Tales from my handbag

It’s been a very eventful, very messy week on the allotment. I’ve had manure in my hair, snail poo under my nails, plus I ripped my arm open on a sweet pea wigwam. I also had to have a strong word with Ted, the allotmenteer with the Filippino internet bride who doesn’t like root vegetables, who, when engaged in a conversation about rhubarb, casually brushed my bottom with his hoe. I said ‘Ted, just because I’ve eaten one or two of your Jerusalem artichokes, does not mean you can make free with my buttocks.’ He didn’t laugh, although he has a very hairy face and I’m never sure where his mouth is. I have made a mental note to stop weeing in my compost as I fear, this may have led him to believe I was up for allotment petting.

‘I am Love’ should be retitled ‘I am noisy’. Sumptuous, elegant, seductive, yes. But boy, did the Recchi household, with its endless wooden floors, take a battering from all those high heels. It was clip clop, clip, clop, clip, clop, upstairs and downstairs, and in my lady’s chamber. I didn’t see a patch of carpet, or a pair of slippers, just a lot of sliding doors and swishy scarves. Tilda had some lovely china and an assortment of Alice bands but then she got ravished by a chef and decided a bob was more practical, what with all that buccolic rumpy pumpy and hanging around in hot kitchens. Talking of hot kitchens, the film had a strong flavour of Master Chef, what with all the food close-ups. One minute they were smacking their lips over an upmarket Cornish Wafer, the next dishing out what looked like cabbage water with somebody’s foreskin in it. And in one memorable scene, Tilda did a wonderful impersonation of John Torode. I’ve never seen mastication like it.

“What good is sitting alone in your room. Come hear the music play”, sang Liza. So when in Berlin, on a four day city mini-break, I thought, must see the Berlin Philharmonic. However, said orchestra and its crazy haired conductor, Simon Rattle, had gone on its hols to Salsburg which meant we were left with a manky bunch of fiddlers from the former Eastern bloc and their camp conductor, Igor. The concert was called ‘A night in St Petersburg’ so I knew it was going to be a bit Nutcrackery. However, what I wasn’t expecting was a troupe of lumpen ‘dancers’ in nylon ball gowns who couldn’t cock a leg  higher than their Slavic crotches. Needless to say, the highlight for me, was the jumbo pretzel in the interval which had an interesting cheesy filling. Other highlights: sitting on a toilet that David Bowie/Iggy Pop may or may not have also sat on, doing the cha cha cha at the gypsy ballroom and losing my passport at the airport on the way home.

Somebody give me a trumpet; I think I’m going deaf. Either that or maybe people are gobbling their words a bit too much (yes Tommy Lee Jones in ‘No country for old men’ and Marco Pierre White in his shepherd’s pie adverts - I’m talking to you). I was in the pub the other night and a man came up to me and asked cheerily ‘are you gay’. Now this may be Brighton where we’re all a bit woolly but even so, I was struck by his audacity. For opening gambits, this was even more shocking than when a man approached me in Bubbles nightclub in 1977 and told me he liked my eyebrows. Anyway, back to pub man, I laughed hysterically (while inside I gave his silly bald head a good slapping). But then it turns out I’d misheard him; he was actually asking ‘are you going’ because he wanted my seat. I need to, a. have my ears syringed, b. learn to lip read or c. get myself a bloody trumpet.

It’s not often that you get to use the word ‘treacherous’ but I’ve used it several times recently to describe conditions outside my front door. I ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ when the first flurries appeared and gaily laughed at the children shoving snow down each other’s pants on their way to school. But then my road became a death trap. ‘Aaaaarrrggghhhh’, ‘wooohhhhhhh’ I cried as the ice rink conditions sent me hurtling head long into a neighbour’s bush. My low point was getting stuck in the middle of the road and having to get down on all fours and crawl home from the pub. On a lighter note, I’ve discovered that the wildlife in my back garden does not like chocolate and chestnut terrine but does like rough puff pastry.

…I was washing my dusters. Christmas makes me go a bit mental on the cleaning front. I’ve been down on my hands and knees washing my skirting boards and have even tackled that oft neglected rear of tap blind spot with a sprinkling of bicarbonate of soda and a squirt of lemon. Came up a treat. Carrying on the Biblical theme, I have also taken on the role of Good Samaritan, walking my neighbour’s dog, pulling another neighbour’s curtains twice daily to confuse burglars and even feeding the poor little sparrows with my left-over cheesy pasta bake. I am now quite au fait with dog shit and after a week of rather challenging curtain duties, have pinpointed the exact amount of ‘yank’ required to avoid pulling them off the rail completely. As to the sparrows, well, there aren’t any but I did get two really ugly crows fighting over a floret of broccoli.

The demi-century is upon many of my compadres and therefore, a big excuse to party and let it all hang out before it all drops off. Last weekend it was Sue’s Big One in Nantes so, I got my party frock out and crossed La Manche ready for some Gallic action. They came from all quarters to celebrate: the Algarve, the Holloway Road and Watchet so it was a bit of a squeeze, plus the bathroom was a building site so we made do with strip washes in the garage. Oh how we laughed (and cried) and reminisced about the good old days (it was a bit like Peter’s Friends but without the bad hair and chunky knit sweaters). Of course, once the French posse joined the party, the talk turned to existentialism and cheese but we just laughed again and had another Ricard. Sue had laid on some fine entertainment; we had a Belle and Sebastian type combo, a one-man band called Pierre-Claude with a pocket ukele, two ten year old hip hoppers, high on Le Tizer and, this being France, a bit of nasal wailing courtesy of Serge Gainsbourg and Edith Piaf. The next day I rose from my lilo and after a great big fry-up,  threw myself into the pan-European ping pong championship, obstacle race and penalty shoot-out. The lethal combination of hang-overs and hysteria meant, of course, that the grown-ups weren’t operating on full cylinders although there were a few surprises, eg Nigel, despite wearing a cardigan and having slim fingers, can bend it like Beckham while Eddie is quite handy on a Space Hopper. Sadly, amid all the screams and shouts of ‘zut alors’, the kids made steak tartare of all of us. Happy days.

I don’t want to boast but I am abundant in my back garden. My tomatoes are heavy on the vine and my butternut squash is filling out nicely. However, all is not as it should be; at night I have a prowler - a squirrel who has been filling his flea-ridden body with MY tomatoes. What gets me is that he/she/they, don’t eat a whole tomato and move on, oh no; they have a furtive nibble here, a quick chomp there and sometimes, just for fun, they might indulge in a bit of skinning - just because they can!  ‘It’s not a bloody buffet’, I shriek, chasing the hairy burglars down my garden path. I thought squirrels ate nuts but it seems during these economically challenging times, animals are expanding their gastro repertoires.  This summer, for example, I had wood lice eating my strawberries - and my pet dog Blackie used to eat Nivea Cream. But that’s another story…

I do miss not having a man in my kitchen so imagine my delight when Ed appears with his big hands and plastic bag full of danger. He’s here to do a bit of carpentry but has a sideline in smashing things. Already I’ve lost a favourite flower pot and he’s almost ripped my light fitting out just by flicking his hair in between cups of tea. I’m worried he’s going to saw his finger off but he just laughs and asks what’s for breakfast. Bloody hell, I’m not a b&b you know.

Ooh, what a gay day; in the run up to Pride it’s been puffs on parade left, right and centre. Firstly, on Saturday night I went to see the Brighton Gay Men’s Chorus. It was all histrionic renditions of ‘Wherererererere is love’ juxtaposed with a very raucous ‘There is nothing like a dame’ and masochistic ‘Hit me baby one more time’. My favourite part was when the Desperate Fishwives did Girls Aloud and ‘The Promise’. The shimmying was first rate and when they ripped off their dowdy macks to reveal sequinned boob tubes - you can imagine the audience was in apoplexy. Anyway, next day it was Paul’s birthday soiree so it was up to London for a glass of sherry and a prawn vol au vent. The conversation was flowing but before it could turn into a Cava frenzy, I hightailed it to the Royal Albert Hall for some vertiginous coughing. I was expecting to see the orchestra in face masks but no, there was no evidence of swine flu just the usual consumptive cacophony inbetween movements. Oh, yes, and the man next to me had the hardest handclap I think I’ve ever heard.