Archive for October, 2012

Principal for the Day

We went to an Auction of Promises at Afie and Bashi’s school last weekend.  Fred’s eye was caught by the lot ‘Principal for the Day.’  He decided to go up to £250 for this.  The bidding went past that and he gave up.  It was already up to £350.  I could see he was a bit gutted.   Then,  lo and behold, the person who had bid three fifty pulled out, as did the person bidding £300.  It was all collapsing like a house of cards.  ‘Who bid two fifty?’ asked the auctioneer.  Fred held up his number.  ‘Going, going, gone!’

Wowzer, wowzer, Fred is headmaster for the day!!!  Whoop whoop.  What fun. He thinks it’s fate.  He was suddenly swamped.  Mates of Alfie’s coming up to ask if he could let them off school for that day.  Lovely flirty (and probably drunk) ladies asking him if he’s going to introduce The Slipper for errant parents!?  Mates of Bash wanting a ‘shout-out’ (whatever that is), or asking if he could decree that everyone must wear a ‘onesie’ that day, whatever that is.  (oh, alright, I do know really, it’s a kind of big fleecy babygro.)  He will probably ban French, German, Spanish and Japanese in favour of computer languages, Java, SQL, Scala and the like.

Oh, Fred says he wants to see how the school works, not just have a laugh.  Ha ha, not possible, Fred!  Too many people want to have a giggle on the back of it.   I think he should take the parrots in with him and we should teach them a few things to say in advance.  Like, ‘Detention!” or ‘We don’t need no Education.’

I suspect that on Fred’s Big Day, juggling will figure prominently, as will hacky sac, that game where you kick a beanbag around without letting it hit the floor.   He says he is going to preach ‘Stillness of the Mind.’  He might tell them in assembly how for a couple of years he never went to school.  He learnt most of what he knows from Open University programmes on the telly.  He only eventually went back because the school threatened to fine his parents.  Fred’s mum only found out Fred had got into Oxford when she went down town and bumped into one of her mates who’d seen it in the paper.  Fred had not thought to explain to her what it meant.  I’m not sure Fred knew what it meant.  (Oh, Fred says he’s sure he didn’t know what it meant!)

Must just let you in on how Fred’s dad met Fred’s mum.  It was the beginning of November 1965. (Oh, wow btdubs, this means I was halfway through being a foetus in my mum’s tummy.  Yeah, I know, it’s always all about me.)  Alf was the best man at his mate’s wedding.  Rene was chief bridesmaid.  They got tipsy and ended up spending the night together.  From Saturday to Wednesday they spent every minute together, whispering sweet nothings, I imagine.  On that fourth day they agreed that it felt like they had known each other for years.  Alf  borrowed five quid off Rene’s mum, bought a ring and proposed.  He made Rene promise to write to him, as he had to return to his army barracks in Germany the next day.  They exchanged letters until February, then Rene’s letters stopped.   Alf kept on writing.  Rene did not reply.  Alf was in despair.  He wrote her a letter saying ‘Look, I don’t care what the problem is.  Even if you’re pregnant, or whatever, just please write to me.’

She did.  She told him she was pregnant and that her parents had convinced her that Alf wouldn’t want to be bothered.  He replied, ‘Well, they’re wrong.’  He told her to get things ready for a few weeks time when he would have leave, and he would come back and they would get married.  Rene did nothing simply because she did not believe him.  He turned up at her house as he had said he would, but she was out at work.  Nothing had been prepared.  Alf did not give up.   He marched in to her place of work and whisked her out of there.  He organised everything in two days flat including the special licence, and they were married just like that.  Rene accompanied him back to Germany and they lived in a hotel for a couple of months until they were granted married quarters.   On August 3rd, Fred was born in the British Military Hospital, Rinteln.

Isn’t that just such an unlikely romantic tale?  Well done, Grandalf, for believing in love and for going on to have Ray and Gwen and all those lovely grandchildren.

At the auction we were sitting next to Luke’s parents, and Sammy Wammy’s mum.  They reminded us of how Alfie’s mates used to come over for Chloe’s tutorials in:  ‘How to Pleasure a Woman.’  I would come home and find up to ten boys sitting on the kitchen benches, wide-eyed, catatonic in shock as Chloe relentlessly, nay graphically, expounded upon her theme.

Still whenever Chloe is home, Alfie turns up from school with maybe fifteen or eighteen lads, all hopeful that the legendary tutorials will take place.  When I say that it’s possible she’s blowing their minds, (I mean, look at them, they’re out of their faces on information!) she says ‘Mum, men really need to know this stuff.  The more men in the world who know it, the better.’

There you go.  Education organically arising due to local need.  Chloe should start charging for her sessions:  she could make a packet.  Some poor person at the auction paid £270 for a song-writing session with her!  Lolzer.   Let’s hope he or she gets a major hit out of it!  Ooh, that would make a good story.

Oh, yes, talking of stories, both Hockerill College and The Bishops Stortford College have opened their short-story competitions.  I love these.  The first you’re allowed 1200 words for (that’s like three pages) and the second only 500 words (that’s a little bit over a page.)  The Hockerill one is a ghost story and the College one has to include the text ‘Anyone could make that mistake once.  But then he did it again.’  So far I’ve gone on to say ‘So I decided it was time to punish him.  I started taking his sperm with increasing regularity.’  Hahaha.  Love it.  Whatever is she going to do with the sperm…..?  (Hooray, it appears that I’ve finally moved on from Milk/Breast obsession to Sperm/Bollock obsession.)  Anyway, that’s for another day. All will be revealed.  But for now, busy busy busy!  Bye folks.

Ps.   Fred having no job means he is freed up for really important seasonal things: (the one on the left is an alley cat just in case you were wondering.)


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So, the last post apparently had too much swearing in it.  Oops.  I was over-excited with being in Greece.  Anyway, it was only Gwanny who complained.  Which is funny because when I was about fourteen and used to bring genteel ‘Perse School for Girls’ girls home for tea, we’d be sitting there all prim and proper talking about our Latin homework and my mum would start bashing the pans in the kitchen going ‘Och!  Fuck, shit and ABORTION!’  Those poor girls probably never recovered.

Greece was the best break ever. I drove to Ligia and sat at my favourite taverna looking over the harbour.  I ordered the sea bream, greek chips, tzatziki, greek salad and a carafe of rose.  Having got up at four am and it now being around two in the afternoon English time, I was really hungry.  I ate and ate, like I had never eaten before.  The appetite for food and for life was tremendous.  It was like the scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when he finds the half crown, buys himself a bar of Whipple Scrumptious Fudge-mallow Delight and wolfs it all down.  It makes him breathless with happiness.  That was exactly it.  I was breathless with happiness.  I reached the house, ran down to the sea and had a long swim, the first swim the Beaut has ever had.  Gingerly at first with my right arm, but very soon striking out strongly and turning my body every which way.  I went back to the house and slept.

So, from Sunday to Thursday I was alone.  I worked.  I finished Dennis’ book and added fifteen scenes to my script.  It’s mostly there, but needs to be in the right order.  I realised I needed skilled help with it.  Maybe I could order it by focusing on place.  After all, my main arena is the village, with its farm, shop, school and pub.  I also decided that not just Booby and Busty are going to defect to the other side;  ALL THE MILKERS are going to defect, apart from the British Standard Handfuls, of course.  Hetty is going to find them all, dying in a lab, overdosing on chemo, mega-pumps sucking them dry, their babies strapped down and howling.  I would stop to muse upon all this while doing yoga on the balcony and going for swims.  I was looking forward to picking my fwends up from the airport on Thursday night.

Now, really Claire should tell you the next bit in ‘The Worst Blog in the World,’ but she hasn’t started it yet, so I will:  they were so excited to be going on holiday that they not-quite-accidentally got pissed at Gatwick at the fish bar, ordering two bottles of champagne with smoked salmon platters no less thus squandering all their holiday money.  Jill is a wonderful influence, being a jet-setter of the highest order.  She is also an incredible loon, managing to mislay her ticket, money, passport, boarding pass, everything, but nobody cared as they were having such a wonderful time already.

Can you see the strange, disembodied hand about to fondle Jill/Claire on the shoulder?  (oh, Bash just pointed out that it’s someone’s hair in the background.)

They had the plane to themselves, so had whole rows of seats to lie down in.  Lush.

Their first day we explored the deserted west coast of the island: Pefkoulia, Kathisma and Porto Katsiki.  The sea on that side is a truly intense turquoise.  There are massive foamy breakers one of which knocked Mad Lucy over.  She ingested a few pints of salty water and had to scurry off on her own to vom behind a rock.  After that she felt better.

At Porto Katziki Claire and I leapt in with nothing on but I had to clutch the Beaut to me as it flobbled up and down alarmingly in the swell. If I hadn’t already been healed by Dennis though, I would have been healed by these waters.  They have a magic energy.  You can feel it soothing your spirit.

On the way home Jill started to fantasise about Greek chips, so we had quick gin in the dusk on our beach and then went into Lefkas town for a bit of shopping and tzatziki, salad, butter beans, chips, wine.

At four in the morning Jill woke up looking like she’d had a massive botox lip job gone wrong.  She thought she was having an allergic reaction to something and was having a ‘death ensues, oh no, oh no,’ moment.  I said it was bound to be a mozzie.  I had seen it before, on Gavdhos, when Nellen had slathered mosquito repellent everywhere except her eyelids.  She woke up in hysterics, unable to open her eyes and looking like a frog.  So anyway, paranoid now, Jill carefully wrapped herself in the mosquito net and sat there reading her book.  At a certain moment she realised to her utmost thrashing panic that the mosquito was inside the net with her.  It took three of us to untangle her and restore her to calm.

The second day we started with Bougatsa, (a vanilla and cinnamon cream pie from the baker) for breakfast with yogurt, honey, peaches, grapes and muesli.  Pouty Jill still looked like she was angling for a snog, but was fine otherwise.

We went to our beach with chairs, Jill’s lip, the Beaut, Claire’s turquoise toes, our books, the snorkelling stuff and a huge tray with pistachios, gin, tonic, ice, lemon, vodka and peach juice.  Ooh, sounds like we’re playing ‘Granny went to Market and she bought…’, doesn’t it?   We got our tits out and talked about the ‘no more Page 3‘ campaign which is on Facebook and has 46,000 signatures already.  We drank and drank and snorkelled and snorkelled.  Silver Sea Bream everywhere with their stiff, upright bodies.  Little roundish black fish with neat curved fins: they look like swallows would look if they morphed into fish.  Grey spotty slug-like fish basking on rocks.   Mad Lucy would come across a wondrous shoal and you would hear these muffled ‘oooh!s’ and ‘aaah!s’ of appreciation through the snorkel.  She would then look up, rip the pipe out of her mouth and shout ‘It’s a whole new world under here!’

We were trying to hold onto time.  We were trying to make two days into twenty.  It almost worked.  That day went on and on.  As we got more drunk the clothes became more scarce until we had none.  Well, Claire had none.  (I had to protect the Beaut from the sun.)  We watched her white bum looming about as she snorkelled.  She would occasionally pop her head up to say ‘I am a mermaid!’   The chaps packing up the beach bar applauded as her naked form came out of the water.  It all fitted in with the ‘No more Page 3’ theme, but we were too drunk to know how, and even now I’m not sure.

Claire was very pleased that her turquoise nail varnish was the same colour as the sea.

We ate in Ligia.  Jill thought she saw the moon but it turned out to be a tin lamp. (She’s a bit blind poor thing.)  We had lemony fish soup with a big chunk of tender sea bass in it.  Apparently I upset the table next to us by talking about TITS and probably other terrible things too loudly.  The waiter brought us cake of course, and some ‘rosoli’, a brandy with cinnamon.  We loved it so loudly he brought us the whole bottle.

On being asked for her boarding pass, Jill dropped hundreds of coins all over departures.  You would never think she’s some grand CEO in International Publishing, would you?  Claire had some difficulty coming back.  She wanted to drink the plane dry.  We didn’t let her.

We landed at four pm on Sunday afternoon.  They went to get the train and I went to find my car, as I was going to drop in on Tabby in Guildford.  Oh, bummer: couldn’t remember where I’d left my car.  It seemed years since I had dumped it in a car park at five thirty in the morning.  I got on the Long Stay bus with many others.  The bus driver would call out, ‘C – bus stop three’  and people would confidently alight.  I was not confident.  C did ring a bell, as did B and D.  19 struck a chord, but so did forty nine and eighty three.  I alighted (or is it alit?) randomly and started trundling my case along the rows.  I was still so buoyed up by my holiday that I did not sit on my case and cry.  I felt quite positive if a bit stupid.  After I’d done about five long rows and was starting to consider the ‘sit on case and cry’ option, a lady stepped out from between two cars and called  ‘Hello, lost person!’

‘Hello,’ I answered pathetically.

‘We’ll help you find your car, in our car, if you like,’ she said.

Oh, the kindness.  Luckily, ages ago, Barney attached some wooden slats to my car as an improvised roof-rack, so it’s not difficult to spot.   We did about twenty rows with my head swivelling left right left right like I was watching the tennis, and found it.  The kind couple told me the same thing had happened to them a few months back, and somebody had helped them.  Swings and roundabouts, that’s what it is.  And karma.  Driving towards Guildford I remembered a hitchhiker we picked up on our way from Andover to Cambridge, about twenty years ago.  We went out of our way to drop him off at his house in Guildford in exchange for a cuppa and a spliff.  Maybe kind couple was the payback for that day, who knows?

I saw Tabby’s lovely little room which has a tree outside it.  I met her ‘uni fwends’ aah bleeesss, gorgeous, all of them.  We walked into town from the campus and ate at Jamie’s Italian.  The linguine there is so ‘al dente’ it’s practically raw but the rich tomato and chilli sauce balances it fine.  Drove home and found to my surprise that Alfie and Bashi had positively thrived under the care of Fred, and had done their washing for the week ahead.  Had forgotten to go to the Japan Trip meeting though.  Now Alfie will be the one who wears the wrong slippers into the loo or commits some other terrible faux pas.

The next day I saw Miss Benyon.  Oh joy, I had her all to myself, apart from a registrar chap who accompanied her.  ‘Gosh, you do look well!’ she said, ‘cos we were just saying, it’s only been two months.  Has life started to take over again?’

‘Yes,  it really has,’ I said.  I told her about swimming naked with the Beaut.  She was pleased that her creation had already been on such exotic adventures.

She said she would do me a nipple in three months.  If it wasn’t her doing it, I probably wouldn’t bother.  But this way, I get to see her a few more times.  She started going into various options.  I couldn’t take in a word as I lose the ability to concentrate when she’s around.  ‘Look, I trust you,’ I said.  ‘You just choose the best one.’

My infatuation has not gone away.  The Benyon effect seems to last for about five hours.  I can still conjure up the peace and joy just thinking about her.  Almost as good as a holiday.

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So, I didn’t post for a while.  Big Soz.  It was La Rentree, see.  The French even have a word for it because it’s a big stress: all that going back to school lark,  driving to drama clubs, preparing for auditions, having no less than twenty of Alfie’s mates round for COD wars, and being on committees absorbed all my attention.
So, as soon as I feel ‘better’ I am sucked into creative endeavors once more.  My favourite idea years ago was to write a book called ‘My Animals and Other Family.’  Trouble is, I was so busy feeding and grooming and walking the Animals and Family that I never got round to it.  Then when we suddenly moved to New York from a tiny hamlet near Saffron Walden I started scribbling down my experiences in a journal: ‘From Wimbish to West 64th.’  I did keep these crazed musings, which came in handy for later.  I then had a go at babies’ books, writing some of a series called ‘Cave Baby,’ the adventures of a little Stone Age baby.  (I see that this has now been written by somebody else.)  My version was going to have nothing but baby talk in it, like ‘Ooh, wana flana gaba goo noo lala.’  I thought that would be a bit novel.  Unfortunately I tried to illustrate it myself, and when Fred saw the picture of Cave Baby’s Mother squatting down to light the fire he laughed so much and for so long I was more than a trifle put off.   Her back was a bit long and her hairy bits maybe a little too hairy, I admit.
Then when Alfie was about three we went on holiday to Greece and forgot to take any books with us.  To keep our little bedtime routine, I wrote a chapter of ‘Alfie, the Wonder Boy’ or something similar every night.  Alfie was a diminutive James Bond type of hero with his magic wubber wing, bow and arrow and other gadgets.  He spent a lot of time rescuing ill mermaids and fighting pirates.  Similarly on a later ski trip I made up several stories about Bashi on her magic sledge finding some little wolfies and coming across eskimos and yetis and things with her fwends.   I also tussled for about a year with my Alfie Bett reading scheme.  Alfie Bett is a teacher and the children in his class all correspond to a letter.  They are all very naughty children and behave very badly.  That one is still on the back burner so I’d better say no more in case someone else writes it.
However, one project I have stuck with willy nilly through thick and thin is the Tits one.  It all started with me reading Bridget Jones’ Diary and feeling disgusted that every day Bridget was writing her calorie intake into her diary. Who gives a fucking fuck? I thought.  Knowing the pain that anorexia has caused in some of my friends’ lives, I was saddened at the dangerous lunacy of it and filled with hatred of diets and all the ways in which Bridget was so silly and deluded.  I suddenly wanted to write a book in which the women were like the ones I knew.  None of them (except the baddies!) would totter around in high heels, or count calories, that was for sure.  My women would get out in nature, go to festivals, play music, help their dogs have puppies, sit around fires, be surrounded by mess, have bare feet or boots.  I wanted my women’s conversations not to be lost forever.  I wanted to record us, the way we were, me, Levi, Nellen, Cheryl, Bella, Barney, Fred and all the others.  I wanted to bloody well say whatever I bloody wanted to.   Aaargh we’re all going to die, so what the tit does it matter type thing.  I in one fell swoop lost my self-consciousness and did not care what people thought.
Another thing which forced me to start writing for real was that, when Bashi was very little, I read ‘Mad Cows’ by Kathy Lette.  The first chapter made me howl with laughing.  It was about a lactating woman who goes into Harrods.  Her tits feeling increasingly swollen and hard, she takes a pack of frozen peas and pops them in her bra.  She forgets the peas are in there so gets stopped for shoplifting on the way out.  By the time she gets out of prison her friend has been bringing up her baby and has the kid enrolled in zillions of kumon and suzuki classes.  Anyway, being a breastfeeding mum at the time I found all this such a hoot, but unfortunately after the first couple of chapters the book abruptly abandoned the subject of tits.  I was leafing through desperately, looking for more tit-related jokes, but there were none.  I was anguished.  This led to my brain going ‘Ping!’ as I realised there was a MAHOOSIVE gap in the market.  A book ENTIRELY about TITS, that was what the world needed. Ten tits a page I would promise readers.
So, having thought about it for a good few months, I started writing when Bashi was nine months old.  By the time she was a year old, I had my first rough draft.  She is nearly thirteen now, so I have been puzzling upon this theme for a very long time. About five months after that first draft I had tweaked quite a lot and sent off three chapters to various agents and publishers.  Fred would come home and find me in bunny-boiler mode scrawling ‘SUCK DICK’, ‘FUCKING WANKER’ and ‘ARSE’ across rejection slips in red lipstick.  He’s convinced I deal with rejection badly, which is absolute codswallop.  I rewrote and tried again, and was rejected again.  ‘Bastard Books’, bless em, were intrigued enough to read the whole thing, but decided not to pursue it.  I kept rewriting.  This meant that new jokes I had come across got added so the book grew into an unwieldy mass.  I carried on tussling with it in the depths of the night.  I got to know my baddies, developed back stories, added the whole Bodily Fluid Terrorists subplot and read creative writing manuals.  Five years ago I got it together to self-publish with Trafford.  This finally gave me peace and I found I  was just happy it was out there, didn’t really care who read it and kind of forgot about it.
So a few months ago I got a phone call from a chap called Damon at Trafford in Canada.  He was saying he wanted to send the book off to be developed into a trailer for Hollywood.  I just laughed at him.  Of course, you can’t help but think it’s a scam.  Damon did not give up.  He phoned up every week for months.  The phone calls went like this:  ‘Mrs Tingey, your book is so worthy of being made into a film.  You would be mad to miss out on this opportunity.’
‘Damon,’ I would reply wearily, ‘The book is no longer how I want it.  I would have to rewrite it and I really can’t be bothered.’
‘Mrs Tingey, just as it is your book is really very original.  I highly recommend that you go ahead with our offer.’
‘Damon, my friend,  you have not read the book so how can you tell it is any good?  You just say this same stuff to everybody on your author list.’
‘No Mrs Tingey, you are wrong.  My supervisor was advised by our specialist readers that your book will particularly appeal to women, that women can relate very well to what you are writing.’
‘Well your supervisor is wrong then, because it’s all out of date and he would know that if he had read it.’
In another call he assured me again that the book was great and would so appeal to women.  I said ‘Damon, I am the only person who can make a film out of my book, because I don’t trust anyone else to understand who my characters are and what they would look like.’
There was a pause while Damon thought about this.  ‘Do you have the expertise to make a film though, Mrs Tingey?’ he asked.
Ooh, good point.   ‘No, I don’t.  That’s true, but, look, Damon, I’m having an operation to chop off one of my boobs tomorrow, can you please just give me a break?’
He called again a week after my op and said he had talked to his supervisor about my cancer and they had looked up my blog and he believed even more that we should make the trailer for the book.  ‘Women can relate to this story and to your personal story, Hester,’ he said.  (See, we’re on first name terms now.  We have developed quite a relationship.)
In the end after about ten of these phone calls I agreed to pay $900 for the trailer to be made.  Trafford are (they claim) paying $600.  I am laughing my tits off thinking ‘how are they going to do English Country Pub in Canada?’  And if they make my main team of women skinny and wearing heels and tights I will hit the flipping roof as I will know they have not bothered to read it.  For $900 you would expect them to sit down and actually read it, wouldn’t you?  Another thing that makes me hoot with laughter is the fact they are going to have to find fifty women prepared to get their tits out and have pumps attached to their nipples.  You just can’t depict the ‘human milk factory’ without this image.  I have so much fun picturing the film team getting to this part of the book (Chapter 1, luckily!) and the expression of dismay on their faces as they realise what is required, it makes my tummy muscles, such as they are, ache with spasmic giggles.  Still, fifty women with their boobies out is nothing compared to say Quidditch matches and flying cars, so they should think themselves lucky.  Fred is annoyed that they are doing it in Canada.  He had wanted to be on the auditioning panel and possibly the directing team for the Hooters, the Fleshy Bagpipes, the Jugs, the Headlamps and the British Standard Handfuls.
I discussed it with Fred (seeing as the poor man did earn the money that we are about to burn) and we thought actually, depending on how they cope with the 100 tits of course, $900 seems quite cheap to make a trailer.
So then I get another phone call.  It’s Damon again.  My fwend!  I know him so well now.  We have banter.  ‘Mrs Tingey,’ he says, ‘I want to offer you something very special which we offer to very few authors.  It is a chance to have multi-faceted marketing for your book and maybe win a Gold Seal.’
‘If I get any more animals my husband will kill me,’ I quip.  He doesn’t get it. ‘Oh, come off it, Damon,’ I scoff, ‘You offer this to everyone, don’t you?  Let’s face it, you work for a company that tries to make authors feel good about themselves so that they pay out for things.’
‘No, Mrs Tingey, you are wrong,’  he says.  ‘This we are only offering to you and to one other author, because we have had such a high recommendation about your book.’
‘Hmm,’ I say, flattered and softening fast though not believing him for a second.  ‘How much would it be?’
‘Well, normally it would be $6000, but we would pay most of that, as we have so much faith in your work, so you would only pay $1300.’
‘Ha ha LOLZ, Damon, you must take me for a fool,’ I gasp.
Four phone calls later and he has worn me down.  Thing is, the whole insane yet freakily wonderful boob reconstruction thing I have gone through, plus the enormously grand and sad palava with Kate our future Queen’s tits being photographed from afar and splashed around the world, plus the groovy ‘No More Page 3’ campaign on Facebook have all freshly underlined for me the ridiculous obsession that the world has with these fleshy mounds on women’s chests.  And really, I am convinced that I have thought about the tits thing longer and harder than anyone else.   (Apart from maybe the author of ‘Breasts’ which my friend Janet gave me the other day – it’s not fiction though.)  I believe in ‘A Breast of the Times‘ or ‘The Boob Tube.’  There are many many jokes to be made about tits, and I have made them!   Investment is surely the way forward.
And no time like the present, for if someone gets in there and makes my tits movie before me, I will be well miffed. Look at what happened to ‘Cave Baby’:  it got written by somebody else!  You know, about twenty years ago, Fred had the idea for I-Tunes.  He was too busy with whatever job he had then, so apart from going on and on to me about the possibilities of downloadable songs every night, he did nothing.  Several of his big ideas have ended like this.  The moral being:  don’t wait, just do it!  I am off to Greece on Sunday for solid swimming and finishing of The Script. (this is not true as I am actually there already but wrote this post before I left!  Am just editing after a few Greek style G n Ts. )  And then at the end of October I’m going to the London Scriptwriters’ Festival (again) to indulge in some speed pitching and script labs.  The race is on.
Don’t tell Fred or Gwanny for God’s sake, but I have signed up for the Gold Seal thing.  Shut up!  Shut up!  A Gold Seal can’t be as bad as those two fucking tortoises!  Or naughty Whisky when it’s raining and he thinks it’s ok to crap under the piano.  No, I know it’s daft, and they’ve probably nicked my money for nowt the bastards, but it all keeps me busy.  We need projects in this life.  And Damon is such a sweetie, I don’t want to disappoint him.  Ahh Bleeeessss.
Shit have not had time nor inclination to tell all about Monday’s first Herceptin.  Basically, tricky to find a vein but…..no discernible side effects, whoop whoop!  Oh, and the Persephone trial randomised me onto the six months as opposed to a year.  Great.  I also found out that it’s £1000 a pop!  Bloody Hell.  I have to phone each time to say I’m on my way so they don’t waste any. It is truly magic stuff.  Maybe will have to dump Persephone so that I get a year of it and can carry on this severe jittering loondom with no comedowns.   Claire came round for lunch the other day and accused me of being high.  She said she needs the drugs wot I am on.  Just accept your lot and have gin, Claire!   It’s almost as good.  And when you come to Greece on Thursday you will see that the shots they give you are humungously thrilling.  In fact, shots don’t exist.  They just up the bottle and glug it into an enormous glass until it’s almost full, and add a derisory amount of tonic at the top.  He he.  Wicked times. 
Reminds me of the time a few years ago we stayed in a slightly manky hotel in Corinth on the way from Athens to Lefkada.  The kids went to bed and Fred and I stayed in the bar drinking Bailey’s,  the ‘shots’ of which being again unbelievable pour-fests.  And we had about three.  Alright, about six.  Maybe eight.   Anyway, say no more, say no more, wink wink, nudge nudge, that was actually the best night evs!  Does she go?  Ooh, yes indeedy, she does!  But Greece is  like that.  It just does it to you.  Relaxes you deep down inside right from when you step off the plane, smell the thyme and are buffeted by the warm winds.   If you have never been, do yourself a massive favour and book a trip now.

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