I’m square eyed.
Been in front of the pooter all day trying to write a treatment.
I think I’ve done it.
I need to show it to THE BARRY before I break open the lemon juice.
Ad Infinitum
Patronising Pickles
Thank you all for your embraceable comments. It really is like getting a distant hug.
I’m on to my second mug of lemon water. I’ve juiced two halves separately and am drinking it between avocados, herbal supplements and meditation.
The flat is empty, the old git on the way to ‘The Arcola’ and the roomie on her way to Surbiton.
He’s just called. The bus was late, there was a hold up at the tube a signal failure at Kings Cross so now he’s in the back of a cab at Liverpool Street. I hate this Government, they invest in nothing but themselves.
The new Arcola Theatre is in an old paint factory, round the corner from the old Arcola which was a shirt factor. A play has been commissioned by Rebecca Lenkiewicz about William Turner because he purchased his paints from the very factory that the ‘oosbind is trying to get to.
Turner is being payed by TOBY JONES – look him up you’ll know him immediately – whilst Will’s dad is being played by B’s dad.
Yes the old git gets to practice his parenting skills in front of an audience of millions, ok thousands, alright hundreds, well definitely me and the family.
Announcement.
The reason I am writing this today is to tell you, hold on a minute I just want to tell you about ‘ROLANDAS’ the best clothes shop in town. Battersea Square, Sheila, who looks like a model, growls like a panther and chooses clothes that make me drool like a baby, kitted me out for my photo shoot tomorrow.
Enough with the similies already although I do feel I might explode with energy.
It’s that friggin’ Barry bloke, never sleeps, wakes me with ideas, picks up the phone when I have a brainstorm and still won’t explain what will happen when I hit the airwaves although,
Gandhi thighs
On Friday The Barry and I will be filming the second bit of our new thingy that we’ll be putting on the whatsit when the doodah is ready.
Today I caught up on all the things I couldn’t do because of the snow, laziness, funerals and the like.
I climbed out of my two fluffy duvets when Jim left for the Arcola. He was wrapped up like a gnome, kissed me goodbye and set off for the 170.
I jumped out of bed, even though it was a nest of cosiness, just in case Lozzie locked me in. Lozzie, however, is not like the last girl who had about as much thought for her fellow roomies as a dead mouse.
From Bushey to Battersea
I drove to Boreham Wood and collected my mother. I used Dan the Man, my lovely nephew as Sat Nav.
It took hardly 25 minutes to get to the Jewish Cemetery in Bushey.
I parked the Jacmobil in a disabled bay, my mother assuring me that the Jews were really understanding and since she had left her badge at home and couldn’t walk very far anyway it was a legitimate park.
Take Hat….
I cancelled my 11.0’clock appointment. Felt really queasy and coldy. Meditated. had a big mug of my Jewish Penicillin, then dressed.
One pair of 501 jeans – thick.
One pair of bikers boots and sox – thick.
One t-shirt.
One cardigan.
One sweater – thick.
One coat – not thick enough.
One purple shawl – thick.
One hat – too big but thick.
One pair of black suede gloves.
And I set off out in the arctic wastes of Sarf London.
The End of November
Reality telly is killing me. I watched ‘Strictly Come Mincing’, ‘Z’ Factor, Jungle capers then re-logged the fire so I could stay up and watch ‘DESPICABLE ME.
My first Bafta film of the year. I loved it.
B, the old git and myself were in Brighton on Saturday Night eating , drinking and celebrating the middle daughters birthday.
The heater was ailing in the Jacmobile so I travelled with a huge knitted blanket over my knees.
I’m Not a Celebrity…
I’m told that waking up at four is what creatives do.
I’m also told that waking up at four is what depressants do.
I’m also told that four is when Chinese medicine says there’s an energetic peak in the lungs…
Whatever it is If I keep waking up before the seagulls do I am going to stay up and write.
Frank’s beans
The air feels like Christmas.
The lights in Oxford Street, FRANKS coffee shop off Carnaby Street, the Number 19 bus. Everything felt like it was poised for something new.
Mind you one cup of Frank’s coffee and I’m full of beans – no pun intended – and I go dulally tap…I could scale Mount Etna, or is it Eiger, WHATEVER!!!