Down by the River

I confidently predict torrential rain on Wednesday, no matter what those amateurs at the BBC may suggest.

But why? How can I possibly be so sure?

It’s not the (non-existant) barometer in my hallway. It’s not the (also non-existant) seaweed hanging above the door. It’s not even a funny feeling in my elbow.

It’s my sister.

Wednesday is the day she goes to collect the Christian Aid envelopes she delivered last week and, going on the experience of previous years, she’ll be in for a dousing because, as we all know, no good deed goes unpunished.

She doesn’t seem to mind, phlegmatic little thing that she is. People are more likely to be at home, she reckons, if it’s raining. And, again on past performance, if she turns up on the doorstep looking like a drowned rat, she gets the sympathy vote and people seem to donate more.

That’s what she thinks, anyway. I hate to shatter her illusions, but their charitable donation may not be quite as pure and selfless as she imagines.

(This is not my sister, by the way. I borrowed this one. Mine is a hundred times more gorgeous.)

I know this is terribly old news now, but I only just thought it up.

In the heart or in the head?

No, love. It’s in aisle 16, next to the pastries.

(someone found this blog yesterday by googling ‘hot nostrils’. how fabulous is that?)

I distinctly remember having a conversation, some time ago, in which I said, ‘Well, I won’t forget that - it’s the day before the twins’ birthday.’

Unfortunately, that’s all I remember. I can’t recall who I was talking to. I can’t picture where I was when I said it. And I haven’t the faintest recollection of what it was I arranged to do. Tomorrow.

So if anyone’s expecting me … sorry!

So, there I was, minding my own business in the middle of Whitehall, the kids were warmly wrapped in a cosy sheet that just happened to have the 1st article of the Declaration of Human Rights painted on it. It was, to all intents and purposes, a perfectly ordinary Sunday.

Through the throng, there came a little man. ‘Quelqu’un qui parle Francais?’ he pleaded. ‘Personne?’

Well, me - obviously. I do. I have a string of translations to my name - fascinating stuff, too. Thirteen volumes. If you want to know anything at all about robot spot welding, I’m your woman. CAD/CAM - easy peasy. Remote control and proprioception - pas de probleme. Of course, this was all about 20 years ago, but still. So I stepped forward.

‘Oui, m’sieur. Je parle Francais. Je peux vous aider?’

Well, it transpired that he was not a Frenchman in distress. What he really wanted was an interview for French radio on what was going on. I was now in too far to get out, so plunged on - recklessly.

It’s amazing, isn’t it, just how blank your mind goes when someone puts you on the spot. Particularly in another language. I think I may have said that Gordon Brown was a ladle. And I’m pretty certain that I expressed nothing but disdain for the people who were carrying the Olympic teatowel that day.

I forgot to ask him what channel the interview was going out on. Probably just as well. But if anyone did hear it - please, don’t tell me what else I got wrong.

Geddit?

Mmmm! Chavtastically tempting (but I didn’t buy them)

Just an experiment. xxx

… to the elements.

Yep, someone’s taken the front off our theatre. If I were feeling very clever, I’d make some reference to ‘A Doll’s House’ but I can’t really be bothered.  You know you’re at the home of the lame pun, so feel free.

(By the way, this is what they call progress.)

DTS Hollywood Musical Moment -

http://youtube.com/watch?v=LpbLJvdXFww

(anyone else having trouble with youtube at the mo?)