Ad Infinitum

Idiot alert.
Wind flowers ARE not WOOD SORREL . Wind flowers are WOOD ANEMONES.
From now on my days as a botanist are numbered!.
Update on the puppy: Gods Gift has gone and got himself a job. Nine months of being a Thespian in London and Bath.
His dog whispering skills were needed to train the little pup. And given my insane work timetable I wouldn’t be around enough to tickle it, feed it, walk it and sleep with it. SO we’ve had to let this one go.
Sods law, every time we walk we come across another little brown blob.
There is next year, and I’m not giving up.
Thank you for your comments about Watch Wiv Muvver. I’m starting on number 12.
Just come back from the orchard but not before the excitement with the police.

Read more

I have finally mowed the lawn.
Cleared the woodshed.
My mothers three plants have just about survived the coldest of times. although I’m not too happy about the Rosemary.
I have taught the old man how to make soup, and by gum he’s good at it, we’ve been dining off Squash soup with turmeric and chili.
Last night I bought up a whole Italian meal from Camisa in Soho. The dawter and I drove home and five of us dug into – artichokes,zucchini, aubergine and freshly made pastas.
Not to mention the best Italian Jammy Dodgers ever.

Read more

I was shamed into writing this by the delicious Jamie kelsey Fry, who graced my show this morning.
Megan and Louise wrote a book about teenagers, and equipped themselves so well as did my last guest Robbie Hance, who sung himself on and off the X factor. He came into the BBC London studio with his new manager, mother of three who had never done anything of the like in her life. Her heart led him to the man without a home .
She and two others have given him a dream to hold onto.
We were lucky enough to be part of his journey. I wish him every bit of luck that is coming his way.
It was a wonderful way to spend a birthday morning.
I decided to drive in, the snow blobbing down with the arrogance of the untouchable. It doesn’t matter how much the cold and chill is whistling around the hard times there ain’t nothing I can do about it so I wrapped up in a very old blue and yellow anorak, wrapped a scarf around my neck, put on two pairs of socks and whizzed past Sevenoaks.
Nibbled on peanuts I had in my pocket. I felt like a blue tit.
The radio – without Aled Jones – is dull. So I station hopped and ended up with a Bach Cantata that made my hairs stand on end.
The divine Miss Esther drove the show like a demon. I had a bowl of porridge. You take the lift to -1 and enter the world of the BBC canteen. The smell of baked beans wafts up the ramp as BBC staff sit round tables noshing toast and talking scart plugs,

Read more