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Before I begin I must say thank you for your kind end-of-the-run-comments.
All duly noted.
All duly wept over.
Oh come on, you should know by now that anything nice that is ever said to me turns me into the The Fontana del Nettuno. Were I to stand at the north end of the Piazza Navona I could easily compete with those chubby cherubs and their outpourings.
So here I sit, cuppa Rooibosh half drunk, in my room, with only a sweater between me and the elements.
I have been to the gym and done 30 minutes on those wretched machines.
Elaine induced me on Monday.
It’s the time-honoured, dreaded circuit of treadmill, cross trainer, bike and rowing machine.
I didn’t have time to do me weights or stretching as I had an appointment with 25 over sized ladies in the pool.

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Little blue shorts and purple vest thingy, my trainers and a hair clip.
Yesterday I went to my brilliant beautician, who I have been seeing for 23 years, and spent an hour and a half having all my skin tags removed.
First she slathered anesthetic cream all over my face and neck, then I held a metal rod which kept the current going round. Then she pricked me with a sharp little needle and cauterised all me blemishes.
Today I look like a Garibaldi biscuit. I may have mentioned that yesterday.
This morning , wearing my purple ensemble I ironed, and cleaned up before my wonderful cleaner arrived. I wanted her to do things in the kitchen which four baskets of ironing would have prevented.
Anyway ironing is one of those right brain activities which allows thinking. I kept the radio off and mulled over all sorts.
My writing partner.
BBC London.
Voice Overs.
Agism.
Poverty.
Loneliness.
What to cook for supper.
Then I called my nephew – DAN THE MAN – who is so sensible and wise and clear and delicious. By the time I had finished the last duvet cover he had sorted me out.

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The bloomin trains have been useless on the last two Sundays. I’ve had to drive in. Consequently by the time I’ve done a three hour show and driven back 50 odd miles – and I do mean odd – I’m cream crackered.
I’ve taken to lying on my back, my legs in the armchair, my arms splayed out mid way through a Jim sentence I’m usually away with the fairies.
This week I had four fab female guests.
DAVINA MACKAIL. She did my papers, we talked all sorts as well as Feng Shui, she’s an ex nurse but now spends time clearing peoples houses, traumas and going up into the mountains of Peru to talk with peruvian Shamans. I love her. Check out her website.
KATHY LETTE cycled in to talk about her book THE BOY WHO FELL TO EARTH and to discuss the mother/teenage daughter relationship. She makes me laugh, but she is so much more than her sassy wisecracks. I love her. Check out her new book.
KEREN SMEDLEY, agony aunt and author of a self help coaching book for life after 50+, was on the end of the line for my listeners, as well as imparting sage like wisdom about living, not giving up, and changing things if they don’t suit. I loved her. Check out her website.
Then I had the impeccable CHARLIE DORE and JULIAN LITTMAN, singing songs from her latest album CHEAPSKATE LULLABYS. Julia’s guitar and her voice were haunting. It is a delicious album, really good to cook to. Check out her new CD.

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Thank you so much, to all of you that sent me messages.
Not a crisis, not a teaser, but I just needed an acknowledgment that life does still exist outside my little cottage.
This morning there was no donkey, the yellow primroses are giving way to tiny purple wild violets, bluebells, cuckoo flowers and little white mouse ears. Pink, white and blue everywhere.
I think the cold, wet winter has done all the plants good.
I timed myself – 24 bars of track five – running past a little copse of wood anemones, The trees are surrounded by little faces of white petals all pushing their way to the sun. Which was out until I got to Frog Spawn Bend.
Marched up the hill past centurion rows of Dan-De-Lion. ‘Wet the beds’ as we called them when I was growing up.
Talking of which, I always have to stop off in the outdoor pursuit centre to use their public loo. I’m drinking three litres of greens everyday. Finally I’m back on my old regime. Which is a massive relief.
Part of my absence has been dealing with GLICLAZIDE. The diabetic drug I resorted to. My doctor’s known me for twenty odd years – and I do mean odd – but he is a Western Medical practitioner, so drugs are always the first port of call. I had got so stressed and out of whack that I had to do something to regulate my body. I trust him, but I hated taking the drug.
Apart from the weight gain my two big toes ( slap, bang on the Liver meridian) had developed fungus, my skin had turned a sallow shade of mustard and my hair was as lank as damp vermicelli.
And then I interviewed a brilliant professor on my BBC show who noticed my bloated belly and said….

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Now 33 minutes and 40 seconds in London crosses boundaries.
Battersea to Chelsea.
Clapham to Wandsworth.
Hampstead to Camden Town.
But 33 minutes and 40 seconds where I live takes you into the rain forest the only boundaries are the hedgerows full of ancient plants.
The first fifteen minutes had me marvelling at the dogged ‘Unofficial English Rose’ which looks like its having a field day.
I have never seen so many flowers. Blousy and open, their faces flat to the sun.

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