Jeni Barnett

it’s 23.03, although for the sake of my body clock it’s only 3 minutes past ten.
The clocks go back tonight and I’m pleased about that, an extra hour in bed.
I have to change the time on the cube radio clock in the bedroom.
I did have a round ticking clock that hung on the wall in my bedroom but Debborah, my nearasdamnitson’s paramour left it on the floor in the bathroom, because the tick was too loud, and somebody stood on it!
I have to change the clock on the microwave, the clock on the oven and the read out on my mobile. Back in the cottage there is the oven clock, the terracotta clock on the kitchen wall, the microwave clock, the old clock in the piano room, the fancy french clock in my bedroom, the radio alarm, B’s cube radio clock in the attic and then there’s the telly clock.
all that palava for an extra hour, it takes me that long to reset all the time pieces.

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The river was up today grey and swirling. My mood was a bit like the river. My printer had broken down and so had my patience.
I had a shower, got dressed then Jim and I bussed it into Piccadilly.
There was a screening at BAFTA for the new John Cusack film ‘GRACE HAS GONE’.
Watching any film at 195 Piccadilly is always a pleasure.
The seats are good , the sound perfect and the audience committed.
To become a member of BAFTA you have to be nominated, seconded and then wait, fingers crossed, to see if you’ve been accepted.
When I was sent my BAFTA card, with my own number I whooped with joy.
An encrypted video player is provided then all the years films arrive in the post. Day after day another encrypted CD pops through the letter box, it’s really excitng.
Christmas and New Year are then spent watching loads of films. Bliss.
It was always my dream to be able to watch films all day, every day and then work in them. As a student I would go to all nighters in Baker Street, take a packed lunch and sit through all the Roman Polansky films, or festivals of French movies, or happy horror hour.
Now I go to posh screenings at BAFTA, or in the West End or in Soho . I am as happy as a rhino in mud.

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Sometimes my days are so full I forget myself.
Today was such a day.
It started out with a blitz of the flat,
a call on the phone,
a write of the diary,
a call on the phone,
a meditate,
an email check,
a wash of the bod,
returns of the mail,
a call on the phone,
an application of lippy,
a booking of the congestion charge,
and then
I WAS OFF!

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Today Jackson was 13 years of age. Jim and I sang him Happy Birthday.
He ‘herrumphed’ a thank you, a kind of breathy neigh. I called up B, she shouted out Happy Birthday – he barked his thanks. I called Zoe, who sung Happy Birthday down the line from Brighton, Jackson barked his approval. I called up my mother who, very excitedly, sung a jolly Happy Birthday accompanying herself on her organ in Hertfordshire, Jackson was thrilled and sung along. I called up Hanna who sung Happy Birthday with Giles, our continuing son-in-law, but by this time Jackson had had enough, he abjectly refused to respond. No amount of coaxing from me would make him talk – ewuff was ewuff.
So we walked up the hill very slowly, the old boy in command, when we arrived home I gave him a dog chew, the 91 year old flopped down on his bed and went to sleep.
The perfect day.

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What a funny time this is.
The BBC slashing so many jobs.
Perer Fincham resigning.
ITV being accused of fraud.
Im working in an industry which is tearing itself apart.
Fewer and fewer people are able to find work, more and more of my kind are finding it impossible to make ends meet.
Names that wouldn’t be seen dead on a soap are being written into Corrie to keep a roof over their heads. Not that I have anything against Corrie, I don’t I love it, but back in the day working a Soap spelt the end of a serious career.
Acting chums are working for peanuts.
Out of work producers are selling perfume and renowned creatives are on permanent gardening leave.
It aint ‘alf ‘ard to remain positive

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‘The Frieze Art Fair’ in Regents Park, was full of arty collectors, rich gallery owners, Richard E Grant and poseurs. Some of the work was good; I particulalry liked Evan Penny’s bald man and Pam Ferris lookalike.
They hung on the wall, as big as a Fresian Cow. The detail of their skin and hair, eyes and lips was uncanny.
But, there was too much art, too much noise, too much competition. If this is the way we sell our young artists I fear for their creativity. There was no time for reflection, it felt like a cattle market.
One young Russian was drawing lines on a laughing monkey with a silver pen. He had flown in from the Mother Country and was completing his piece de resistance before our very eyes – a sort of Slavic Rolf Harris.

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We have a shed in our garden, it’s called ‘Le Shed’. One half is my writing shrine the other is where music gets written. Jim has a shed, it’s called ‘His Shed’. We have another shed in the garden full of cobwebs, gardening tools and mouse nibbled seed packets, it’s not called anything.
I bought a book, sometime back, about men and their sheds and gave it to Jim as a gift. All the photos were of men proudly showing off their sheds.
Interesting that men like to have a little hidey hole they can hide in. We women make do and mend! (“That’s b****x!” says the old man, “women have houses.”)
Jim is no exception. His hidey hole smells of wood and french polish. It’s jam-packed with boys bumph, peanuts for the birds, somebody elses drum kit, a television that takes obsolete vhs tapes, an old vacuum cleaner and a desk with picture restoring equipment scattered over it. Jim can do anything as long as he has a bit of this, a scrap of that and some wood glue.
The reason I mention this is because of Paolo Proto the producer of ‘Food Poker’. Half way between our final voice over session for the final show Paolo excused himself to take a very important call.

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