Ad Infinitum

This is for Angela and all of you who want to remain young forever and ever and ever.
You can get books on THE TIBETAN FIVE, you can find the exercises on the internet.
The story I heard was that two men were about to go to the Himalayas to find the secret of eternal youth. One man declined and the other, old, relying on a walking stick, and really not mobile, went alone.
Up into the monks world he went and was taught the five rites.
Some four years later he went a-knocking on his friends door. On opening the door his friend saw a man of youth. Standing erect, looking young, elegant and as youthful as a Shaolin monk. And so the myth continues, the decrepit wil rise again.
Now for a long time it was a huge hit in Germany, my German acupuncturist friend told me about them years ago.
My Swedish acupuncturist has been doing them for 27 years and looks younger than her 67 years. Much younger, indeed a magazine have just asked her to be interviewed because they thought she was 40.
My writing partner’s mother did them and died peacefully aged 90, Bruce Forsyth does them, etc. etc.
I do not do them because I want to look like Audrey Hepburn dressed as lamb, I do them because they are easy, and take no longer than 20 minutes. because they utilise all the bendy bits of a body that make you feel better about yourself.
The theory is that all the Chakra points – vortexes of energy in the normal body – get a work out.
No point in me trying to describe the positions but if I tell you what they are you can research them for yourself on the t’internet.

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It has been a very, very long week.
I am missing writing Potty Politics. I haven’t even started on my next project. I am having headaches trying to make an idea work. The sun is out and all I want to do is sit in the garden and eat cheese and wine except I don’t eat cheese or wine.
Sitting in for Vanessa was really good fun. Lovely producers and lovely listeners.
Tomorrow I’m doing another shift at Radio Kent. Should be fun.

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23.32 and I’m using my personal hotspot. I didn’t know what it meant either, but my personal husband showed me, in a very up close and personal way, how to turn on my settings, hit the on switch and open up the gateway to the ether, so that t’internet and all the cyber nonsense would work for me.
And why has he done that well, as I write, we’re sitting in a flat in the old ‘Bryant and May’ match factory in the Bow Quarter in London’s E3.
I was asked to sit in for Vanessa for a week starting on Tuesday. Since it was our 25th wedding anniversary on Saturday, I had already decided to take this Sunday off. I happened to ask the very dear Luke Doonan if he knew of anywhere to stay for a week. His flat came up, was free just when we needed to stay, so Bob’s your uncle..
I loaded Jim’s car up with duvet, pillows, towels, juicer, kettle, food, books, clothes, washing stuff and off we went. Johnathan is looking after the cat so with instructions in hand we set off, after my treatment with the cranial osteopath, to the East End of London.

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A pot of liquorice tea next to me.
Fennel and tarragon soup made and ready to eat. It’s a delicate pea green. Or should I say its a delicate fennel green – no because the bulb is white.
Red Thai curry paste, home made, in the fridge, ready to smear over the fish which is sitting in a bowl of lime and orange water. Pollock smells too fishy for my liking so I’ve disguised it with citrus.
Tonight B and her besty are getting drunk to watch The Eurovision song debacle. I dare say I will get roped in to provide nibbles and comment.
I thought I may just start the evening off with fresh asparagus from the asparagus farm.

As you would expect I chose the bent and curly over the jumbo
I nearly bought hollandaise sauce to go with them, but it’s not my favourite taste. Too vinegary. So just a paper bags worth for whoever decides to sit and eat.

Griddled in olive oil with a fresh farm egg fried in just too much butter, and slipped over the top.
That’ll go down a treat, which will be more than I can say for most of the European offerings that will be hurled at us by Mr. Norton over the telly waves.

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I did all me bits and left the house at 9.30. The weather looked kind so I didn’t take a coat, although in case of inclement cock-ups I’ve got a gardening jacket in the boot I picked up for five quid.
Got to Brighton in no time and parked outside the middle daughters house. She’s in London rehearsing for the CLOD ENSEMBLE, which they’re taking to the Brighton Festival. She doesn’t want to know whether we are coming or not so I’m certainly not going to reveal anything to you lot since none
of you can keep a secret, all I’m saying is I’m busy on the 22nd.
Anyway the daughters delicious man was in, gave me a parking permit, kissed me sloppily and went back to his writing.
I skipped down hundreds of steps, walked through Bond Street and arrived at my hairdressers, with four boxes of cookies, for my eleven o’clock appointment.
RUSH do my colour. I actually go to PIERREPOINT in Archer Street for my cut. That famous street in SOHO, just behind Shaftsbury Avenue where all the musicians used to gather in the 50’s. DAN THE MAN is perfect for me. You know what it’s like, ‘find a good hairdresser and stick to them like superglue’. I need him not to die anytime soon.
Brighton’s MJ is a superb colourist though, she’s got lovely cerise hair and a great line in chat. I had two pots of camomile tea, read about Richard Bransons son’s wedding in ‘HELLO’ ( Sarah Ferguson and her girls looked anything but wood nymphs in the wedding wood, but at least they tried.) Had a wonderful head massage, MJ gave me a blow job and I ended up looking about forty-seven-years younger.

I decided I would do my ‘SNARKY PUPPY’ training on the wide open pavements towards Hove. So I set off with my little brown bag of liquorice roots I’d bought from The Lanes, marvelling at the shining sun. With the music blaring in my ears my body was ready for a RULK, a cross between a run and a walk.

The Brighton Ship is all along the prom. I quite like the yellow rusty look of it. I took deep breaths and all my senses were satisfied. Ozone for the nose, salty air for the taste, The ‘Puppies’ for the ears and the sea a delectable green for the eyes. Forget ‘touch’ I was too busy Rulking and wondering just how warm the water was.

I saw one mad swimmer walk out of the water, less like Daniel Craig more like Reggie Perrin. Dripping from his plunge he navigated the sharp pebbles like they were hot coals. I could see his sharp intake of breath as the stones stabbed his slippery feet but I couldn’t get close enough to see his goose pimples.

I ran for an hour clocking the things I wanted to photograph. One lone, blue-sailed boat was out bouncing over the waves. The blue against the green was startling, although I needed to be in a dinghy next to him to get a proper shot.

By the time I had got to the end of the exercise lane I had to run round in circles to complete my hour. I knew I looked daft running backwards and forwards in front of Hove Angling club, salivating, I couldn’t help myself the smell of their fish and chips was almost unbearable, I very nearly dropped in for a quick angle and lunch. In fact I’ve got nostalgic stomach pangs just writing about it. Then I saw the word GROYN.
Why?
Say it long enough and it sounds like a bad grin.

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I couldn’t get ‘Snarky Puppy’ up today, something went wrong with my itunes so I decided to walk through the houses, past the school, left past the police station and right up to Chapel Green. past the church, right down into the town.
The wind was cold but the sky was blue.

Shopped for some veg. Brussel sprouts are out of season so I had to buy frozen, the organic carrots had heavy feathery leaves on so I asked for two bags.
Started walking home.
The smell of newly mown grass hit me in my nostalgic gut. The smell of teenage angst, Paul Tinkler and my first snog in the back row of the now defunct cinema in Borehamwood High Street. The smell of future possibilities and unknown territory.
I carried one bag in each hand which reminded me of my mother. We thought nothing of walking two miles each way to shop. Thought nothing of putting the groceries in string bags to walk up the hill past the Grammar School, the farm and the three bus stops.
The bus came once an hour. If you needed to be somewhere in between then thumbing a lift was de rigeur. Or waiting for Major Evans to leave his house.
Major and Peggy Evans had a son called Brian. Big Brian Evans was just a little too fond of his food. He was just a little bit wobbly. I played with him, my brother and Christopher Bertrand who lived the other side.

Chris was often seen to stand at his bedroom window and expose his youthful vigour to alighting bus passengers. Innocent fun back in them days….
We played in the fields, climbing haystacks and being chased by the farmer. Me and my brother strangers to the ways of the countryside being East Enders and all.

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Unbelievably I didn’t get up till 11.00. this morning.
The weather did not entice me out of the bed. My only excuse is that I didn’t go to bed till very late having been energised by MERRILY WE ROLL ALONG.
It’s a terrific production. The cast are strong, the direction slick and the audience up for it. The show works backwards. Three friends – in show business – relive their lives in retrospect back to the 50’s.
It’s Mr. Sondheim at his most cutting.
When they get to the last song, full of optimism and dreams I cried. All their joie de vivre having been sapped by the industry.
Squeezed past the applauding Japs in row ‘J’ before running to get the 10.30 train from Charing cross.

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Every time I run/walk I wonder whether to bother to write this blog anymore.
I go through a whole paranoid journey of not being wanted, being boring, being too old for this malarky. I run through why I should or shouldn’t blog, and everything that goes with blogging. Like wearing mini skirts when you 80.
And then I get an idea and I think
‘Oh! I’ll write that…’ because my lovely bloggers will be interested, and then I think
‘My lovely bloggers don’t exist anymore, because I have been so lax in writing regularly.’
And then I excuse myself because there are things I can’t write about, don’t know how to write about – and then I think if I write about my absent, commenting bloggers all my lovely bloggers will think I’m fishing for a reaction. Dying for comments. which in a way I am.
So, whether you are there or not, whether you care or not, whether I’m being read or not, whether I should just shut up, I’m writing this in the hope that just one little person will enjoy it.

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