Tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll love ya tomorrow

Finding a structure is the thing. I’m told not to go to bed too late. But being on my own without a structure means I dribble around, reading, writing, telly-grazing and end up going to bed in the wee small hours. Last night it was 2am.
My last thought was to make a timetable for today, which of course I didn’t do. I got up at 7.00, creaked down the stairs to open up the kitchen door so that Jackson could go outside and relieve himself, then clawed my way back up the royal blue carpet and returned to sleep until guilt woke me.
Not having that structure, see?
Now, before anybody has a moan about me living the life of Riley, let me remind you that not having a structure is deadly. I am so used to working 5 days a week with 3 minutes respite between activities that an endless day stretching out before me is like flying over America. It goes on and on and on.

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Here comes the sun

I got complacent and didn’t take Jackson out late last night. I opened the door and followed the trail of his widdle. Then we went for a brisk walk. I had on a t-shirt, fleece and my pyjama trousers. Half way round the ski centre, I abandoned my coat. The sun is now hot enough … Read more


Rum time I say!
What with the weather and all.
I don’t know what day it is.
I made a list of all the topics I wanted to talk about but lost the list.
The weekend was so short. I saw Jim for Saturday night and Sunday morning – sounds like that Alan Sillitoe Book – and then it was noses back to the grindstone. Jim disappeared about nine. I then left the phone off the hook and didn’t realise until very late that he hadn’t called.
I am dealing with my alone time by watching Al Pacino. Endlessly. I think Jim is ever so slightly jealous, Mr. Pacino ticks all the right boxes although sadly most of the films are at least eleven years old so that glint in Mr. Pacino’s eyes now are probably cataracts. Anyway, after ‘Carlito’s Way’ Jim and I said our telephone goodnights although they were actually good mornings.

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Travellers Tales

Jim shouted ‘I said get me up at 7.30’, but I thought he said 8.00 so the pair of us were running around like blue-arsed flies this morning.
He managed to get out in ten minutes. Off to the dentist, having had four and half hours of sleep.
I was more leisurely and dawdled around until I realised that I had to get to TWells for the 9.01 train and it was nearly 8.30 and the traffic and the rush hour and OMG! – So I kissed the dog and ran like the clappers to the car, ran back having forgotten the keys, ran back again and drove in the fast lane until I arrived at the car park. Then I leapt out of the car, put in my first pound coin – it came back to me. The second did the same. The parking machine was broken, so I wrote a scribbled note on an old receipt, ran to the exit where a working machine leered at me, bunged in 4 pound coins, too much money as I had no change, ran back to the car, screwed up the note and put the real parking ticket in its place, then walked very fast indeed to the station.
Got my cheap day return then into the coffeebarcumwaitingroom for ‘The Mirror’ and ‘The Mail’, both of which I hate, but both of which can be devoured in under 40 minutes and both of which have opposing versions of Alistair Campbell’s diaries, all of which makes… no, never mind as it’s just another pile of parliamentary money spinning.
I grabbed a seat next to an unusually long legged man and settled down for a read.
Now I don’t mind people falling asleep next to me, although I would prefer to have been formally introduced first, but this geezer stretched both his legs into my space, diagonally under the table. I had to struggle to put my little legs (I am only 5.1 and three quarters) up on the seat opposite which meant sliding down in the seat until my chin was resting on my clavicles.
When Long John Baldy started scratching his bits, I swear I nearly woke him, but he was so deeply asleep I thought it would confuse him if an aging traveller whacked him over the head with Alistair Campbell.

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Sleepless in See-Sussex

Whenever my girlfriends come to stay, I burn the candles at both end. I have my cake and eat it, whilst biting off more than I can chew. All in all, I am clinched out, cream crackered and so full of chocolate, my airwaves are totally clogged up. I go to bed exhausted but can’t sleep because the conversation has fired me up. Hence sleepless in See…
We’ve just come in from Lewes. It’s about 20 minutes from the cottage. We went to see an art exhibition called ‘Body of work’, a free warehouse exhibition of stunning contemporary art. The show is on until 13th July, everyday from noon – 6pm. My cousin had created some wonderful splashes of colour with his arty bluebells, whilst one of his tattooed chums hung extraordinary pictures of blood and gore in the form of Buddha self harming and alienated figures literally crying their eyers out.
Mandalas, of intricate design, hung on one wall, whilst on the final corner, beautiful body casts were displayed. There was even a shuttlecock – which was just that. I should have liked to have met the guy who modelled for it.
I hope enough people support it, its so hard for artists to survive these days. We left Grant over-seeing the exhibition whilst five of us went for lunch in ‘Bills’ in Lewes.

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The postman always rings twice

Well, just as I said, the postman arrived and I signed for BB’s ‘Love Box Weekend’ tickets. My, that sounds like a good day out, especially with the weather we are having. It snowed in Battersea this evening…
The postman and I talked about his grandson Zac, who is nine weeks old and smiling. His Grandpa swore he heard him say ‘dada’.
Then I walked the dog. I bought him a new rope lead. It smells good but he won’t hold it in his mouth. He obviously has an aversion to twine. It’s about the only thing he does have an aversion to. If any kind of food has been discarded, mislaid, masticated or eliminated, it will somehow find its way into his Labradorian gob. I now walk next to him and scream, tersely, just to remind him who is boss.
So, carrying my five birthday cards, me and the hound set off in the midday sun. He on his new lead and me holding it. I was feeling bright and cheery and awfully virtuous…

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There is an awful lot to do in the country. So far today I have juiced a whole pineapple and a massive papaya, taken the dog to the field and waited for him to widdle in the wet grass, sorted the mouldy coriander from the fresh, whizzed up my seed cheese, meditated, and left the door open for the postman. He’s a lovely geezer. His son went to school with my daughter so we’ve know each other for years. I’m awaiting tickets from some ruddy Festival BB is going to – I have to sign for them.
I’ve had a shower, responded to all my emails, and got dressed in preparation for the estate agent who is coming round at noon to evaluate the property. We’re not moving – I just want know how much we’re worth.
It’s Jacuzzi Tuesday today, the rain is teeming down. Last year Jim made weather boards in the front garden so that our cellar wouldn’t flood, yet again. He succeeded. Now it’s a dry as a bone, which is good because poor old Mr. Fenner doesn’t like the damp.

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Shrek in Chelsea

To Jill, I know it’s hard to find work when you’re sixteen. My twillage employs all the young folk in three supermakets and, of course, I don’t approve. But I am not so naive as to think that all the yoof of today will go out and get jobs husbanding trees or picking organic strawberries in the local biodynamic farm. Surviving in today’s climate is tricky at the best of times, but really tough when you are skint and in need of a pint of cider and the fare money for the only existing bus service to take you to the cinema which is now re-located out of town and costs the price of an awayday ticket.

My daughter refused to work in Waitrose, not from any political position but because she hated the fabric of the uniform and thought the dress and blouse, like the job, wouldn’t have suited her. I thought we would never see the back of her, but she trawled the back streets of T’Wells and landed a job behind a bar and kitchen of the local arts club.

I know they are few and far between but sometimes the young folk do surprising things when left alone. Mind you, I’m still waiting for her to pay me back-rent for nine months free board and lodging in my luxury womb with a view.

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Day trip

It has been such a weird week. So full of this and that, I’ve hardly had a moment to reflect. But I feel really unbalanced not writing, so, even though my eyes are propped open with matchsticks, here goes.

It’s 22.44 and the rain is hammering down outside the cottage. Feels more like autumn than mid summer. Last year it was 29 degrees. Dominic came today and pruned the clematis on the wall and a great big bush outside the kitchen window. I don’t know its name but if left untamed, it takes over like the triffids in ‘The Day of…’

On Sunday Jim and I had a row about what Dominic was and wasn’t to prune. I, like most townies, have a real problem cutting back any plant. It hurts my heart. After my wedding, when my best man cut my newly harvested carrots and potatoes in an unfriendly manner, I threw him off the property and out of my life. Truly. Those beautiful vegetables came out of the earth and he chopped through them like he was castrating a wart hog.

Dominic, however, did a good job, even though the rain has less leaves to drip off.

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Publish and be Damned

On my drive up to London I listened to the ‘The Maltby Collection’ by David Nobbs on Radio 4. The double-barreled good looker from ‘Green Wing’ was in it, as was Richard Palmer. It was funny and so well written I laughed right up to Bromley. By the time I got to Crystal Palace, I changed to an old CD of Edwin Starr. It took me back to 1964 when I would dream of going to all-night parties with my brother’s friends from art school. I started to jig around in my seat, glanced out of my window and three faces were grinning at me from a white van. The guy with dreadlocks had a row of fabulous gold teeth. So I pumped up the volume and we all danced together, on our respective bums, at the traffic lights. That warmed my cockles all the way to Clapham. I then turned on the one o’clock news which was enough to wipe the smile off anyone’s face.
The daughter and husband were in the flat. He was tarting up the computer. She tarting up her ‘ikkle’ self.

She then went off, with her friend, to the Wireless Festival in Hyde Park. Jim mounted his motorbike to the theatre and I legged it to the number 19 bus.

The Number 19 is one of my fave bus routes.

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