Lights, Action and lost Lipstick...

I'm out of practice. Either that or twenty years or more on Eastenders have spoiled me. I have just done the longest and most arduous day in my filming history. Hot, dehydrated and on my feet for many consecutive hours, I was beginning to look my age. And I 'd forgotten my makeup bag.

So anxious had I been to remember the obvious things like continuity costume, shoes and hat, that I left the bag of life's necessities on the bathroom floor. I'd applied the first layer at 5.30am, sufficient for the morning, and thankfully the bacon butty did not wreak havoc with the lippy. Possibly because I ate it sans butty.
But post-lunch, the make-up girl absently tousled my hair.
"I'm wearing a hat," I told her.
"Good,"she said, a little unnecessarily, I thought.
When I looked in the mirror later, the old barnet was indeed looking very yesterday's mane, and I was looking progressively the worse for wear without any cosmetic enhancement.
Nobody commented. This is not in the slightest surprising. Our function is purely to fill a void in a room, to laugh on cue, disco dance to silent music, and occasionally to hide a lamp by moving just two inches to one's left.

Lost lippy was the last thing on my mind as I struggled to get through this long day's journey that had started at 5am and ended with a cup of tea at 9.45pm with Dearest. But how sweet the pleasure in telling him, as he has so often told me,
"I've had a bit of a day."

Cocktail, anyone?....

When sorrows come... well, they didn't come in battalions, but there were three this weekend. First of all, confirmation that Galvin's in Baker Street has actually closed down. A favourite unpretentious French restaurant of many years standing. We didn't see it coming. There are other Galvins but they are burdened with Michelin stars. We liked ours and now it is gone.  With not so much as an au revoir. Felt deeply sad. Then Dearest went to Daunt's to pick up the latest Philip Kerr he'd ordered.
"Did you know he died yesterday?" the assistant asked.
One of Dearest's favourite authors, felled, as his latest book comes out. Bernie Gunther and Dearest have shared many hours happily and grumpily growing old together. No more of this enduring fellowship. Shock and profound sadness.
Then, of course ball-tampering. Australian ignominy, and a bad day for cricket.

What could I do? Well, thank God I had a plan up my sleevie. I have resisted loudly whenever Dearest has expressed a desire to see the film Dunkirk. I've been persistently obstructive, actually. However, when one of our painters said he had a copy which he wouldn't mind lending us for the weekend, I accepted with alacrity.

So on Saturday evening. I produced the trump card. I have to say, that I had not undergone a sea-change. I really wasn't looking forward to watching it particularly. So I suggested I made us a pair of Negronis.
"Do you actually follow a recipe, Mum?" asked Son et Lumiere the next day.
Of course I don't. I read somewhere once that it contained Gin, Campari, and red Martini. I have got a very large measure and I mix them all up together with ice and a slice of orange.
"Mum, each shot is a double, you do know that?"
Really? Well, all I can say, is the first one slipped down a treat. It was so good that we immediately had another. Made Dunkirk go with a bit of a swing. Don't ask me about the detail. Just a little bit hazy about that.
Leaving alcohol alone for the rest of the week.

Wedding invitation.....

Posh wedding guest. That's me. Yessiree. Send me a text at 6.00pm for a 640am call the next day and I can rustle up the appropriate gear. Just like that. (Tommy Cooper without the fez.) That's because I am posh. I'm not really. I just never throw a hat away, and have inherited a few after my mother. I also kept the black and cream linen coat that DD wore for her graduation. Just in case. Black skinny jeans under which I could put several thermal layers, and black flatties because nobody but the uninitiated wears heels to day's filming, and a thirty year old black hat with veil and feather that I 'd bought for my father's funeral, and I was done. Amazing really, when you think of the agonising and expense of sorting out an outfit for a real wedding.

The cold. Always the cold. Fear of not finding the unit base, top of the list. Followed by the cold. It was going to be several degrees warmer. The next day there was blue sky and sunshine. And a biting wind that sliced you in two. Despite all this, it was a good day. An interesting crowd. A young and compassionate crew that realised that pretending it is blooming June in the middle of March is a tough call. A lot of flag-waving and cheering required, for this is a comedy. Not a subtle one at that. A great deal of "creative reaction" from the crowd required.

Love it. Just hoping that my own enthusiastic creative reaction falls the right side of gurning. I've been told to tone it down in the past. So mortifying.
Can't wait to carry on next week.

This'll do ....

The Girl from the North Country...

What were we expecting? I don't know. I went with an open mind. All I knew was that the show contained Bob Dylan songs. I could do Bob Dylan. In my youth. Not too much, even then. Dearest was keen and so was Beverley. It was our treat.
So we went with hope in our souls. And fortified by wine and solid Austrian food from Delaunay's. A little too fortified, in that we opted for a taxi, instead of a brisk walk, and ended up in a St Patrick's Day traffic jam, necessitating a power-pelt towards the closing doors of the theatre. Late. Bugger. Ushered into the bar (where no more liquid refreshment was required) to watch the opening of the play on screen.
"Shades of schnell-schnell," muttered Dearest darkly, recalling our late arrival at the Austrian opera.
"Don't worry," said the theatre waverer-in-of-late arrivals (says she, studiously avoiding the out-moded term of usherette). "You're not missing much in the first five minutes. It's just setting the scene in a guest-house."
Never were uttered more prophetic words.
This show has been festooned with Olivier awards (won after our booking had taken place) and enthused about generally. The singing was great. The songs virtually unrecognisable as Bob Dylan's, in that they had been given new arrangements. Fine with that. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a strong narrative. This had brief episodes strung together by musical interludes. It was a patchwork quilt of despair and sadness, with only tiny glimmers of hope.
For us, the only thing that truly lifted it was the depiction of Elizabeth Laine, the wife suffering from early dementia. Played by the extraordinary Scottish actress Shirley Henderson. A bravura performance and a terrific singing voice.
Thank the good Lord for the talent of Shirley Henderson and liquid fortification.
Frankly,  I couldn't wait to round off the evening with  a wallow of Leonard Cohen.

Snarking whilst snacking....

It would be presumptuous to ask if you missed me. So I''m not going to. Let me just say that Dearest has. It won't be said with flowers. Or him coming home early to surprise me. It shows in the way he left the dining room this morning. With jacket left on the back of the chair, discarded from last night, presumably. An empty coffee cup and a few remaining crumbs of hot cross buns which I will eat with impunity because my wife the dragon-slayer and general killjoy is away in Buckingham while I have to fend for myself, here alone.  A lone packet of fig rolls which have helped to plug the wife-sized gap in his life. The Times left, half-read. Left open at the page where he stopped half-reading it, because he was evidently beamed up by Scottie, leaving everything just as..

Oh, the joys of home-coming. It's as if I haven't been away at all. When I am absent, I remotely organise his supper which can only be microwaved with phone support. Oh, so patiently.  I hear stabbing sounds, as he attempts to pierce the seal on a Waitrose ready-meal.
"You don't have to kill the liver and bacon. It's already dead," I say, despite myself.
"Not a Charlie Big-Un exactly," he replies mournfully.
Well, I've studied the calorific content of Charlie Bingham and am very aware that Dearest if left unattended will buy for himself a meal for two, with the very intention of enjoying one man-size portion. So I've put paid to that. I tell you, I AM a killer of joy.

In the kitchen I found he'd bought a packet of crisps. But not any old crisps. No, these were exotic healthy crisps. Not a spud in sight. Crunchy French beans, sugar snap peas and black edamame beans.
95 calories per serving. It was not until I had scoffed the lot did I bother to see how many servings were in a packet. Ah, yes, 3.5 servings. Excellent. I have just eaten the calorific content of a small meal while having a snack. Thank God it's one of my five a day.
And thank God I ate them all before Dearest gets home.
You see how nobly I  throw myself on the altar of self-sacrifice, in order to keep the home-fires burning?


 

In case you didn't receive a card this Mothering Sunday...

Mother's Day in this country today. Might not be in yours. Every day is Mother's Day, mine would say, so that we weren't, as children, encouraged to subscribe to  the incontrovertible commercialism of this particular day in the calendar.
I always observed it, as I needed no excuse to buy my mother a bunch of flowers; my brother always heeded her advice, and didn't.
Today we had lunch with the Buckingham branch where Mother's Day was duly acknowledged, and I received a cheery text from my son.
I liked my card. So today I would like to wish anyone who is a mother and everyone who has one, a very gentle Mothering Sunday. Here's to good eggs everywhere.

Finding Your Feet or is it your Face?

I walked four miles today to get my vitals. Oh, you know, the monthly supply of blood pressure pills and assorted others, that keep my coat sleek and my tail wagging.  While on the journey, Son et Lumiere called. So we chatted as he walked to Marlins and I walked to the Chemist, because we are both extremely busy people and can only find time to speak to one another while in transit. Mmm. Familiar?
Anyway, I was doing a damn fine job of talking (not handsfree, because I am not that evolved) and walking up a hill when, suddenly, I exclaimed, as a double-decker bus went past, bearing a large poster of a film called, "Finding Your Feet".
"Are you alright, Mum?" said son-sounding-concerned.
Obviously fearing that I had been felled by aforementioned bus.
"Yes," I replied, "But have you seen that advert of "Finding Your Feet" with Celia Imrie, Joanna Lumley, and Imelda Staunton?"
He hadn't. As you may imagine, a title like that probably has about as much interest for him as reading a Bunion Blog. (Barbed, yes, don't deny it.)
"Well, do you think Celia Imrie looks a bit  like me? I keep on finding it a little disconcerting to see myself on the side of a bus."
"Oh, God," he said. Which is not the sort of thing you wish to hear your hand-reared doctor come out with.
"Do you think it's narcissism?" I asked. I am always quick to self-analyse. To prove that it couldn't possibly be the case in this particular instance.
"At least I'm not kidding myself that I look like Joanna Lumley who is way more glam."I added for reassurance, really.
Yes, he agreed, my narcissism was at least in the moderate category.
For the time being.  Oh Lordy, something else to worry about.

Celia Imrie third from left...not to be confused with yours truly