Winter Wonderland – rewrite

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Sleigh bells ring, can you here ’em? In the bath and the bedroom, They sing ding-a-long. A merry old song. Waiting for a winter wonderland. I’m agog at the spending. Just one day, we’ll be spending. Prostate on the couch, A night with the grouch. Sleeping off a winter wonderland. In the forest you can … Read more

A Capital day

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I spent all morning in bed making phone-calls on behalf of others.
Then after abluting, transcending, adorning and scent, I climbed into the Jackmobil and headed off to Prospect Pictures.
I haven’t properly been back there since April, but I’d been invited to lunch and hugs by one of my old team.
I was still bloated from yesterdays culinary exertions, and to be honest, just a smidge apprehensive about going back to my old stomping ground.
9 months has passed since the demise of GFL.
It takes 9 months to gestate a baby.
It takes 9 months for a body to decompose – give or take a preservative or two- so I figured it would take 9 months before I could face my dressing room, the corridor, the make-up room, the canteen, the studio, the camera ops, the producers, director, PA and all the other assorted grafters who I had grown to love.
April through December, exactly 9 months, time to face my demons.
I drove into the car park and Brian,the general do-gooder-handy-man, let me have my old parking space.
I parked as badly as ever and entered Capital Studios.
Gulp.

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I’m not as thissed as you pink I am

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There’s only so many parties you can go to before your toes curl up like dried toast. Monday’s do was all Shoreditch and Chardonnay. Tuesday’s do was all Bloomsbury and Bubbly. Wednesday’s do is all Wandsworth and Wallop. Thursday”s do is all Battersea and Boozy. Friday’s do will be all Green Park and Gluttony. Saturday’s … Read more

Saturday Night musings

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It’s 9.15 on Saturday night. After too much Saturday night television I’ve removed myself from the sitting room. Tomorrow I’m packing up and going to the flat for a week. Sundays show is all about having a GREEN CHRISTMAS. Lucy Seigle and Ed Baines are on, do join me. ‘m doing a three hour stint … Read more

Minus 3

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Minus 3. Christmas Tree. In the pond till Saturdee. Today I had the fridge man in to mend the fridge. It was the thermostat. I made a cheque but tore it up, just like Chris Tarrant, when I realised that he could fix my hob as well. The fridge man fixed my hob, I made … Read more

Green Christmas

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Dear All, my ankle hurts, although I know it’s really no excuse for bad verse. But here goes any way: I’m dreaming of a green Christmas. Not like the ones I used to know. Where the tree-tops tumble, and children grumble As they watch the Arctics melting snow. I’m dreaming of a green Christmas. With … Read more

An Insult

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Well dear readers,
As agony aunt to the less than famous, the indiscreet and the truly damaged, let me draw your attention to young Phils queary.
Living in Thailand, as he does, and enduring Siam Suzie, which he does, Philip wanted to know why, after an exhaustive shopping trip, we ladies always end up buying our men ties for Christmas.
It’s quite simple Phil, there is always the feint possibility that you will tie the tie just a little too tightly around your necks which means our job is half done.
Oh! no it isn’t…………
In my capacity as agony aunt to the follically challenged, fiscally unaware and non gender specific enquiries, I will now turn my attention to Kerri, David and Michael.
I know that as an agony aunt I really shouldn’t get invovled with my subjects but sometimes it is hard to remain objective.
So with that in mind
I FECKIN’ LOVE YOU DAVID, MICHAEL, KERRI, CHRISSIE, And the rest of you, you all know who you are.
Now that I have got that off my chest let me explain my absence.

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Pantotime

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It’s late. OH! NO IT ISN’T. OH! YES IT IS. I’ve just come back from Jim’s first night in ‘Mother Goose’. OH! NO YOU HAVEN’T . OH! YES I HAVE. There was so much traffic, and an accident coming back that it felt like I was time travelling. The headlights were shining in my mirror. … Read more

Mrs. B’s Diary

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I’ve kept a diary ever since 1981.
Each year Jim would buy me a big full-page, A4, lined jobbie, which I would fill religiously with waffle.
A different colour each year, so I have a library of red, blue, black, and so on.
The journal kept me sane.
Family issues were laboured over.
Work troubles were all recorded.
The good, the bad and the unpublishable were all written down and I had a special pen for the job.
My Conway Stewart with its wonderful soft nib, was swapped for a pink, plastic ‘Woolies’ fountain-pen back in 1958.
Gillian Quick, the bane of my life at Cowley Hill Junior School, got the bum deal.
I’ve always wondered whether Mr.and Mrs.Quick knew of their daughters rash trade.
I still use mine, although the plunger doesn’t work so I have to dip it into a bottle of ink.
One of my duvets is stained with a massive green blob where a bottle of ‘Mont Blanc’ tinte tipped off my bedside table.
I have cried into my diaries, written funny poems, stuck paper clippings, jammed in photgraphs and flowers, but always I have written as if somebody else, other than myself, was reading it.
Then one year Jim bought me a five year diary from Camden Lock.

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