Ad Infinitum

Can’t blame my exhaustion on jet-lag, but can blame it on crazy schedule and deaths.
I’e been trying to rock myself to sleep by intoning the San Franciscan itinerary, but I get lost with all the drive-bys and hotel changes.
Whilst you lot were letting off rockets and eating hot potatoes round your bonfires I was winging my way to The West Coast of California, alongside Robert Redford.
He had his seat, I had mine Ollie Smith lounged in the first seat, first class of course, we all read our papers and watched our films, reclined our chairs into first-class beds, then after hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours in the sky we finally touched down in San Fran airport.
Tyson, the baseball cap wearing Oregonian, collected us. Loaded up our cases and off we went on a four hour drive to our first location.
The first bed was in a hotel worthy of Nicholas Cage.
Huge room, orange decor, cold, cold, cold. Coffee in plunge jugs and food in coin operated machines.
My chest-cold had transmuted into Bronchitis and then a cough that made me sound like Dot Cotton.
77 degrees in the shade and Holly S, from one vineyard, gave me YINCHIAO herbs and I started to function again and off we went with our camera crew filming;
wine growers, their vineyards, ranchers, their cattle, cowboys and olive groves.
But not necessarily in that order.

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I’m waiting for my boarding card to be printed.
Gods Gift is in the studio sorting out the finances, the dawter and bestie are at the shops buying food for the Sunday Roast, I have a pile of clothes with me here in the attic, which has to be transferred to my bedroom, then my suitcase.
I spent all day yesterday trying to open the fecking thing. Couldn’t remember the numbers. The internet helped but still I couldn’t open it.
I tried so many combinations – birthdays, anniversaries, lucky numbers, went through the whole family. I tried sliding the slider and going through a ritual starting with all the ‘0’s then adding each number and feeling whether it was stiffer or loser, still no joy.
The ‘oosbind tried, the dawter and her bestie tried, we closed our eyes and imagined what my mother would have used as a code, since the case was originally hers. Then in the kitchen this morning, the old git standing by the trolley eating his bacon sandwich the girl under a towel steaming her cold, and me with my brain wave. Tried again. Wowser. The catches flew open. Now I can pack for San Francisco and California. Six outfits and a wash bag.
Surprisingly some of my trousers still fit, which is always a bonus.
It has been nuts since I got back. I’ve been sitting in at Radio London but only for three days as the storm grounded me on Monday and Tuesday. No electricity, no trains, no respite.

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The clock is ticking it’s 01.18
That and the cats purring is the only sound in the cottage.
My body seems to have dealt with the jet-lag remarkably well.
I didn’t take my lap-top with me and writing on my smart phone is nightmare. I did, however, take a monumental suitcase that if it weren’t for three American boys, the BA crew and the delicious Olly Smith, I would be broke of back and weak of arm.
The journey started with a surreal twist.
HEATHROW AIRPORT:
Terminal 5.
I had been picked up by a taxi, a man who smoked and talked. I learnt all about his marriage break up – after 48 years – I took him the back way since he liked LOCAL KNOWLEDGE. We got onto the M25 via Godstone. He must have been thinking about his estranged wife because he slammed the breaks on and I whacked my knee on the seat in front of me.
‘If you want to report me,’ he said ‘Go ahead.’
I didn’t report him. Went to baggage drop, since my boarding pass had been printed up for me, I stood quietly as my heavy bag passed the test.
‘Are you the mother of BB.James?’ asked the nice lady.
‘Yeah.’ I was nonplussed.
‘She’s got big hair and an amazing voice?’
‘Yeah ‘ I said again nonplussedx2.
‘Well….’
The nice lady told me how she had worked with dawter at Choice Radio and blah blah.
I went through security delighted that BB.James had made an impression.
I bought some nuts, went through to the boarding Gate and met up with Ollie.
‘Who do I have to sleep with here to get an upgrade.’ I quipped.
And bugger me if the two men at the checkout didn’t upgrade us to Club Class. Surprised both Olly and myself. The journey to LAX had started, we were treated to linen napkins, constant attention and a chair that turned into a bed.
I watched the Tina Fey film – Admissions – and cried like a baby, took my homeopathic jet-lag remedy, slept a bit and before you could say ‘No More Champagne thanks.’ we were through security.
Given that I was born in the last century I got preferential treatment, although I still had to take off my boots, belt and and bangles.

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it’s 18 minutes past 2.00 and I’m still in my winceyette pj’s.
I’ve been diving into my days since the last programme – which as many of you know was extremely emotional.
It was also indulgent, funny, spirited, busy, musical, fattening but most of all e-e-e-e-e-motional.
Thank you so much for all my touching emails and messages.
So life now takes a different turn.
Monday I was shredded. I could hardly walk. Even though I knew my time at the Beeb was coming to an end it still hit me hared. Life -as we know it – had come to an end.
Although I am still covering at the end of October, and have just been asked to do Christmas and the new Year. All to be negotiated around the Old Git’s dates.

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Little blue shorts and purple vest thingy, my trainers and a hair clip.
Yesterday I went to my brilliant beautician, who I have been seeing for 23 years, and spent an hour and a half having all my naughty bits removed.
First she slathered anesthetic cream all over my face and neck, then I held a metal rod which kept the current going round. Then she pricked me with a sharp little needle and cauterised all me blemishes. When the feeling came back into my face it felt like my skin was mmmming and humming, mmmming and humming.
Today I look like a Garibaldi biscuit. I may have mentioned that yesterday.
This morning , wearing my purple ensemble I ironed and tidied up before my wonderful cleaner arrived. I wanted her to do things in the kitchen which four baskets of ironing would have prevented.
Anyway ironing is one of those right brain activities which allows thinking. I kept the radio off and mulled over all sorts.
My writing partner.
BBC London.
Voice Overs.
Agism.
Poverty.
Loneliness.
What to cook for supper.
How long I would look like a Garibaldi.
Then I called my nephew – DAN THE MAN – who is so sensible and wise and clear and delicious. By the time I had pressed the last pillow-case and duvet-cover he had sorted me out.

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