Tales from my handbag

If you go down to the woods today, in floaty trousers and without a balaclava, you could end up with a weeping, distended eye socket and knees the size of watermelons. It all started innocently; friend X to me: ‘would you like to go on a ‘plant journey’ in the woods?’ Me: ’sounds like hippy shite but I’ll do it.’ We rendezvoused with our fellow plant travellers (imagine lots of cheesecloth and Chinese slippers) in a quiet country road and silently made our way through the forest until we came to a fire in a clearing. Whereupon, a very smiley lady welcomed me by wafting a bowl of smoking sage leaves all over my nice clean cardigan. Then we had a pow-wow around the fire and were instructed to go and spend some time with an oak tree; get to know it; share life experiences, that sort of thing. We were also given a handful of oats for us to use as a sort of tree warmer! I offered my oats to a young oak and started chatting, as you do, but then I got interrupted by a vicious mosquito which had was attempting to drink me dry through my smokey cardigan. This opened the flood gates and I spent the next half an hour swatting midges and picking other brown flitty things out of my ears and out of my pants. Thankfully, we were then summoned back to the fire by a penny whistle for some group meditation that involved going down a hole to another world - all to the strains of a badly played bongo. Needless to say, I couldn’t find my hole and I was starting to itch, not to mention the fact that I was ravenous for my acorn burger washed down by nettle tea supper. This morning, I look like the Elephant Woman. Note to self: a tree is a tree. It does not talk; it does not eat porridge.

Ever since Christopher Boulter’s Bill Sykes bludgeoned my Nancy with a rubber mallet in 1970, I’ve had a soft spot for Oliver, the musical. At the weekend, I went to see some other 10 year old with a uni-brow and matching tash commit murder most horrid behind a bit of mdf. Rather like the Bill of my youth, this Bill couldn’t act to save his life but he had a marvelous lisp which made up for it. Dodger was ginger and Fagin kept fluffing his lines. Nancy, bless her heart, was three feet taller than the rest of the cast and had obviously been to the London Bridge branch of SpecSavers but her Oompahpah was tremendous. Other highlights: Mr Brownlow’s Peter Wyngarde sideburns and the valiant efforts of the assorted extras to casually mill around the postage stamp stage without a. bumping into each other or b. crashing into the cardboard book shop and Victorian vegetable barrow. Talking of vegetables, next day, on the allotment, Len, the hairy road sweeper with the Filipino, vegetable hating internet bride, approached me with an offer. If I wasn’t too bothered by excess gas, would I be interested in taking a bag of Jerusalem artichokes off his hands. It was a very windy night.

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.

Down at the beach volleyball court on Sunday, it was like a bloody zoo. Some players were coiled cobras, ready to strike at any minute; others stalked the court like panthers on a night feed, while others were greedy baboons, grabbing at balls left, right and centre.  And then there was the lone meerkat, permanently on high alert but not seeing much action. That was me. I did commit to a couple of headlong lunges but all I got was a face full of sand. I’ve had 14 showers since then and the sand is still coming out of me.

My eyes are the size of rice crispies and my nose is besieged by snot. Oh, the joys of June, hay fever season. Allotment duties are dangerous - sharp instruments and violent bouts of sneezing are not good companions. In fact, the other evening I was up there on watering duty when I  let rip, tripped over and fell into the water butt. Apart from swallowing a few waterboatmen, I am fine. By the way, my vegetables are looking beautiful, thanks to fellow allotmenteer, Joe. Joe is an Italian with hair the consistency of a brillo pad and a penchant for double-entendres. However, he’s also an award-winning gardener and has a raft of top tips up his cap sleeved t-shirt. eg, cockleshells deter slugs. I have sprinkled said shells all around my tender green stuff and, reluctant to rip apart their undercarriages for the sake of a leaf supper, the slugs are staying away. I have now tasted the first of my spinach and I can tell you, it’s delish.

I am turning into a tampon advert; I have unleashed my ponytail, put on a pair of tight shorts and am playing volleyball, tennis and netball and riding a bike while tossing my hair and laughing hysterically. I am the Goddess of Multitasking. The injuries are coming fast and furious. Last week, during a vicious netball match, I ripped both knees asunder while hurling myself at my opponent’s ankles and yesterday I suffered a groin strain and got me a mouth full of sand while showing off playing beach volleyball. I think someone better get the Ralgex, there’s a mid-life crisis on the horizon.   Â

I am suffering for my vegetables. Yesterday, I went up to the allotment to spread some muck and have a wee in my compost bin. I have perfected the art of the slash ‘n’ go; I simply back onto the compost bin and semi-drop my drawers (any frontal flashes can be cleverly masked by a spade). Now it may only be March but my weeds are on the march already. I have eschewed the use of rubber gloves as I need to ‘feel’ my vegetables, make a connection with the soil and relish the manure as it squidges through my fingers. However, without gloves my hands are open to abuse by the vicious stinging nettles that live on my plot. Which is why, I don’t mind telling you that this morning, I am all of a tingle - and not in a good way. Â

..go to a classical concert. I did last night. Some Slav geezer with a twitch was going great gusto on the old ivories. How refreshing; how uplifting, thought I as Vlad blazed a trail through Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1. Apparently though, the audience was in the grips of TB because whenever the orchestra paused for air, everyone erupted into consumptive seizures. At one point, it seemed the stalls were battling to out-cough the circle. I wish I’d had a gun to put them all out of their misery.

It’s Sunday; let’s ramble. I limbered up with some star jumps courtesy of Carmen the Unintelligible and her Cardio Funk class. I stretched, I bounced, I quivered, I perspired and then I was ready to get down and dirty on my country walk. Yesterday’s ramble was a fabulous five miler just outside Brighton. Polly needed a wee right at the beginning of the walk but said she could hold it until we passed by a toilet (she ought to slash and go in a bush, thought I but not everyone likes to pull their pants down in a rural setting so I held my tongue). En route we passed through a very dirty farm which used to be home to some black, hairy pigs; not the most attractive individuals but who cares what you look like when you’re on your way to sausage city! Polly stroked a quarantined calf but then Malcolm, who is a man and very good at diy, noticed diarrhoea and there was a bit of talk about foot and mouth at which point Polly made a dash for the tap.  We passed through the village of Rodmell where Virginia Woolf had lived at Monk House until she killed herself in the River Ouse. Malcolm had a fancy for a pint at the village pub but unfortunately, ‘due to circumstances beyond our control’ it had shut down. So, with no pint, no nibbles and no relief for Polly and her poor bladder in sight, we had no choice but to continue the ramble, back over the Downs and home. I believe Polly has now been.  �

I’ve just been to see The Wrestler. Not a good choice if you’re hard of hearing (Micky Rourke has been to the Sylvester Stallone School of Speech Impediments and has graduated with a mouth full of marbles) or dislike seeing the abuse of stationery items (one of Rourke’s opponents wields a staple gun, to great gory effect I might add). Rourke is supported by the usual circus of blue-collar characters  -  soft-hearted hooker, man-hating daughter, bouncers, pervs and feral kids. I especially liked the cold meat counter scene where Micky struggles to conceal his hair extensions in a hairnet and then has a hissy fit and bleeds into the potato salad. If playing your washed-up, has-been self is all it takes to get an Oscar these days, then it’s probably in the bag.  Â