The Blow Dry and The Water Canon.

My adorable hairdresser Harvey always tell me I should have my Hair Done more often, he is right of course , hair usually looks like a wasp nest, and as someone said to me recently “ you always wear clothes you can wash up in”. They were right of course, I once purchased on an impulse.. a pale blue silk trouser suit . The first time I wore it someone projectile vomited all over it, and I had to go home in a black bin liner which the Sainted One said looked better than the trouser suit (before the incident). Well yesterday I had my hair blow dried and for what better occasion than Holland Park opera with a very dear friend?

The opera was freezing with sub zero winds whipping through the open sides and the hair started to suffer, but then so did I frankly I lost the will to live quite soon as the idiotic plot unfolded. It had no interval and all the opera lovers began to want to visit the loo but they could not get out. I note the seats are plastic so they can be cleaned even if the rain, blowing in, does not get them. The tenor made it worse, he was small and had the awful tenor break in the voice, that comedians do when they want to “do one”. It made me want to pee all the more After nearly two hours they all died on stage … why did they take so long I asked myself? I just made it to my hostesses’ house before the evening imploded. But there was no relief, a new house all electronically controlled but no instructions ……… and then the tap in the kitchen came apart and water cascaded four foot into the air relentlessly …… the hair went under the sink but there was no stop cock , Polish builders do not hold with them. The water was very, very cold the clothes were soaking the hair was rats tails there was no heating but I found a hair drier on a wall and the clothes eventually dried off and hundreds of pounds later Pimlico plumbers resolved the problem. Today I have pneumonia. My friend has guts she really does.

Moral ???? You tell me I just don’t know.


A Snoring Crab, A Boxing Fish, And Compassion in World Farming.

A child’s mind is a wondrous thing, it is uncluttered by the discovery that the world is a bad place, (of course this is not so for many) but protected from the reality if you can and let the imagination go to a fantastic place you must not touch it or the bloom will be gone . On a very long train journey this week, to a funeral in the West Country, a little girl opposite kept us all enchanted, one of the things she came up with was the crab and the fish, she plucked it from nowhere and then drew it on a piece of paper which I have.

It would be a mistake to rain on that wonderful parade and mercifully that little girl does not have to think about the awful cruelty to animals with which we are surrounded and which by and large we try to ignore, that little girl will one day be given her first pony whom she will love and cherish as if he or she were her own baby. She will not be aware of the horrors that await so many little spindly legged foals as they gaze wide eyed at the first glimpse of the world. Last week CWF highlighted Peter Stevenson’s work on Compassion In World Farming’s campaign against the live transport of animals. In the 1990,s GB exported 2.5 million animals annually. Many of these ended up in the Middle East, North Africa, and Turkey. The suffering they endured was horrific. On one occasion five thousand two hundred sheep were found dead on one journey to Jordan.

Thanks to the work of CWF many active lobbyists and some members of parliament, of which my husband was one, we no longer do this. But guess what? Not so with many E U countries, Hungary, Romania, Lithuania, Spain, France and Germany are an astonishing and shameful example no surprises there. So there you have it, so much for the E U!!!!!! when should the little girl on the train be told how it really is?

Game Set And Match,

Tennis! I have only just worked out that it is a very sly sort of game, cunning double bluff and getting your opponent on the wrong foot, its duplicitous, ungentlemanly actually its really nasty but all dressed up in Mr and Mrs nice guy white clothes. Yes people I know this, I live with a tennis freak. Our house I realize is a constant battle ground, sneaky scoring when you are not even thinking about winning always the last word. You are on the bloody floor with your head in the fridge and on it goes. You don’t even know you have been served a non-returnable killer. But it is quite nice to watch especially as they don’t actually kill each other although some of those post match interviews are very revealing quite a lot of blame the parents I have noticed, but that is usually the ladies.

The Sainted One lives for this fortnight and is on another planet doing some princely and very smooth entertaining, I am included in some of it and I must say I do benefit becoming very popular in about April, he is quite marvellous in the pale suit flashing about with badges and passes, and yes I am well up for that, but the façade tends to drop in the evenings, I had my own party in the garden last night and shared HALF a bottle of prosecco with a friend who called it prosexo. “What’s the matter with you ? Have you been drinking?” I was asked when I came inside in a jolly mood. Lots of toys out of the pram then. I suppose it is like a post coital hangover. Forty love but no juice, you are all so quick you get the pun of course.

Wimbledon again

Permanently pissed! (I wish)