What? Me, worry?

I’ve loads to do today. My flat is a disgusting mess which needs cleaning, and I still have to re-hang my bedroom door which fell off weeks ago. I have all the equipment, so there’s no excuse. I also need to go over to my old house because the fish need feeding – they’ll be so grumpy because nobody has been in to see them for three days. The biggest (Mr Fishy) has cornered the market in looking grumpy anyway. Since his lips fell off (a mysterious illness, two years ago – don’t ask) his mouth has always had that down-turned look and even on a good day he glares at you as if it were all your fault (being a fish, living in water etc).

Well, I finally made it to the much-talked-about Champagne Bar at St Pancras this week. A load of old rubbish if you as me. It’s a bit like the Emperor’s New Clothes really: Everyone says it’s fabulous because that’s what’s expected, but nobody really says what they mean - that it’s just a big con-trick. You pay £10 for a single glass of (rather poor quality) champagne just so that you can be sneered at by an arrogant Russian bartender who, up until a week ago, was probably only a gay porn actor anyway. And there’s no heating, so you have to sit in your coat and gloves. And it’s billed as the longest bar in Europe which is just a big lie – the bar itself is as big as a pocket handkerchief; it’s just the longest row of tables in Europe, and I bet that bit isn’t true either. I’m sure the tables at the Munich Beer Festival are longer.

While I was in London (oh, I didn’t get time for my ‘adventure’ by the way), I went to lunch with an old friend in a restaurant by the river at Chiswick. It was a delightful place where you can watch the Boat Race going by (if it’s running, that is) and all the waiters are drop-dead gorgeous 'resting' actors. In that respect it reminded me a little of the restaurant on the roof of the Pompidou Centre in Paris where the waiters & waitresses are better dressed, and better looking, than most of the patrons. Mind you, at fifty-two quid for fish and chips and a risotto, it was nearly as expensive as ‘George’ is anyway. It was a lovely session though, and good to catch up on loads of news with my old pal.

Returning to Nottingham, I went to a fabulous party last night. My friend Amanda who is a playwright for theatre and radio - listen out for the Woman’s Hour serialisation of her play Bollywood Jane (or it might be Be My Baby; can’t remember) which is coming up in February - threw open her studio for a gathering of writers, theatre-designers, actors, choreographers and other reprobates. We all got wildly and irresponsibly drunk. I made a total fool of myself because I couldn’t resist rubbing the little red cheeks (I’m talking face cheeks here, before you start) of a mad Irish friend of mine. I think he became a bit fed up with this because he was trying to appear cool and manly towards a charming young female university lecturer and yet I was talking to him as if he were my little grandson. Hope I didn't wreck his chances. Oh dear, I am an old buffoon sometimes. Time to cut down on the sauce, I think (again).