteopath, and the agony had only subsided a little.
I had bruised the old coccyx and I do mean ‘old’, I had compressed my lower back like a concertina.
More pain killers and another visit to the pullyouaboutlady.
Then I bought a train ticket to go to Leeds and see the ‘oosbind in The West Yorkshire Playhouse giving of his Judge Hathorne in ‘The Crucible’ .
Then my Voice Over agent called and asked me if I was free on Thursday.
I had my ticket, I had plans, I said I couldn’t do it.
Susie, John and Eric
How do you spend a day in the presence of baking royalty? You eat, thats what you do.
Not a lot, you don’t eat a lot, but you eat enough to know that what has been put in front of you is worthy of winners.
Monsieur Eric Landlard is an award winning baker, artist, and generally fabulous Frenchman.
He told us the story of when he first appeared on GFL. New to telly and the pressure of time limits, he didn’t have the confidence to tell us that the fridge door had opened between his legs. He did the whole segment whilst standing astride a cool box, although he never, ever lost his cool.
Today he had the confidence that only ‘The Cakeman’ can have.
Eric gave us Chocolate and Orange Christmas cake, Bouche de Noel and Souffle.
Matt, Christian and Sarah.
Wednesday morning arrived, and I climbed into the awaiting taxi. I declined breakfast knowing I was about to eat a full on roast and an American style Christmas courtesy of Matt Tebbutt and Christian Stephenson.
I decided, because of my hotel hopping, to rearrange my travel bags. I would leave my suitcase in the dressing room and just take me wash bag.
The dressing room was a small room with a fan, dressing rail, dressing table with lights round the mirror, shelves of ‘Accessorize’ earrings, empty carrier bags and mounds of pink tissue paper.
I carefully repacked my case put my washing stuff in one of the paper carrier bags and took myself off to makeup, turning off the light and closing the door. The room was hot, I was hot, the only cool place – both metaphorically and literally – was the studio.
Plonked myself in front of Kathy who had painted me to go with black velvet and gold trimmings, lime green, slinky black with see through bits and now Royal blue, which was later ruined by my pigging out on goose-fatty-roast-potatoes that were so unctious I was stuffing them in my gob when nobody was looking.
‘Step away from the spuds’ shouted Mel the patient floor-manager…
‘We need them for the pack shot’
I snaffled a secret ton of crispy Desiree’s, but left just enough for the cameramen to shoot.