Jeni Barnett

Liar Liar
Pants on fire…
And were my cheeks red?
We discussed lying with a pyschologist from Manchester, a Mr. Beattie.
A lie is a deliberate attempt at deception, we discussed body language, that mens lies are self serving and womens lies are to protect and keep the peace, we discussed congenital lying, when a lie is ok and then we discussed the greatest lie of all:
Is there a FATHER CHRISTMAS?.
Huge apologies to all the children that were listening, there is/isn’t a Father Christmas, depending on whether you are old/young enough to understand/not understand the concept of societal collusion….

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Yesterday I went to a funeral in Hendon. North London.
I climbed aboard the tube in Clapham South, went through East London and ended up in Mill Hill East.
The whole of London passed through my carriage, terrific.
I arrived two hours too soon, the wind was cold but the sun heated my bones. I caught the 240 bus, dismounted at the big red gates of the cemetery and wandered thorough the grounds.
It was too cold to hang around so I walked back up the hill and sat down in a cafe sandwiched between a real butchers, with a new phlock of pheasants in the window, and a kosher deli.
I didn’t think it was appropriate turning up at the chapel with a carrier bag full of dead birds and latkes, so I didn’t buy anything. But I did have a big full English breakfast which warmed the cockles.
The cemetery was shot with sunlight, Chinese, Indian, Italians, Jews, all laId to rest under elaborate marble head stones. There was even a family called CAME, I couldn’t help but think they CAME they SAW they etc.

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I’m eating spinach, watercress and rocket salad with home made chopped liver.
I always make it the same way. Onion and garlic – lots of it -sweated in olive oil, loads of chicken livers cooked on high until the blood has stopped running then a big splosh of dark, syrupy sherry, seasoned until the juices are even more syrupy, all whooshed up in a food processor with raw onion and garlic added to give it bite then hard boiled eggs grated on top.
Bobs your uncle, or Becky’s your aunt, dee-lic-ious.
I am eating it as we speak.
My keyboard must have the best fed crumbs in London.
I normally write my blog the minute I get in from LBC, I’m always hungry
after 3 hours on air, but today I was particularly ravenous. The show was gruelling, I don’t know whether it was me, you or the News hounds.

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The epicentre of the Earthquake was in Lincoln, BUT, loads of Londoners felt monsters under their bed, orgres in their wardrobes and, way over in Muswell Hill, saw their plates rattle on the shelves.
5.2 on the Righter scale and I slept through it.
Bushey, in Hertfordshire heard it.
Ware in the World experienced it.
And Chadwell Heath’s inhabitants held onto their hats.

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This morning I did my Tibetan Five.
A series of RITES that are done in the Himalayas by people who live very long lives.
5 simple exercises done 21 times, every day, which are meant to keep you limber and lithe.
Bruce Forsythe does them, and look what he looks like.
No comments please.
Anyway I did my 5 rites, meditated then set off for LBC.

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This weekend Jim and I watched ‘CONTROL’ and ‘THIS IS ENGLAND’ in front of a log fire.
Two extremely eloquent British films.
I fell into bed with monochrome mic stands and technicoloured skin- heads running through my head.
When I awoke it was minus 4.
The lawn was covered in thick white frost, the birds were fighting for bird seed and the back window of my car had to be de-iced.
The old man went out to play golf with his acting mate, whether he has his fingers left I will know shortly.
(he has, he says it wasn’t his fingers he was worried about being brass monkey weather and all.)
I bumped into my old nutritionist in the lift at Waitrose.
We talked about bloating, carbs, and linseeds.
The result of that conversation was a basket of seeds, oils and guilt.
I arrived 15 minutes late to the studio, even though the sun was out and its half term for half the population.

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