Acting is all about honesty, if you can fake that you can fake anything.
In between the train strikes I had a job in London. Friday the 24th of June the day after one walk out and the day before another. I support the RMT and Mick Lynch with all my ancient beating heart. But I digress. I dressed accordingly, a green cardigan over a tee shirt and some … Read more
One of the inmates living on our road opened her garden to the public for charity. I was the 100th to enter her little wooden gate. The old git gave me a fiver and I handed it to Colin who was sitting with the cash box. We arrived late having attempted to get to Hastings. … Read more
I don’t drink. And when I do I wobble and sway and can’t walk a straight line. I don’t drink and then Betty Windsor has a 70th anniversary and we had a street party and I wobbled and swayed, couldn’t walk the straight line and fell asleep on the settee the minute I bumbled through … Read more
When push comes to shove championing your kids, defending your partner, fighting on behalf of your parent, is what we do. Don’t we? If an arsehole nicks your yunguns’ Tamagotchi or kicks their school rucksack down the road, most of us run to the rescue. My offspring is my responsibility, usually we will not let … Read more
In 1988 I auditioned for London Weekend Telly, got married to the old git after eleven years of living sinfully, and started a four and half year run of feasting before the inevitable famines. We made gardening programmes, life style programmes and whilst I was taken off sitting alongside Frank Bough every Friday on ‘Six … Read more
May 12th. 2022. My mother would have been 100 years old today, as it is she contacts me from wherever she is and tells me she has forgiven me for putting her in a home and finds it incredibly funny that the dawter ate her ashes when we chucked her, thats the mother, into the … Read more
April 28th and off we went to the bluebell woods down the road and across the fields Let me tell you, even the cries of an egomaniacal Ruskie with small eyes and an imperfect brain, could not detract from the beauty that a field of bluebells brought. Over the first stile felt like walking into … Read more
It was a dusty day, you know when everything seems shrouded in mist. Soft, as the Irish would say. A pinky sun shone through a thin cloud on crops of dandelions, banks of bluebells, merry go rounds of primroses and crowds of faded daffodils. Our Hastings jaunts have been curtailed by Covid outbreaks, Easter holidays … Read more