Jeni Barnett

I took the 4.15 train to Hastings, Jim met me at Tunbridge Wells station. We had intended doing the Friday night curry thing but in the event I was still husky and hoarse and the first thing that called when I entered the cottage were my pyjamas.
Cancelled all of Saturday, after buying yet more remedies for my ailing body. Jim and I bought supper from the farmers market and spent the rest of the afternoon reading and sleeping in the garden.
Saturday night is now taken up with ‘Strictly Come Prancing’ and The ‘L’ Factor, recording and channel hopping, which is why it’s become the Hell factor. Did you read the Beeb could be fined for re-scheduling Saturday night. As always the public suffer when decisions are made behind closed doors.

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I took the bus and tube to work this morning. I had no idea whether my voice was going to give out on me but in the end it was okay.
I woke up sounding like a bird had nested on my vocal chords.
In the event the crows flew away.
I had to talk to our sales team. Johnathan Richards, my boss, asked me questions and I husked my way through it.
I had to keep explaining myself since most of the people present weren’t born when I was in the middle of my first mid-life crisis.
I have decided to have a proper photo shoot so that I have a new set of pics. The ones being taken of me at the moment make me look older than Golder Meir – and she’s been dead 30 years….

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1.48.
I tried to put new batteries in my flat phones. By that I mean apartment phones not horizontal ones…..
Got back from the Dorchester and the batteries had leaked acid everywhere. So now I have no phones at all.
Got the step ladder out of the utility room, scuffed my knuckles and tore the skin off my left thumb.
Climbed aloft and riffled through bags and boxes and finally found a bag containing two new phones, where they come from is a mystery.
Please understand; Me and instructions are not happy bed fellows. Normally the ‘oosbind would read the small print and I would take advantage. Tonight though I was on my own….

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I’m toying with putting the boiler on. My feet are freezing even though I am wearing little white knitted sippers. My fingers are frozen, I refuse to resort to mittens and my nose has a cold tip like Jackson used to have.
I’ve eaten two bowls of salad, done my emails, eaten half a tub of blueberry yogurt – the soya kind surprisingly good – sorted out my twitter – made myself a green drink to get the acid out of my body, and talked to Hollywood, Uckfield, Monmouthshire and Hackney.
I have to finish reading Mr. Frisby’s book for tomorrow and then set about sleeping.

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