‘Got any pies?’ asked Fat Paul, optimistically. ‘I’m starving.’

His prodigious dimensions suggested that starvation was, in fact, far from imminent, yet I rallied to this desperate cry for provisions, searching high and low in the truck’s fridge. I eventually produced a delicious fruit selection.

Fat Paul’s face, a mask of wan discomfort, bore an expression of a child that had expected a shiny new bicycle for Christmas, yet upon waking discovers a paltry piece of coal and a Satsuma under the tree. Scarcely have I seen a face portraying less felicity.

‘A Satsuma?’ he questioned, peevishly. ‘Cor, I – ’ His grimace deepened. I glanced over from the driving seat, wondering why I’d been granted this welcome reprieve from unadulterated jabber.

And I saw that in his haste to remove the peel, a frantic digit had pierced the fruit: a jet of Satsuma juice had evidently struck him squarely in an area above the mouth.

‘This one seems to be a left-eye job,’ he spluttered, in the manner of one who goes in regularly for such insubstantial snacks. He sounded, in short, like the sort of man who consumes nothing more than a non-sugared grapefruit upon waking, a Slimfast shake for luncheon, and a diced plum for supper.

Now, you may ask yourself why I didn’t pile into the nearest motorway service station and bolster the poor, ailing fellow with a steak? Well, driving as we were on the old Greek road from Thessaloniki to the Albanian-infested port of Igoumenitsa, restaurants were rather thin on the ground.

In fact, even the occasional goats wheezing from altitude sickness were becoming few and far between. The road steepened.

‘Fuck a duck!’ exclaimed Fat Paul, his knuckles visibly whitening on the passenger armrest. ‘What’s the next sign going to read? “Sherpas only”?’ At this point, entering another series of switchbacks entirely unsuitable for articulated lorries, I did briefly wonder if I might have played something of a floater.

You know how it is: one drifts off the motorway for a Greek salad and a glass of retsina, and before one can say Mount Everest, things begin to look iffy. Yet an hour later, as crepuscular light tinged the ocean, the island of Corfu hove into view. And clusters of dotted lights signified the welcome sight of Igoumenitsa far beneath us.

‘At least it’s not a pie,’ remonstrated Fat Paul, emphatically, as I caught him stuffing a banana into his gob by way of celebrating a narrow escape in the mountains. ‘Mind you, have you got any biscuits in here? Or half a Snickers bar, perhaps? No, biscuits would be healthier, wouldn’t they? Oatmeal and all that…’

What a topping fellow, eh? Fat, though..

Drum roll please. That human blot Eunuch, his brain like a buzz-saw, has typed up a guest blog. And, perhaps foolishly, I’ve agreed to publish it unabridged. Few people so far have managed such an undertaking  – Dad, Big Don, Wrecker, Namibian and Surfy Steve being notable exceptions – yet the winsome Eunuch has not shied. He has triumphed, he has trumpeted, he has trail-blazed. Without further preamble, then, here is his tour de force. (Do leave the poor old horse a comment – it’ll make his day.)

“All good for Friday pm then Eunuch?” said an ecstatic Barnaby at the prospect of my imminent arrival in Hastings for a long weekend. “Well, I’m afraid Dusky isn’t up to much as she has some kind of tropical disease” oh dear, from what I could gather that involved more than a touch of flatulence – poor thing.

Who is Dusky? well she disappeared into the depths of South America for 9 months, ate witchety grubs, went slightly native and then emerged an Amazonian goddess! Only joking, no really it was a backpacking trip and now she will readily admit (after a glass or two of red) that she has succumbed to the charms of East Sussex and a certain gentleman that has more than a penchant for white holdups….ohhh matron.

 

Talking of ‘Dusky’ this brings me to the topic of the ever expanding repertoire of nicknames that Barnaby has for his cohorts and if you are lucky enough to become one, then you too will acquire a monicker by which you’ll be known – all in the best possible taste of course and out of pure affection. It does make me laugh, so far I know of Fat Paul, Namibian, Boiler, Mystic, Sticky and of course me, Eunuch. One such story that tickled me was of Fat Paul, who incidentally is fat and in Barneys phone book under ‘F’ and not ‘P’. Barnaby and Fat were on tour and fortunate enough to visit the Eiger – the train took the strain and within 5 minutes of reaching the summit or so Fat came over all fatigued and said “oh I’m feeling rather tired, erm think I’m gonna have to have a pie” and who could have blamed him after a 13,025ft climb?

 

Mountains is something we didn’t climb on this particular weekend although we did take a walk along the clifftops. During our jolly amble I discovered that I’d be meeting the biological creators of Barnaby, yep it was time to meet his parents – who I can assure you are both ‘interesting’ characters. His father is a kind of Ranulph Fiennes crossed with Indiana Jones and mum dispenses strange pills for a living with more than a wild claim to curing you of all your ills, to which I’ll admit I had some….think they are made out of tarantula brains or something similar and no they do not taste like chicken.

 

As we strolled, Barney extolled the virtues of many a childhood adventure with dad “oh yes we did alot of walking when I was a nipper” although he did mention that these forays into the wild often involved an unplanned water stage and that I should at least bring a pair of waders as it could get more than a little moist.

 

Moist was certainly the term I’d use for Barneys cheese and tomato sandwiches which he was preparing with particular aplomb on the day we were off exploring with his father “I can never understand why Dad only gives you half a tomato” he said as he handed me a bag of salted hula hoops…”with me, you at least get a whole one” Little do you know, but these sandwiches represent the pinnacle of culinary achievement for our intrepid blogger “I really must have a pasta dish mastered by the time I am forty – I have made a promise to Dusky and myself” To which I said I’d purchase a pasta machine as a gift, so he could make the main component part himself –  if he really wants to impress his petite amie, bien sur.

 

As Barnaby heaved the sandwiches into some Tupperware, I recalled another bizarre sighting from the weekend – a man? with long hair plus moss chops dressed in super tight terracotta colour leggings with a quilted jacket and a peculiar hat on his bonce ala president Lincoln style, dishing out leaflets to shocked members of the public. All I have to say is that you could see the wedding vegetables shrink wrapped into this ridiculous outfit, even Dusky saw this chap to which she exclaimed “oh my gosh what an enormous double VPL he has” you get the idea, one for the fashion police I think….perhaps I should have approached him and said “marvellous getup old boy” trouble is I would have been fighting the giggles for a whole fortnight.

 

Anyway, I’d better toddle off now and leave you lot to it – there will be more from me as I have an excursion planned to Spain and supposedly I am ‘borrowing’ Dusky for that one….so I will have to be on my best behaviour! ho-hum..

 

 

I’m being ridiculed. What for? Well, for mentioning that I thought Morgan Freeman was sex on legs in the movie Along Came a Spider. What’s worse, though, is that the man passing judgement is my pal Eunuch, a chap who admits to finding it ergonomically impractical to wear one’s girlfriend’s knickers.

‘You’ll always call me “Eunuch”, won’t you, Barn?” he asks, as he assiduously removes a pepper’s innards in my kitchen. ‘It wouldn’t matter if I brought a 52-seater full of slags down to your place and boned the shit out of the lot of them in your spare room, would it? I could pound away like the London Underground and I’d still be Eunuch.’

Yep. Crass, derogatory talk notwithstanding, he’s absolutely right. But what are the chances? For a start, you can’t park a bus in my street. A trifle unfairly, he adds: “I suppose you want to shag Samuel Jackson as well, do you?’

 

Why Morgan Freeman?

 

To get down to brass tacks, is my admission really so risible? I wouldn’t say Morgan is conventionally handsome, but he’s so dominant. I think it’s the way he moves and speaks: grounded, and with those hard, self-assured eyes that twinkle just a little when he’s amused.

Well, that’s quite enough of being in touch with my feminine side – at this rate I’ll be pigeonholed as a gender-bender. Mind you, as you can see, I don’t scrub up too badly with a little lippie and a wig? By Jove, were those heels uncomfortable.

Right, well to restore the balance, I’ll wolf whistle at a few filthy MILFs this evening on my way to a Dress Rehearsal… Ooh, speaking of which – rehearsals, not MILFs – there is an exciting project happening this week:

 

Surrey Opera

Surrey Opera is presenting the World Première of the rediscovered opera Thelma by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. Details – synopsis, a little about Surrey Opera, and a write-up on SC-T in case you’re getting muddled up with that poetic chappie called Taylor-Coleridge – can be found on Surrey Opera’s website.

I, naturally, am playing Principal Trombone in the pit orchestra and would welcome you popping your head over the rail at the end of Act One and asking if I might like a stiff one. Or even a drink.

Book now, either online or by phone. See you Thursday, Friday or Saturday evening this week. Do let me reiterate that this is a World Première, and so it’s no good thinking you might catch it next time around..

It tasted a little like sawdust. I coughed, liberally doused my feijoada in black bean sauce and managed another mouthful.

The second one was better – in fact, mixed up with some juice, the pork meat, white rice, orange and flour tasted quite delicious. ‘This dish comes from the slaves,’ said my friend Barbara, ‘but the real one uses pig’s feet, tail, ears and tongue.’

As she and I had driven along the coast from Sao Paolo, I’d become increasingly interested in the Portuguese slave trade to Brazil. In Paraty, an elderly painter had pointed out Our Lady of Rosary, a church once used to house slaves; on the enchanting island named Ilhabela, I’d visited Praia da Fome (“Hunger Beach”), where slaves were fed, housed and sold according to their weight.

And now the favelas of Rio, the fabled slums built on vertiginous forested slopes, beckoned.

Rio’s Favelas

 

In the nineteenth century, slaves’ freedom engendered yet another issue: a housing shortage. Cities were flooded with free men; Rio and other Brazilian cities were faced with a huge health problem. Shantytowns, or favelas, sprang up on the only living space available – the hillsides.

 
‘It’s OK to take pictures here in Vila Canoas, because of the lack of drug dealers,’ said Luis, a guide from Copacabana. He is a younger, more hyperactive version of Bill Bryson. ‘But if you see somebody changing clothes, please don’t photo.’ We witnessed how people live almost in each other’s pockets, privacy a rarity.

Outlaws..

 

Luis explained the self-policing of the favelas, how – paradoxically – police booths have been torn down to make the residents feel safe. ‘But when we get to Rocinha, because of outlaws and armoured people, we can only take pictures of the view,’ he warned. ‘The police are seen as a social border there.’

Our minibus wound its way around the tortuous hairpin bends, the scenery a sea of rubbish bags strewn down the hillsides; motorbikes functioned as taxis, to compensate for the lack of public transport; a mass of telegraph wires looped down as we negotiated a three-point turn on a particularly tight corner. ‘Now we come to the filet mignon of the visit,’ chirruped Luis. ‘This is Rocinha.’

Rocinha

 

We entered a garage workshop and emerged onto a balcony blessed with a magnificent view of Rio’s favelas. ‘You see the blue and white building down there?’ he asked. ‘It’s a municipal school funded by the drug dealers. They’re keen to educate the kids … and they also use it as a warehouse.’
Lost in a reverie, I looked down on what is one of the most beautiful cities on earth. Yet its beguiling undulations mask a brutal past. Hundreds of thousands of emaciated Africans, their lives merely a commodity to the plantation owners, arrived in squalid ships in Rio de Janeiro.

And it didn’t end all that long ago: Brazil, in 1888, was the last colonial power to abolish slavery..

‘You want to go somewhere?’ giggled Barbara, as we kissed passionately in her parents’ porch. ‘I can take you to a motel if you like.’ It was a little after midnight.

She reversed a black Peugeot through the security gates, its engine purring contentedly on sugar cane ethanol. And we squealed off through the city of San Roque, Brazil, a city known for its wine and artichokes. ‘It’s not really a city,’ she explained. ‘It only has 70,000 people, but we don’t have a word for town in Portuguese.’

Within minutes we’d reached the inky blackness of the countryside, corrugated roadside shacks masking the Atlantic rainforest behind them. Barbara fastened her seatbelt, deftly negotiated the gearbox, and began cornering heavily on what seemed to constitute a racetrack.

The Motel..

Speed limits, posted regularly on the ribbon of tarmac leading to Sao Paolo, seemed barely even advisory; it appeared anything could happen in this country – the land of the bulletproof car. We slowed, a neon sign advertising the seedily lit MOTEL IPE. The tinted Peugeot nosed stealthily into the driveway.

‘Oi,’ said Barbara, lowering her driver window. The face behind the reception grill returned the greeting meaning hello, and it peremptorily demanded some ID. Meanwhile, I scanned the tariff board from the passenger seat, marvelling at the array of rooms available for bookings in three-hour blocks. Some even came with a dancing pole.

An electric gate whirred open, and armed with our fobbed room key, we drove in to the carport. Rather stifling amorous sentiments, a rat scurried past, but we’d come this far. After all, what’s a rat between friends? The spiral staircase beckoned.

 

Upstairs..

 

It was an edifying experience, though the room itself was tack at its zenith: rubber toys – competitively priced at R$26 including batteries – vied with an ashtray, condoms and dice portraying sexual positions. Dreadful male-directed porn blared from the television. In its defence, however, the room comprised neither a motorised bed nor a mirror on the ceiling.

But, as I was to discover over the next three weeks, Brazilian motels are an institution, coming in all shapes and sizes. They are not necessarily sordid dens of iniquity: respectable couples regularly visit the nicer motels, simply wanting some private time together. One particular establishment in Sao Paolo – in fact popular with Barbara’s parents – was to be our next secret sojourn.

Upmarket..

 

Cosseted in the black Peugeot once again, we drove up to the motel’s barred reception. Barbara gazed at the list of room prices and then looked across at me. She frowned, po-faced. ‘We don’t really need a swimming pool in the room, do we?’ she asked.

This time, I was soon padding around in a dressing gown, lighting candles, putting on relaxing music and drawing a Jacuzzi. It was romantic. In the end we’d decided to book twelve hours and a rooftop pool. With a bottle of Quinta Jubair thrown in, one of Sao Roque’s finest wines, I was beginning to get the hang of Brazil.

Don’t, whatever you do, scroll down. We’re going to play a little game. Now, how good would you say you are at spotting written mistakes? Jeepers, you’ve scrolled down already? Disqualify yourself and spend your time doing something more interesting like watching television.

 

For those that are left, do you fancy yourselves as proofreaders? If so, you may enjoy correcting the following paragraph. To all grammatical sleuths – yes, you beastly lot who trawl the broadsheets for split infinitives – I think you’ll have fun; to everybody else, good luck. Make a note of the mistakes – we’re using British English, needless to say – and then scroll down for the answers in bold underlined type.

 

“Whom is on the phone,’ I asked my freind Simon, with a plum in my mouth. ‘Your not going to beleive this, but its him,’ simon replied, ‘the fantom heavy breather sellling holiday again.’ I groaned inwardley and the boiled ketttle. I dont actually know who simon talks to on the phone; Simon, who do I not trust, is scetchy about teh Conservations with the holiday salesman. Simon is slipppery adn duplictous; in fact, I’d say that noone is more dihsonest than him. Also, my neighbor is as suspicous as me when it comes to simons virtues – we think him is different than us

 

Scroll down…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keep scrolling. I don’t trust you not to cheat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Who is on the phone?‘ I asked my friend Simon, with a plum in my mouth. ‘You‘re not going to believe this, but it‘s he,’ Simon replied, ‘the phantom heavy breather selling holidays again.’ I groaned inwardly and boiled the kettle. I don‘t actually know whom Simon talks to on the phone; Simon, whom I do not trust, is sketchy about the conversations with the holiday salesman. Simon is slippery and duplicitous; in fact I’d say that no one is more dishonest than he. Also, my neighbour is as suspicious as I when it comes to Simon‘s virtues – we think he is different from us.

 

How did you get on? Did you honestly spot all 33 mistakes? Yes, I know – proper English is simply fiendish. Still, if you’re under forty, you can justifiably blame the failing educational system; if you’re closer to fifty and were schooled properly, you can say you’ve become inured to poor grammar as a result of the next generation. Happy now? Jolly good. See you next week for more travel-related nonsense, quite possibly with subject and object pronouns all to cock..

‘Ready Dad?’ I asked. The last thermos lid had been screwed on tight; walking boots had been donned.

‘More or less,’ he rejoined, scampering out of the conservatory door.

‘What do you mean by less,’ I pressed.

‘Well, I’ve just got to wander round the back of the garage for a wee-wee.’

Does the word penury spring to mind? There are three perfectly functioning toilets in the house, yet my father – he’s on a water meter – would prefer to frighten the cock pheasant and rabbit playing happily together in the garden. Dad promptly vanished like a discontented fairy, no doubt elated having saved approximately one-and-a-half pence for a loo flush. And I mean “fairy” in the traditional sense, of course, not in the sense of skipping along, one’s torso and upper limbs resembling the shape of a teapot.

Talking of pennies, where does the expression spend a penny originate? Well, in sexist bygone days – ooh, sixty years or so ago – girls had to pay to use public lavatories: a penny was required for the coin-operated lock. Meanwhile, men could marvel for free at the apogee of their own urine ascent against the urinals. But if one bears in mind that girls seem to eat toilet paper – how else could they possibly get through so much of the stuff? – then perhaps the charge was justified.

2p or not to pee?

The kybosh, I suppose, was finally put on the expression when the Daily Telegraph announced ‘2p to spend a penny’ in 1977. Yet you’ll still hear the odd fusty dragon use it. I think it’s rather quaint myself – a trifle more eloquent than saying, ‘I’m dying for a piss.’

Anyway, when we’d finally stopped faffing and got out the door, I took these pictures. They were taken on December 26th in Seaton, UK. The Axe Vale Hunt was champing at the bit outside the Hook and Parrot; lunatics were disrobing and leaping into the sea for charity – it’s a cultural anomaly in this country.

 

Nags in Drag

 

‘The horse riders in green are the top-notch ones,’ said my friend Allie, pretending he knew something about local hunting. ‘And it’s only a drag hunt, actually.’ Ooh, transvestites and horseplay? Let’s investigate further and interview some horsey crumpet. ‘Those girls are too young for you,’ added Dad in an arch, mischievous tone, before I’d even approached any.

So we walked to Beer instead, via Seaton Hole. What a splendid town Beer is, a town in which fat people can order “Cream by Post”. Hooray!  Enfeebled with hunger ourselves, we stopped for a flask and sandwiches on the way, on a bench offering a magical view. And what do I find? Only half a tomato with my cheese and pickle sandwich, that’s what. ‘A whole one wouldn’t fit in the box,’ said Dad, up to his parlour tricks again. Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves, as they say..

Do you know what my younger brother said one Christmas? I’ll tell you. It was back in my diving days when emerging from a dry suit in a tuxedo seemed to me the epitome of cool. Logbooks, snorkels and PADI paraphernalia adorned every nook and cranny.

When I’d unwrapped my present from my brother Jake – an underwater camera – his face altered from one of elation to one of mild embarrassment. ‘35mm?’ he said, scrutinising the camera more closely than when he’d bought it. ‘Oh sorry, Barn – that’s not very deep, is it?’ Delightful young egg, he is. And when he was nine, he asked, ‘Were the Romans before or after The Beatles?’

My point is that, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re with your family, being silly and enjoying yourself. Presents? Pah! Don’t stress about all that; in fact, our family stopped bothering with presents once young Jake turned eighteen. Ever since, there has been no pressure of getting the “wrong” thing or dashing round the shops on Christmas Eve looking for something “thoughtful” – instead, all four “kids” simply get together, make merry and talk bollocks. It’s wonderful just being.

 

Book token?

 

Would you like a quick little story to send you on your way in this time of jollity and goodwill? OK then. These few lines, essentially pinched but with a half-attempt at paraphrasing to skirt the plagiarism issue, are from a super book, The Secret of Happy Children. I’m sure the author Stephen Biddulph won’t mind, especially as I’m plugging not only one of his books but also another great read – Raising Boys. If you’re mad enough to have had children and haven’t read these books, my advice is to log on to www.amazon.co.uk asap.

Now here’s the story, which could quite possibly come as an anti-climax after the build-up – like the depressing inevitability of a Cliff Richard Single at Christmas. Only joking. Shut up and recount the topping yarn? Rightho. Put your tea down and cast your optics over this. True story (I hope):

A couple appeared in the Family Court to obtain a divorce. The man was 91, his wife was 86 and they’d been together since the year dot. The judge asked why, if they can’t stand each other, they’d stayed together all these years. ‘Because,’ said the couple, ‘we wanted to wait until the children had died.

Well, it made me laugh. Anyway, I’ll be back in the New Year with anecdotes from the road as usual. In the meantime, a very Happy Christmas to you all.

P.S. The last picture was taken while unloading at a gig. Anyone care to guess the venue? Actually, why not go for a double whammy – which town is in the distance behind my dad in Picture Two (taken last Christmas)? Click on the picture to enlarge if you need to..

It’s an abomination. You won’t believe this, but Gemma “Blast her Eyes” Atterton didn’t email me last week. Extraordinary, I know, given my frightfully generous offer of a bath, but I guess she was either on a tight filming schedule or didn’t have access to Wi-Fi. No, I’m being obtuse – obviously, she was too nervous.

There she would have been, in her Hastings B&B, uttering an involuntary tinkly laugh at my blog. Cuffs of ecru lace no doubt kissed her cheeks as she blushed, fingers poised over the keyboard, agonising over an amusing repartee to email me. Chagrin in her heart…No, OK, I’m still talking bilge. I reckon it was really the cab fare up the hill that finally halted in her tracks, like a doe frozen in a Ford Fiesta’s headlights.

Anyway, there is far more to Hastings than the filming of Byzantium, so if you missed the movie stars you needn’t fret. Something far more titillating is afoot, something catapulting Hastings into the forefront of style and sophistication. Yes, Adult Panto graces our White Rock Theatre on January 6^th – Jack and his Giant Stalk will no doubt draw hordes in their droves.

Oh yes, he is!

 

 

But there’s more. You know all that “He’s behind you/Oh no, he isn’t” tripe? Well, actually, maybe he is – you see, Hastings is seriously haunted. Oh, no it isn’t. Agh! I wish I hadn’t started this. Now, I recently joined a Hastings ghost tour to learn a little more about our poltergeist-strewn passageways..

‘I don’t allow note-taking on my tours,’ said the guide. I shan’t mention his name, but he was one of those inveterate control freaks, quite possibly shaped by decades of classroom teaching. I smiled, moleskin notebook flipped open, quill daubed liberally with ink. Surely he’s joking, I thought, glancing up airily.

 

Laugh a minute

 

Watery eyes stared back, his head waggling a little like an Indian waiter’s. ‘I find it distracts me,’ he continued, losing any shred of credibility. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, that’s a health and safety issue.’ Now, rarely am I gobsmacked. In fact, even Pervy Ray’s description of bukake had a considerably less marked effect.

But I was poleaxed, speechless and in a decidedly invidious position. Should I bop him on the nose or swallow my tongue? As he offered me a refund, the crowd hung with bated breath upon my reply.

‘Health and safety?’ mocked an auburn-haired girl in a cagoule, as we strolled around Hastings Old Town. ‘What are you going to do, stab yourself with a pencil?’ Our guide, fortunately, was out of earshot – and far too busy belittling any ignoramuses foolish enough not to take ghost walks seriously.  Crumbs, I hadn’t had so much fun since I was bullied at school.

But don’t let me put you off popping down here. There’s a splendid chip shop if hauntings aren’t really your bag. And the mini golf is to die for – we even host the riveting World Crazy Golf Championships..

 

 

Down on Hastings seafront is a hodgepodge of film lorries. ‘Expecting any stars, are we?’ I asked a chap unloading his van. ‘Heaps of them,’ he said brusquely. I felt like one of those imbecilic fatheads (also known as fans) that have seriously approached me on a U2 Tour, asking, ‘So which truck does Bono sleep in?’ It has taken concerted restrain not to say that I string up a hammock in the trailer for him.

Regardless… Whoops, I nearly said irregardless then, something I’ve had to correct grown-ups on in the past. As a slight aside, you can discount anything lexicographers and etymologists might have to say on the subject; I’m telling you that the prefix and suffix cancel each other out and leave us with a nonsense.

So, irrespective – ah, that’s safer – of what the van driver had to say, we are expecting a star or two down here on the Sussex coast. Gemma Arterton is due, known by me at least as the character Stawberry Fields – she gave a coruscating performance in the James Bond film Quantum of Solace. Saoirse Ronan is playing her daughter.

 

Tidal Topography

 

Byzantium is an Irish film directed by Neil Jordan. And as far as I can tell, they’re trying to make shots of the sea in Hastings look like Ireland. Potty, but it might have something to do with the prices: beer is certainly cheaper here than in Dublin. And did you know that we don’t pay stamp duty? We’re regarded as a disadvantaged area. Anyway, it’s no good reading this and thinking about heading down the A21 at the weekend; the circus leaves on Thursday. Time is of the essence.

Gemma, if you’re reading this, is the shower in your B&B up to scratch? Does the hot tap give a deprecating cough? And have you been allotted any biscuits with those naff Nescafe sachets next to the kettle?

Well, luckily for you, I’m home during the day this week if you’d like to pop up the hill for a bath. There’s a Fisher Price watermill for you to play with, fluffy towels purloined from various spas, and I’ll even throw in a freshly brewed cafetiere…if you can introduce me to James Bond.

Late morning on Wednesday works best for me. So shoot me an email on your Blueberry – see my Contact page for details – and I’ll pop the kettle on..