How lovely!  It has rained heavily in the night – the cocktail glasses on the garden table are full to the brim – it’s extremely unlikely that they were left that way – and the day dawns sparkling and sunny.  I’m no scientist, clearly, but surely it can’t be beyond the wit of man to arrange for all rain to fall in the hours of darkness?  Stiff letter to the Met Office, methinks.

Contrary to expectations, especially mine, I have returned in one piece from my road trip, albeit with a few more miles on everyone’s clocks.  Doesn’t your heart lift when you finally see that wonderful sign ‘London and the South’ and know that all you have to do is travel in a straight line to get home?

Whilst in the Far North I had promised our route planner that we would look up some old acquaintance and present his regards, said lady to be found in what I imagined to be some rose covered village shop, polishing apples.  It turned out that she worked in a supermarket and was, according to a co-worker ‘Having a fag out the back’.  At least I could understand the local dialect, unlike in Grisly Glasgow where it’s always a wonder that they can make sense of anything I say, given their lack of the Queen’s English but I suppose they must practice by listening to Radio 4 …

The hapless girl was fetched, greetings presented and then nothing would do but a photo shoot in order to prove that she had been located.  Obviously chaos resulted as we re-arranged the girl and the store to make a (slightly) more interesting composition but the staff and the shoppers were all incredibly helpful, not a response you’d get in a London Waitrose on a Saturday morning.  ( I made have mistakenly given them the impression that we were recruiting for ‘Britains Got Talent or something. Whatever)

More mayhem when moving on to a bric-à-brac shop I spotted a fabulous vintage gown in the window, which then had to be dismantled in order for me to buy it.  Given the state of the display I suspect the dress might have been high fashion when it was first draped on the mannequin – Stop Press! Dior’s New Look arrives in the Borders.

One of my visits on the return journey was to the gardens at Castle Alnwick, somewhere that has been on my must-see list for years.  Reader, spare yourself the petrol.  Lots of hard landscaping, lots of water, lots of topiary and pleaching,  (Look it up.  Thank me later) but not what I’d call a garden.  I am almost tempted to use the word municipal but the thousands of visitors were enjoying the fish-n-chips and ice cream and I didn’t hear anyone complaining about the lack of plants so perhaps it’s just me.  It often is.

Before I even start the engine let me say a huge thank you for all those birthday greetings – would that I had clearer memories of the various celebratory events to share with you, although doubtless someone, somewhere is cruelly posting a video on YouTube …

As a reward I am going to give you a sneak preview of chapter one of my new soon-to-be best seller, the no-holds-barred tale of the adventures during my summer road trip, incidentally still under way.

On the Road.  Chapter One

Having recently trailed round the back roads of Dorset in a fruitless attempt to locate Dartmouth,  I decided to invest 300 English pounds in a new sat nav for my road trip north which turned out to be surplus to requirements until Carlisle as someone from the very area I was visiting in Scotland had provided me with a blindingly brilliant route which meant we crossed the border in about three hours after leaving London.  Sadly my high spirits and good nature, as usual you are no doubt thinking, got the better of me and I allowed my travelling companion, Thelma, to take charge of navigation.  Readers, it is not in my nature to be harsh but this was a girl who wasn’t even allowed to ATTEMPT geography O level.  Days later we were still hopelessly lost having driven around every small town in the Borders while she tried to spot familiar landmarks.  Given our destination was next to the bloody River Tweed and a mountain even I imagined she would be able to find it.  We ended up telephoning our hostess who drove through the night to the rescue.

Next day we decided that given the weakness of her map reading we had better brush up on her history skills and give her a practical demonstration of the American political practice of water boarding. This had to be temporarily delayed, no water being available as Thelma, who had been given the apparently simple task of washing up the night before, had managed to block every sink in the house.  I was scouring the streets at six in the morning searching for chemicals and plungers whilst Louise, the third member of our party,  struggled to find a printer that worked in order to get Thelma’s air ticket sorted.

It was like Black Friday at a Comet store as she unearthed endless, long-abandoned computer accessories from cobwebbed cupboards. We decided that going to Guantanamo would be a more deserved destination than Gatwick and I resolved find my way back to England alone and guided by the stars, that being a more reliable option.

Air travel plans had to be abandoned after about eight hours of Printer-gate as it transpired that Thelma had not brought any photo ID with her on the grounds that it would have been “too heavy to carry” meaning that the entire Men’s Final was passed in trying to book a train ticket instead.  And, by the by, crying over a blister?  Try childbirth, mate.

In the spirit of an educational Hansel and Greta re-run we finally gave in to her whining to go for a walk  (Walk? Walk? Why?) and drove her into a thick forest with detailed instructions, doubtless instantly forgotten,  on how to get back.  We went home and not being minded to construct a gingerbread house, proceeded to sample a delightful locally sourced gin which had the same name as the house!  Fate or what?  Four hours later there was still no sign of our rambler but it being a Sunday we thought the police wouldn’t locate the body till the next day at the soonest when we would probably have sobered up enough identify the remains.

The earlier part of the day had been spent on an Agent Orange assault on the garden – undertaken whilst Madame Thelma lounged in the bath looking at the pictures in The Mail on Sunday – and it was decided, in retrospect unwisely, to have the conflagration of a 20 foot pile of green waste at the same time as the gin-tasting.  Ta da!  Smoke boarding! Hopefully a better lesson than writing out 200 times “I must pack my passport and not block drains”.  Verily, the way forward.

The adventure continues ….

 

Here I am again, albeit two days late, up at 5.30 if you please in a dizzy attempt to snatch a few moments with my devoted reader(s) before the whirl that is summer society in London continues.

 

I have even ventured out beyond the M25, something I have frequently declared verboten especially during the hotter months.  My dear chums have purchased a charming apartment in a gorgeous place in Devon.  I refuse to give further details because it appears to be completely undiscovered by the Ordinary British and I intend to do my bit to keep it that way, ably assisted by the Ministry of Transport whose signage department have also been sworn to secrecy.

Even I, a woman with navigational skills which would impress Vasco da Gama (Look him up by next week and stop interrupting), even I, and my SatNav, got hopelessly lost and ended up on a single track road, navigating by the stars.

Back in Real Life the hours between 2.00 and 7.00 have had to be stripped to accommodate Wimbledon (Matches hopefully completed before The Archers takes precedence) and given the unbearable heat of late it is a blessing to be watching it in one’s own home within arms reach of a cold drink.  Or two.

Matters came to a head on Saturday when I had 18 for lunch, reduced to a more manageable 17 when a certain B.H. Roberts failed to appear. Unfortunately we had to eat lunch at breakneck speed as I was due at an evening event at 7.30 but after years of practice  we were able to squeeze in coffee and chocolates thanks to my legendary organisational skills and the guests all working their socks off.  They can come again.

Elder son has returned from Nice and brought with him a delightful young American who ended up staying a week.  Another adorable addition whose only drawback was that she had to be at Heathrow by 4.30 am to get a flight to Latvia. (And again: look it up etc etc).  Luckily this was after double party day so the opportunity for bedrest would have been limited at the best of times.  A popular combo called U2 was appearing at Twickenham stadium so we simply retired to the third floor balcony and listened in.  Location is so, so vital.  Yet another lesson for life.

 

No, not a cricketing reference, muppets, rather a Phoenix-like rebirth from the dust of my recent despair.  And before we proceed let me state YET again that this is meant to be a lighter look at life.  The people and events described are almost always my own delusional  flights of fancy.   Or life.  Whichever version you can handle.

And what has bought about this miraculous return to form?  Step forward my oft maligned boys.  They have both been abroad lately, thank God escaping the hellish heat that was England, and generously providing me with a much needed opportunity for a thorough spring clean (I think you’ll find that the National Trust book on housekeeping agrees that one good dusting a year is the way forward) carried out without disturbing their slumbers with that noisy Hoover. And the clattering row that accompanies the skip delivery.  I’m not a woman for doing things by halves …

Seven days in, a text – always a bad sign – although it begins with a cheery “Hey, Ma” – my own in-house abbreviation for ‘The Madonna of All Sorrows’.

“All is good here”.  Spookily reminiscent of those frequent calls home from university which invariably started “I’m in the library and …” Of course you are and I’m busy mucking out the unicorn. Several more anodyne snippets referring to the weather and then the inevitable “but”.

“I haven’t screwed up majorly”.  Majorly?  For this adjectival abuse we paid for decades of schooling?  And I have already managed to work out for myself that we are not talking real disaster here.  On past experience that involves an air-to-land transmission from the helicopter-bourn secret police of a minor country in the Balkans.  At best.

It is, deep relief, merely a request for an ‘advance’ to pay for a hotel, made necessary by the train having the temerity to leave on time.  Have we taught Johnnie Foreigner nothing?  There is even a receipt for the unexpected outlay and as he observed “I know this is irritating but having to pay 150 euros was more irritating for me than you can imagine!”

Ah, my oft lamented lack of imagination.  How much it spared my parents, certainly in terms of financial outlay.

Spirits restored all round, he closes with a cheery “Hope all is well with you.  Have a good day”.

And the same to you, dear readers.  Have a very good day.

 

 

I think it would be fair to say that I have not had a happy life; to say it has been largely an unrelenting, uphill struggle would not be an exaggeration.  You look surprised readers, given the merry nature of my blog but misery teaches you some valuable lessons one of which is not to burden other people.

When I was 23, and still coming to terms with the loss of my lovely father at a younger age than I am now, I was told that my brother, aged 28, had only two months to live.  The reply from the person I confided in? ‘Well at least you’ve got time to get used to it’.  Lucky me or what?  Someone else remarked on the good fortune of my Mother in having four other children – so one more or less hardly mattered then?  I didn’t even take a day off work.

The four went down to three a couple of years later when my sister also died, aged 27 but by then I knew better than to expect sympathy so I didn’t bother asking,  Or when my brother-in-law, who had given me away at my wedding in the absence of any living male relatives, was killed in a tragic accident two years later.

When I was going through a dreadful, never ending divorce, when even the judge could spot I was being bullied to a point where she imposed a restraining order, not one single person asked if I was coping. Me?  Of course I was!

When things like this happen you do cope.  You wouldn’t, if you were given any other option, but you’re not.  So Keep Calm and Carry On. And on and on.

On the plus side I, like everyone in my family, have a sense of humour.  Yes, possibly my only good point.  If you want someone to ferret out a silver lining to pretty much any cloud, I am your first point of call.  I like, or rather used to like, to think that there are few faces I can’t bring a smile to, few days I can’t brighten.

It turns out I’m wrong.  Sorry about that.  I give up.

Do you remember a film called ‘The Man in the White Suit’?  I thought not.  It was made in 1951 and featured Alec Guinness, yet another actor I never liked, and I must have seen it on on a wet afternoon before watching paint dry had been invented and someone had the sense to put it in a bin.   It’s about a man (Clue’s in the title) who invents a fabric that never gets dirty which has the potential to put a great many people out of business.  By next week I want a sensible list of jobs that would be impacted by this.  Turn over your papers and start.

Now with a leap of imagination, of which I am probably the only person reading this is capable, let us move to teeth.  Clutch at the straw that they’re both white, if that helps.  I asked the dentist who was fracking around in my mouth recently why it is beyond the wit of scientists to sound the death knell on the bacteria that cause plaque.

How do you not know what that is, Davies Senior?  See me afterwards.

She says they have but whatever you use becomes useless after a fortnight because the bacteria mutate.  Human beings with their enormous brains are outwitted by bacteria too small to see and we even know where they live?  Apparently yes.  How is this possible?

Step forward Useless the Younger, a man with theories.  He blames it on our abandonment of Spartan practices.  I sense I’m losing you here but, as they say at call centres, bear with me.  For those of you not classically (privately) educated, it was the custom in Ancient Sparta to leave new born boy babies outside overnight to test their hardiness – a pretty efficient method as it goes, although on reflection it could prove be a bit too effecient in winter-time Newcastle.  (Obviously this didn’t happen to girl babies.  Quite unnecessary.  FYI more boys than girls are born – 110/100 – because more boys die.  Bet you didn’t know that either!)

UTY attributes our decline as a race to the loss of this robust approach to child rearing, exacerbated by interfering with the course of nature with things like immunisations.  Too many of us are surviving to breed and perpetuating weakness in the tribe to the point where we are now outwitted by tiny things lurking behind our molars.

I felt it only fair to point out to young Einstein that given he was extremely ill at four weeks old he would not have made the cut.  He shrugged with quite admirable sang-froid, yet another thing you learn at a good school.  I also mentioned that it might be quite a tricky idea to sell to the general public, up there with thoughts on how to pay for care for the elderly but he was not to be deterred.

I shall therefore be writing to whatever august organ is the dental equivalent of the Lancet for consideration.  I’ll keep you posted with any progress.

 

Sounds a bit like an advertisement for shire horses, doesn’t it and clearly not a slogan I would pick were I trying to persuade you to make me Prime Minister?  Not that that will ever happen.  This week’s competition readers:  Think of a worse job than being any sort of politician.

Anyway, even with my legendary energy  I wouldn’t  have time to run a country – yet another week when my Manolos haven’t touched the (red carpeted) floor.  On Monday my choir went on a group outing to see Les Miserables – that’s the musical, sweetie, not a visit to Labour Party HQ.  Possibly knowing we were in the audience the cast really outshone themselves, buoyed up by us all singing along I shouldn’t wonder.  I was inspired enough to suggest that our summer concert cannot go on without a revolving stage, barricades – a first class recycling of the horrid furniture in the Strawberry Hill cafe – and flags.  Flags may not happen because it would involve the male section singing and waving simultaneously; a multi-tasking step sadly beyond most of them, bless.

Wednesday saw me gracing the Marble Arch townhouse of the Dukes of Wellington, popularly known as Number 1 London.  Handy for the shops but the traffic noise! Decided not to extend my visit by listening to what I’m sure was a riveting talk on Prussian China and repaired instead to the Fifth Floor of Harvey Nicks for a reviving tincture under the bad influence of an 80 year old lady who should know better.

On Thursday I decided to celebrate Japan’s Greenery Day by taking Useless the Younger on a picnic in suitably verdant Bushy Park.  Menu planning for this meant that much of the mental capacity of my pub quiz team on Wednesday was devoted to thinking of suitably tinted fare which resulted in us coming fifth (against a strong field).  Thank God at least it wasn’t Purple or Turquoise Day.

To Ditchling on Friday to see an exhibition of the works of the somewhat questionable Eric  Gill.  Who would think that such goings on could happen in so picturesque a setting? Thence to a viewing of Devils Dyke, a location unknown to my geographically challenged companions.  I stayed in the car; it was very windy and how many times can you look at a view?

The day was rounded off with a visit to Charleston, home to another seriously disfunctional family.  But nice decor.  And very pretty garden.  Obviously, and regrettably,  strong, stable and creative just don’t mix.

 

 

As in ‘working my’ .  Never mind your endless complaints about me having ONE day off;  there has not been an unfilled minute of late.  I may not constantly update social media with Testino’s photographs of me in Alexander MacQueen at the Met Ball, arm in arm with Brad Pitt and George Clooney but that doesn’t mean  hours of empty space waiting to be filled by blogging, mes cheres.   I have no craving for fame amongst the ordinary British and as it happened it was choir rehearsal night and that must take precedence.

I have been wrestling with my dwarf French beans, sulking after a cold snap like their inventors after Brexit.  Incidentally what luck for news editors that nothing else at all has happened in the world lately except endless tedious elections.  For the unaware the reason these are so popular with the media is that they are cheap and endless sources of news, they happen nearby, at pre-designated hours and require  next to no work other than a little light oiling of the Swingometer.

On the plus side I did wriggle out of the second meeting of the dreaded Committee of Doom by pleading a previous engagement at Hampton Court.  I went on a very exclusive tour across the acres of roof and was able to send my more amusing colleagues at the meeting pictures showing the long drop to the ground and the words ‘Wish you were here?’

Following my editor’s (never ending) heart rending pleas about deadlines I decided to amaze him by getting my copy in early this month in addition to having five reviews to do for my devoted 75,000 Trip Advisor followers and that is not a Diane Abbott figure, plucked from a hat full of randomly generated numbers.  I had to email the following to the Today programme on Radio 4:

I am well aware that you have to start work at 4.00am but do not vent your spleen on your loyal listeners by subjecting them to the faux dulcet tones of Miss Diane Abbot as soon as they tune in at 7.00am.  You may redeem yourselves by running a ‘Who would you least like to be locked in a lift with?’ competition, with Miss Abbott excluded as a way too obvious winner.

No reply as yet but they are probably busy deciding what the prize should be.  Dinner with Mr Corbyn might be an option.

I was out last night moving amongst the (not really) ordinary British and was met by a wave of protest that there was no blog yesterday.  Nice that you noticed but people, people, I have a life.  And the reason I was not, for once, lying around in bed entertaining you, in a computer related way if you please,  was because I went to the opening of my son’s shop.  Imagine.  A child of mine in trade.

The emporium is located in what is the latest modish area of London,  the siting of which changes on a weekly basis, and is currently somewhere called Peckham.  If you have heard of it, and I would be staggered to discover that you had, it was because that was where the Trotters (from ‘Only fools and horses’ ) lived and bless, you, I expect you thought it was a made up place.

I myself had to look it up on a map – it is in Sarf London where, like any black cabbie, I am always reluctant to travel.  A little quiz question here to wake you up.  How long do you imagine it takes to get there by train from my own tree-lined, river-fronting, spelt munching area?  25 minutes.  That’s practically next door.  No 2 Son was incredibly proud that I had made, and survived, the journey although obviously I wouldn’t of dreamt of taking my lovely convertible or wearing jewellery.  Trendy does not mean safe, whatever estate agents would have you believe.

The rest of the day was given over to gilding the lily for a birthday dinner.  The host had made the classic mistake of telling people his real age and inviting people he had known since boyhood who knew anyway.  I wish he’d asked me first.  I would have told him to admit to 60, do that at least twice, three years apart and then gradually let the figure creep up.  Poker tactics.  Just practice keeping a straight face.  Works for me.

I had a chance to catch up with his very beautiful daughter who has looked to me for advice for 30 years and sadly ignored most of it.  Now I have turned out, predictably,  to be oh so right about career options and starter husbands I can only hope she will be paying better attention in future.  And that goes for all of you.

I rather assume that my readers are a fairly clever lot and if I mention Professor Aronson they will all nod in sage recognition. His work on the subject of cognitive dissonance holds no mystery for you but in case a rogue member of the General Public has happened upon this, I will explain.  The good Prof explored why people continue to hold onto views in the face of evidence which shows they couldn’t possibly be true.

All religions are a fairly obvious example, trusting Tony Blair over several elections another and a good many defence lawyers press on regardless.

I am made of sterner stuff and make no secret of my incredulity that everything evolved from a single-cell slug in the mud and I have some serious doubts about old Einstein’s theories.  (I once visited the Einstein museum – party animal that I am – and even they admit that there are a couple of serious questions without convincing answers).  Let me now present you will a few facts about the earth’s rotation.

In a new venture for me I’ve even done a bit of research on the subject.  If you take the radius of the Earth, its distance from the sun and do a bit of sums you come up with the information that our planet travels at 584 million miles a year (That’s 940 million kilometres, a form of measurement hopefully soon to be tossed out with the rest of the EU impositions).  Now take away the number you first thought of and it transpires that if you stood on a dry spot on the equator you would be whizzing through space at 1000 mph.

Anyone who has ever tried to establish a roof garden will know that the main problem with growing anything is wind.  Hurricanes with wind speeds of 100mph create havoc, destruction, devastation on an industrial scale.  How can we possibly be going at that speed and NOT NOTICE? Witter on about gravity holding us on but it doesn’t do much to stop tornados causing damage, does it?  Why don’t aeroplanes just take off, hover and wait for their destination to appear underneath?  Imagine the time that would be saved. And the petrol.

None of the evidence supports what is supposed to be true but we, or rather you, go on believing it.  I previewed this theory to some chums the other day and they looked incredulous.  These are the very sort of people who 500 years ago thought the human body was made up of humours and excorcism was A Good Thing.

I bet that in another couple of centuries people will look back on us and be aghast at our simplicity.  NB history.  I had doubts.

Now back to the chocolate eggs and celebrating the resurrection.  Happy Easter one and all.