Jeni Barnett

Sunday January 3rd and I’m all set to go.
My new decade resolution is to write for three hours every day. Malcom Bradwell in the ‘Outfliers’ says that it takes 10,000 hours to become a genius. So by his reckoning 3 hours every day for ten years will turn me into Iris Murdock.
It was easy starting on new Years Day, even easier on Saturday, since Jim was rehearsing, and this morning was a delight.
The trouble starts with tomorrow.
Should I get up normal time and write at the end of the day?
Should I get up at 5.30 and write at the beginning of the day?
Should I have a cat-nap and write at 10.00 o’clock at night?
I’ve asked appropriate girlfriends, ‘What kind of sleeper are you? said Lyn B.
‘A railway one.’ I replied.

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The rain it raineth every day.
The sky is grey.
The dustmen have finally been and taken away most of 2009’s Christmas.
The fridge is bare.
The plumber has been to cast his eye over the bathroom. The heater blew the day after Boxing day. Having a shower is like breaking the ice in Alaska, and who wants a long, cold soak?
The cat is asleep on the bed.
Jim is recovering from a bronchial infection, giving up smoking has caused havoc in his poor old body. He’s having to spend time in bed and I’m working round him.

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Dinner last night comprised four young people, two old people, one cat and several dead fishes.
The smoked cod and salmon were scorched in hot milk they shared the pan with one BIG onion, some garden carrots, celery, parsley and three bay leaves. Four eggs were hard boiled, tiger prawns, pink prawns and scallops, were thrown into a big bowl, the eggs added, a good sprinkling of chopped parsley, then the tossing of the capers. Muddy potatoes were peeled and boiled. They were mashed with butter and sour cream, a silky white bechamel sauce was tipped over the fish, the pescatorial piquancy was stirred gently then all poured into an earthenware pot and baked on high until the tips of the potatoes were nicely browned like the tops of the Himalayas.
Jessie and Laurie sat to my left. Deedle and Pj sat to my right, The Old Git sat the far end of the table, I sat down wind and the cat lay along the top of the sofa.
The evening started around 7.30’sh and ended around 1.30’sh.
I laughed so much that I nearly damaged the gusset of my dungarees.

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Two weeks until Christmas and I feel about as festive as an undertaker in Ungava.
Dark when I wake up, dark when I get home. All my good intentions to walk in are dashed. I have a bucket full of excuses, the weather, my shoes, the time, when I get to Battersea Bridge and that number 19 is nudging its way into the traffic I’ve whipped out my Freedom Pass, negotiated the stairs and taken my seat at the front of the bus before the ding-ding of the bell has been dung.
The rain lashed the windows this morning. I could barely see the displays in Gucci, Fendhi and Louis Vuitton. Not that it mattered I can barely fit into my dungarees let alone a Chanel chemise.
LBC Towers was an adjustment as all my team are on holiday. Breaking in a new bunch requires patience and trust It’s as difficult for them as it is for me.
Today we pulled off teenage terminations, airport runways and climate change finishing off with hair loss from stress. All my co-workers were fab – WELL DONE US.
After the show I made a couple of calls declined dinner at The Ivy and a film at The Charlotte Street Hotel and set off home. I need a little time for my self as the rest of the week is chokka.

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Met up with the agent in Fiori Corner. I paid for two hot chocolates and tears. He left I sat and nursed my wounds.
Being chucked out into the big wide world again is not what I had anticipated for the end of 2009.
Then the rain came down, cats and dogs, poodles of puddles. I put up my hood, my Apple bag full of books strapped to my back. I made countless calls to the PR company that were sorting out tickets for CAT ON A HOT TIN ROOF and finally arrived at THE NOVELLO THEATRE so wet the faux fur on my sleeves looked like little dead pussies.
Clarence, my nearasdamnit son met me and we went and had a very good coffee and tea cake in the DOUBLE SHOT COFFEE CO. in TAVISTOCK STREET.

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Tuesday has been strangely long. It feels like I have packed an awful lot into a very short time. But Tuesday was the way of all my days starting at 7.00 and finishing a little time before 2.00.
I liked my walk to Leicester Square full of dogs and leaves. Cold air and smiles.
I had greetings from a cornucopia of canines. I had my sleeves rolled down over my fingers to keep them warm. It felt almost normal to have a frosty walk on the first of December.
I do not like the paranoia surrounding climate change. there is so much we/they could do if we/them wanted to. It feels less like climate control and more like people control. There are too many of us so they are frightening us to death.

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The cottage is gleaming due to my new treasure Caro. I haven’t seen it yet, and I won’t until next weekend.
My garden is overgrown owing to the fact that Anna has swine flu. We wish her well.
My left nostril is blocked.
My bank balance is not as bad as that but worse than the other.
B is working in HMV, has no time for anything accept making the blasted shilling.
Jim is coughing up the tar that has coated his lungs for the last 50 years of smoking. We have more bronchial preparations than Super Drug.
The old git went for an interview on Friday for ‘The Three Sisters’ at the Lyric in Hammersmith…

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