LBC

I’m meant ot be going to TENDER’s charity do tonight in Soho.
I say I’m meant to be going but I do what I always do, put on my pj’s and then oscillate between conscience and armchair.
I’ve no excuse really.
I am understanding the show better, day by day, why I even went out for a pre-broadcast-power-walk.
My ankle isn’t totally better so running is still out of my reach but this morning I had ten minutes up to Battersea bridge and ten minutes back. The light was luminescent, the river dazzling and the boats by the bridge stood out in bold relief.
I had to walk really fast, my hands started out freezing, by the time I got back to the flat I was toasty warm.

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‘Caught some of Monday’s broadcast, the bit about make up.
About a year ago I watched a TV programme about troops liberating concentration camps after WW2 and one of the female survivors said that one of the officers managed to get lipsticks sent to the camp for the women, and that act of kindness made them feel like human beings again. It made me cry. So now every time I apply lipstick I’m reminded of that.
Love June.’
June’s blog made me realise that everything has a meaning, and that nothing is out of bounds.
I started feeling just a little complacent today, by that I mean I was relaxed.
I have to keep myself in check otherwise smugness creeps in, then you can kiss goodbye to a listenable programme.

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I had the same sort of heebie jeebies that I had last week, only this week I got in an hour later.
According to received wisdom, getting in too soon can make for a stale performance.
It’s like over rehearsing a song, or bashing away at a speech.
Taking too many bits of paper into the studio and writing a script doesnt work either, it’s about being as natural as you can be..
So I took advice and pootled around the flat until 11.00.
Made calls to two washing machine outlets, one for the flat and one for the cottage. When the new bits arrive I will be clean in London and Sussex, a relief for me and the old man let me tell you!.

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I’ve got a bowl of steaming broccoli and hummus.
The inside of my head is calming down.
B and N are dropping for two minutes, she did her holiday university work and lost in on the computer – yuk I hate the tinternet.
Di, my little roomie, is working in her room, Dan is in Soho, and I’m about to take off my clothes and chill for the rest of the evening.
Day three was pretty much as I expected, all there, not so intense, but still riddled with pot holes.
But I’ve found a routine for my fob, a routine for my hands-free and a routine for my belly.

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I arrived at LBC by 10.30’sh, having already had a new battery fitted in my car, done a big GREEN shop for food and tested the garage doors to see if they were working – they were.
Apart from the new battery being too big for my boot, all was well.
I sung along to Whitney Huston, bopping in my seat and clapping along to her wanting to dance with somebody, and nipping in and ot of the traffic to Shepherds Bush. One quick manouver down St. Annes Rd, and I arrived at LBC in time for a bowl of fruit and a chinwag.
My producer arrived and we set about the first ever programme.

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Firstly, I must tell you, Dave, that I have no comment to make about you know what.
Secondly, to my beaux in Brighton, the secret to attracting men seductively in the dance hall is to lounge against the wall, moving gently to the music and then whip out an Exchange and Mart and start talking about twin carbs and two in one oil. I find it works for me. Not!
And thirdly, to Mr. Engstrom in Swedenland: It is not polite to talk about horse wee as horse P***. We don’t like that in good old England, and as for your suggestion that I should be plastering the cottage with yoghurt… yoghurt creates moss, as any gardener will tell you, and anyway, the only yoghurt I have tops my blueberries, raspberries and strawberries for breakfast. P’raps you could join us sometime.
Well, today has been one of those scrappy kind of affairs.
B walked the dog, cleaned the kitchen, took the cloth off the kitchen table to expose the lovely blonde wood, threw out all the shoes that didn’t match and then buggered off to Soho to hear a band in Brewer Street.

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