Of Course You Must Wait!

Thank Heavens I Know my Cows

I went on some training last week - proper training - up town, costs money, lunch included sort of thing. You know when it's a quality do, as there'll be people from the west midlands with those little cases on wheels worrying whether their spouse will be alright getting his own tea. Never a thought for those of us without spouses who regularly solo cater. But I digress. The training rooms were all named after cows and we were doing Process Mapping in Friesian. Now there was a tricky moment when Janine from Dundee nearly ended up in Holstein after a short mid afternoon comfort break. Luckily I managed to steer her clear and thanked Dolly that now I'm an Archers regular bovine breeding is second nature.

Well we didn’t get to Blenheim; apparently it was the wrong sort of flooding on the line. I mean we could have got there, but it was decided that the extra layers of titting about which would be required, when Blenheim would probably be there for another few hundred years, and this was perhaps the last dry sunny day we were ever going to see in London, were not worth the bother. So we agreed to head to Woodstock another time, and promptly went in search of disabled pigeons. Ok so we didn’t exactly go in search of disabled pigeons, but it was very hard to avoid them, flap flap, hobble hobble, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Apparently it wasn’t the first sighting of a disabled pigeon that day, so they are obviously endemic. I wonder who you write to about pigeons.

I’m not sure whether as a disabled pigeon you get any enhanced benefits or access to VAT free cars you can sell on. Probably be worth looking into though. I have recently noticed that I have one leg slightly longer than the other, so am considering registering disabled myself. In the olden days I’d have been able to go to the post office to get the appropriate form, but I probably have to go to the benefits agency now and be seen by an assessor. It’s political correctness gone mad if you ask me. I could look in Wicks though – they seem to have a good selection of self help leaflets just as you enter the main entrance – on the right. How to tile a bathroom, how to rewire a ring main, how to hose down a talkative neighbour, how to claim disability living allowance.

So in lieu of Churchill’s ancestral we had a great day wandering around London, punctuated with a splattering of coffee and Culture. Though we did have difficulty locating compeed blister plasters in WC1, but I think that is perhaps for another time.

First stop the British museum, where you’re not allowed to sit on the stairs, but Spanish men are allowed to wear canary yellow leisure slacks without security even batting an eyelid. We learnt all about transcribing hieroglyphics via the Rosetta stone and I gave a brief talk on the use of the scarab beetle during the process of mummification and its afterlife ramifications. (I think that must have been Ramifications the 3rd)

We then headed to Drummond St for an excellent, but reportedly not up to the usual standard, buffet lunch at Diwana. For dessert I stuck my fingers in my ears and hoped for the ground to open whilst my fellow diners gave the manager some useful tips about how to improve the service on offer during a busy lunchtime buffet serving period stylee sort of thing. It wasn’t quite as bad as dad clicking his fingers in the Ashoka, but it wasn’t good.

After a few deep breaths and group counselling we perambulated onwards to Euston Road on the pretext of finding both a Boots and a bus to Holborn only to be drawn into the Welcome Institute and their ‘Time Out Recommended’ Heart exhibition.

Now did you know that the hummingbird’s heart beats at 1220 bpm whereas the elephant is far more sedentary coming in at 25 bpm. I think Hazel Dean 12 inches used to be about 140! There was loads of great imagery and history, information on the development of our knowledge over the centuries and the break throughs this had allowed. All washed down with a lovely film all about open heart surgery. We were particularly taken with the ribs being sawn through and the cauterising, Lets just leave it at that shall we. In the welcome institute's defence they do have a lovely coffee and book shop and general 10 out of 10 customer facilities ambiance.

In other news – I have let my beard grow a little longer than normal and it has prompted a host of people (over 2) to tell me how slim I look. So instead of snacking on a block of cheese as you wander around Catford, can I suggest the new trend in slimming aids – Beard Growth – no calories, no wrapper to dispose of, and no added risk of colon cancer or coronary heart disease. You see the simple old fashioned approaches to good health and body disfiguremorphism can never be beaten.

All the best from the West,

WHGIII xx

Hens in the Skirting Board

We think we've got hen's in the skirting board.

I don't think I've told you about my neighbours. Dwarf jugglers, lovely people, very clean living. But their clean living can involve putting on the washing machine late at night, and they're not very good at the dwarf juggling, so they often thud to the floor - repeatedly - I admire their determination to practice though. I think there might also be a smidgen of clog dancing and regular wrestling trials.

Now it's not all their fault as there is obviously no underlay and thin exhibition carpet etc, and it doesn't really grate on my otherwise robust nerves, as much as it did before I went on my new pills, no I'm fine - no this twitch is just a sports injury. 'Get Stuffed! - Pork Roll' Look now I've come over all Jack Douglas.

Had a little run on to Kennington where I parked the Tipo and popped myself on the tube direct to London's swinging west end. Realised the place I always park in Kennington on saturday afternoons is in fact a controlled zone, and it is complete fluke that Ive never had a ticket. A pick you up and take you away lorry was patrolling as well, so thank Dolly I randomly decided to stroll down the street and look at the sign.

Going to my barbers is a little like entering a poorly dubbed shit porn film. 'Well he's not my husband but he once rubbed up next to me in a sports jacket - so he's as good as!' Everything is double entendre although it's far more obvious than that and not at all funny. Everyone who enters is introduced, told that I am single and some smutty fact is made up and then shared. I told them to shush today - I bet they're still reeling! Well you've got to put your foot down sometimes.

The good thing about my barbers is that it does enable me to get a good run down on the lives of a range of Friends, ex boyfriends and acquaintances without having to actually diarise time to spend with them. If I have any major news in my life - like a new man for example, Andy (for that is his Monika) will often tell me before I get the chance to tell him. He told me today that Paul had made him sign something saying he would never talk about him to other customers. You know for a minute I believed him!

Ken's in China, he tells me that he can't access get mummy's purse from their, so it's good to know that the Chinese authorities have put a block on my subversion. I mean what if I was to tell the Chinaman going to the dentist joke? It could put international relations back years! TOOTH HURTY! just in case you weren't sure what time it was that the Chinaman went to the dentist.

Had a look at the East Dulwich Forum today - it is a continual source of middle class joy and amazement 'Yes we wash everything by hand too', but also a good way of finding out which new shops are opening up. Apparently in trendy ED all the rents are going up so we're very worried that the independent traders on Lordship Lane (LL) will be forced out to faceless chains. 'We're all against it'. I mean look at Notting Hill and Hoxton! Well I mean.

Delving into the board today I see that there has been a long standing cocaine factory on LL which the fuzz have just closed down. Comment..........

'Allegedly they used Bugaboo buggies to ship them out of L.L'

'Police are asking for new stop and rummage powers specifically to deal with ED mummy's bags and bugaboos rammed with bugle. But seriously, which buggies are best for the this task, three or four wheelers?'

'What I can't stand is people taking shit loads of drugs and not giving me any of the bastard stuff!!! Grrr!'

'But the prisons are already so full - we need to look at the social causes for their crimes, maybe forcing Bugaboo to reduce their prices or offering subsidies for wannabe yummies, would be the answer.'

I'm glad to be so middle class, it really does make me happy.

Off to Blenheim Palace tomorrow with Rawbin - so hopefully there'll be plenty of comedy moments for me to share.

Remind me next time to tell you about the time I went to tea with Vivienne Weswood.

All the best from the West

WHGIIIxx

Just Call Out My Name and I'll Be There

If only it had been Dolly, but it wasn’t Dolly it was Nigel. But thank Dolly for Nigel.

I sprinted this weekend from the 'after lunch cup of tea' years of my life to the 'afternoon biscuit - quick get a cloth he's dribbling' years of my life.

I left my switch card in Sainsbury's on Friday night, the first time ever and just not the sort of thing I do. If I hear that a mere mortal has done something as ridiculous I will openly tut (well you've got to show these people). I don't do things like that.

Anyway I don't realise until I'm trying to pay for petrol in Greenwich. Barbara is half way through filling out the 'the twat's got no recourse to funds' form when I finally see the £20 note I had looked at each of the five times I had opened my wallet in my now catatonic state of panic filled disbelief. Barbara smiles, but I know she thinks I'm some sort of retard.

Anyway, so I finally set off for Norfolk - get wet, buy shirts, go to church you know the rest - blah blah blahety blah!

So who’s Nigel and why are we thanking Dolly for him?

Good question - I'm getting there.

Hooray for Dollywood
That screwy, ballyhooey Dollywood
Where any office boy
or young mechanic
Can be a panic
with just a goodlooking pan
Where any barmaid
can be a star maid
If she dances with or without a fan

But I digress (regress)

Picture the scene, if you will. It's 4.00 pm, I'm packing up the car after a nice couple of days, got to get back to London, rat race to rejoin, 27 more years until retirement to wade through, and anyway I'm due to measure up a church hall in Sydenham at 9.30 am for electoral services. So what do I do? I put my last bag in the boot, chuck in the keys and slam the boot shut! Yes you read right. I put the keys in the boot then slam it shut!

Ah but you can get into the boot via the car - it's a hatch back silly!

But no, the car was locked solid.

My keys were inside the car, my car keys and my house keys.

Why did you do that? I hear you cry

Cos I'm a frigging retard!

The blood runs from my head and I enter disaster mismanagement mode. How could I have done such a shit for brains thing? I want to go home, I still have to get home, but now I've just made it 100 times trickier.

The 4th thing to enter my mind, after hair brain schemes about getting to Norwich train station, then when back in London getting my spare keys from Jo and Anne's, coming back at the weekend with Joe with my spare keys, then driving back to London, etc., etc., etc., etc.. is to call the AA.

The recorded message suggests that if I’m in a part of the country that is flooding I'd better have a bloody good reason to stay on the line unless life and limb were at stake, but that if I was in a part of the country unaffected by the recent monsoon I should hold for an operator.

I don’t know her name but let's just call her Stern Hilda. Stern Hilda painted pictures of how much damage they were going to have to do to break into my car. She explained how I would have to sign a waiver before the work was done, give my first born to the devil, that sort of thing.

'It's 4.05 pm Mr Godwin, we aim to have someone with you by 4.55 pm.'

That was the last I ever heard of Stern Hilda.

In the next 25 minutes my life force slowly ebbs away from me. What was to become of me, how would I ever get back to London? My car was obviously going to be so damaged by the break in that it would be unsecurable, undriveable. I was right, everything was a big black hole, no point in being optimistic, as there was no point to anything anymore.

That Ladies and gentlemen was before Nigel came into my life. Not the hunkiest of AA patrol men, but he had the colour back in my cheeks within seconds with his 'don't worry there sir, I'll have your car open in no time', stylee of approach. I'd prefer his bedside manner to Hilda's (Stern) any day. Although if I have a choice of AA bedside companion I'll go for the one who came to rescue me and the advantage in Sutton. He was so sexy and as he fixed his lustful gaze on me (well I was 28, slim, gorgeous and in my prime) he explained 'I only do this for the uniform' PASS MUMMY HER SMELLING SALTS!

One folded up Tesco lemon zest washing liquid bottle, one coat hanger and 7 seconds later Nigel was in my car, he'd lowered one of the back seats, located my keys and was well into a story about the lady from Holkeham whose house he'd had to break into yesterday to get her spare set of keys as the leather on her new Jag was not for ripping with an old coat hanger.

How much damage? NONE!

I think I clawed my way back to the 'after lunch cup of tea' years today, no further mishaps but no audit commission either unfortunately.

In other news, Evie tried to crawl today!, it's the lovely Bryan's brithday tomorrow - happy birthday my antipodean beauty, Adrian's got a new Volvo (he's got a very roomy Vauxhall), and Sian's off to her Tuscan Villa (without me)!

All the best from the west.

WHGIII xx

Lord Graciously Hear Us

It’s been a while I know, but the urge sometimes takes me.

I’m not a religious man, and as most of you know I believe religion to be a major cause of war, division and social exclusion. Those of you familiar with the Now Show will have heard this week one of the best put rants against religion ever – funny, but correct, and so observant in a completely ‘it’s there staring you in the face’ sort of way. For those of you who didn’t hear it I strongly recommend you go and listen again ™.

But even though I don’t like religion, I do love old buildings, history, peace, tranquillity and choral music. So seeing that I am 'live from Norwich, it’s the quiz of the week', sorry, channelling Nicholas Parsons there, so as I am in Norfolk I took myself for a day out in Norwich the culmination of which was evensong at the Cathedral.

It was lovely. The Cathedral choir are on some jolly somewhere so the visiting choir was the Thames Gateway singers or something similarly romantic sounding, but they put on a great show. I was even looking forward to singing the hymns, as I do like a good belt them out from time to time. Unfortunately they weren’t ones I knew, so I just did an ‘I’m being contemplative in lieu of singing your honour’ stylee of thing. (Note to self get copy of Hymns Ancient & Modern and learn them). But it was beautiful. Listening to choral music is the next best thing to going on retreat. It certainly hits the spot most things in life fail to reach.

So if I lived near a cathedral, would I go to evensong every week? Probably. ‘So where does that fit with your dirty lesbian we hate religion views?’ Well spiritual upliftment and religion are two very different things. And after all, the readings today were all form Andrew Lloyd Webber's Joseph and his Technicolor Dream coat and the Archdeacon’s sermon featured a Pete and Dud sketch.

I don’t think it’s all a ridiculous contradiction. When I was going out with Luis, and accompanied him to more church services than is strictly necessary for a heathen, my fave bits were the singing and the chatting to the old dears afterwards over a cup of tea. I am sure these pleasures are also the reason many people attend church. Maybe you don’t have to believe in god or support religion to enjoy going to church!

So yes I’m down in the eastern country seat of the Godwinsons. Got fantastically soaked last night in a wonderful storm which came from nowhere whilst I was walking on the beach – absolutely beautiful. I like to commune with the sea. I don’t know whether that is also a form of spirituality or whether it’s the ozone, but I love to stare at the sea and watch it moving in and out, and hear it and just be at its edge, searching the horizon for distant adventures. Fantastico.

But it wasn’t all plain sailing - I should cocoa. I nearly didn’t get here at all, let’s just say I lost my switch card, new Barclaycard (replaced after recent 'Mr Godwin have you just booked a waterskiing holiday?' fraudulent use) didn’t work and I filled up with petrol knowing neither of these things!!!!!!!! It all worked out in the end, thanks to a girl at Sainsbury’s who lives on my road. But that dear reader is for another time.

In other news – bought loads of great white shirts in the sales, and have decided that they will be my uniform for the summer. Also am now hooked on alcohol free Cobra beer which is a pretty good move for an alcoholic (functioning).

All the best from the east

Your ex altar server friend WHGIII

Would I Lie to You?

In an unprecedented flurry of unrelated events, today has seen the nation ordered to it's knees/made to bend over by a string of deceit.

Only days after not shortlisting me for the job I applied for, the BBC has been thrown into complete turmoil with the revelations that production assistants across the nation have been posing as viewers during phone in competitions. For contractual reasons I am not allowed to say anymore on this matter at this time.

However what I can comment on is the drug guzzling Labour party, who have today been outed as skunk munching junkie's.

Not only Jacqui "I did break the law... I was wrong... drugs are wrong," Smith, but church loving, equalities loathing Ruth Kelly and Chancellor Alistair Darling! All skunk munchers!

Now I don't want you to to think that I have led a life free from sin. As I always say 'May he who has a green house gather no moss.' I think we can all learn something from that, at least I hope so.

Obviously the details of my youthful indiscretions don't need to be replayed here - that would just be vulgar. But let's just say I have drunk cider at discos and I have been known to have a Sobranie or two - now let's just leave it at that.

In relation to competition rigging I too am guilty. Not, you'll be pleased to hear, whilst bingo calling at the sixth form old folks Christmas party, but ladies and gentlemen I was once asked to draw the winning ticket in a raffle and instead of reading out the number on the ticket I drew, I 'randomly' read out the number of the ticket belonging to one of my friends.

It was wrong and I'm not proud of it. I have asked myself to 'step back' from future competition rigging and in a press statement earlier said that I had nothing more to add, and I'm sticking with that.

In other news, why don't you ever see skinny people eating pasties in bus shelters?

All the best from the west,

WHGIII xx

Do You Get Heather in Switzerland?

When I took myself up the highlands last year, I kept a notebook full of musings about all that I saw and heard. What follows details the day I travelled up to the Kyle of Localsh.

Tuesday 5/9/06 - Travel day – East Dulwich to Kyle of Localsh - You take the high road and I’ll take the low road……..

I’m all prepared. I have e booked it all; have a code rather than a ticket for everything.

11.30am and my taxi arrives, not e booked, that would be a bit modern for Carol’s Cars. I normally tell the taxi driver some story about my boxer friend with gun who is staying in my flat whilst I am away in a vein attempt to ensure they don’t tell their burglar friends that I am en vacance and the flat is empty. To add to the unreality of the situation I fake a goodbye into the empty flat before I double lock and approach my driver. I didn’t go any further with my script as he had a cross hanging where the furry dice should have been. I decide that if he loves Jesus he’d know that helping someone to rob me would be wrong. I rest assured that if anyone is casing the joint seeing a burly Italian enter each day and run a full security check will throw them off their scent.

The taxi driver charges me £18 to get to Victoria, so I am robbed after all. I express my anger by saying ‘My word!’ - That’ll show him.

At Gatwick I am incensed by some (that word you’re not allowed to use at work) jobs worth security bastard who pisses me off to within an inch of my available resources. Something and nothing, but he is so jobs worth, I remember that if I had the gun I so wish I had, that I’d be in more trouble than could be imagined, so I let it go. It festers the rest of the day and I hope that he dies soon.

So I get through, there is nowhere selling walking socks so I head to Boots for some compeed plasters. I can feel a blister coming. I could have sworn I’d worn these boots in years ago. But I’m funny with my skin, so that’s that.

I was hungry – it’s not a sin. Luckily there seems to be no Harry Ramsden – life is good therefore. I head for EAT, a Latte and something yummy is within reach. I am happy and get a good sandwich, but where to sit? I wander over to a table with an old lady on, they are usually harmless or good fun, but I didn’t expect what I got.

“What does it say on your boarding card?”, I’m sorry? “What does it say on your boarding card?” So I show her and explain it’s just got my name on – home printed – e everything you know. I think she’s worried that they won’t let her on the plane, I assure her they will and it’ll be fine. She’s off to Turin to see Family, so it can’t all be bad. "Do you drive?" she doesn’t like driving especially at night. She often sees Cliff, Tom Jones and Engleburt Humperdinck – when they are back in town. These Surrey girls they’re all the same. Her friend has a Rolls Royce which he bought from Cliff. But it wouldn’t fit in his garage so he left it out, he’s got a BMW now, the roof is starting to go – “What a trial” I note, but then that’s life in Waydebridge for you. Thank heavens for Surrey. Taxi drivers should see you right in she suggests. I agree and say I must go and get my flight. I know she’s lonely and nervous, and that’s why I’ve given her half an hour so I feel OK escaping.

Flight all good – easy and super friendly transfer to train station. Already I am getting a sense of the wonderful countryside that awaits me.

We’re a bit delayed at Inverness for our train to Kyle, but eventually we are ready to leave. We are marshalled into a line to approach the train, although we are not actually allowed to approach the train until the man says. He obviously has a very small willy and makes up for it this way.

I am stood behind a man and a woman. She is obviously American and he is obviously English. I hear that they are both going to Kyle, but more shockingly that he is going to the SAME hotel as me. Well you see I have already arranged with the Hotel that they will come and pick me up from the station, I feel I need to share this with him, but don’t find a natural opportunity. I have a reservation on the train – e booked, so head for my seat.

Not long after the train pulls itself off from the station all is revealed as not being well. The rain has got into the electrics apparently, and some union rule says the driver can’t drive the train if there is impending doom via electrocution on the horizon. No wonder this country is in the state it is! So we all have to get off at the next station and await another train which has got to come past, head off back to Inverness, turn round and then come back for us.

Now it’s at times like this that smoking helped – it gave you something to do, it passed the time, but importantly made you look busy. But since my lungs are now weed free, I found myself chatting. Not something I am normally drawn to as an activity involving strangers. But I see the man, who’s at the same hotel as me, and the American, and we pass the time of day. It’s not so painful. Our train arrives, Dunkirk spirit has kicked in, everyone is being very stoical, but of course this train is sans reservations, so we all herd back on and I sit with my platform compatriots.

So what can I tell you about my new chums? Cindy doesn’t stop talking or asking unnecessary questions or sharing inappropriate details of her life. You know those times when you wish you had a stun gun………

She had been a very high flyer, but got burnt out. So now she’s a physical therapist – does a lot of work with Athletes – I bet she does – hand jobs for crack no doubt! She’s writing an article, didn’t say who for, so she is able to put the trip against tax. I can’t help thinking that a burnt out physical therapist who does hand jobs for crack (although this hasn’t been proved) would not actually pay a lot of tax on which to claim a trip against.

So we blah blah on well she blah blahs on. Tales of how she has made so many friends on her travels, that they have all become such good friends and how they have all let her stay in their houses or on the floor of their hotel rooms. Now I’m scared. I’m often worried in situations like this that I'm going to wake up in 8 months time, the person will be sleeping on my sofa saying, ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to get my own flat sometime soon’ I shudder back to reality to hear her ask “What do you think of the immigration issue?” Well I think it’s gone too far regarding letting bloody Americans in sweet cheeks!

David, for that was his Monika, works for local radio - radio derby I think. He reminded me of Duncan, not from Blue, but rather Duncan who Jo, Stephen and I were at university with. I ask him whether he has a brother called Duncan but he doesn’t. But he tells me that his ex wife had been a football widow.

Night rolled in as we travelled down to Kyle, so I didn’t get to witness any of the beautiful scenery I had read and heard so much about. We arrived at Kyle. I had finally told David that I had arranged for a lift from the hotel. He was all for lugging his rucksack up the hill on foot. 3 miles is a bit of a trek at that time of night though so he eventually gave in.

Cindy didn’t have any definite plans – now I'm very scared. Luckily David didn’t offer that she could come with us, so she sauntered off to get a bus or a taxi to the youth hostel over the bridge on Skye. I never saw her again, but I’m sure she made lots of great friends and they all thought she was great fun and they all let her stay at their homes. You guys!

To be continued………

There are Only Two Types of Lamb

I was strangely moved when John Inman died on the 8th March. He was every stereotype I'd ever fought against, but at the same time a favourite camp character who had quietly and unknowingly subverted the country's prime time viewing.

To this day I often answer the phone at work with 'Menswear'.

If I was a queer theorist I'd have something very clever to say about the subversive nature of mainstream 70's prime time TV, but you'll be pleased to hear that I am not. But there is something there about how putting these characters onto the British tea table made them more acceptable, more usual, and maybe this played a part, however stereotypically, in today's road towards liberal equality?

As said I am no queer theorist, thank god (or your she god version of a non paternalistic higher being model) although I do feature in Bruce La Bruce's book 'The reluctant Pornographer' (1997). Let me see if I can remember what he said..................................

'But I regress, er, digress. Truly, I do like Paul a lot, even though tonight he has that annoying glow that people with new boyfriends have - and, even more annoyingly, his new boyfriend sitting besides him, seems nice enough. I still like his old boyfriend, William, though - another one of those Englishmen whose wit puts me in a perpetual state of giddiness. I and Alister, who also loves our William to death, will invite him to my farewell gathering at the Royal Oak in a few weeks.'

So there you go. I didn't plan on diary extracts from queer theorists tonight, but I did want to share the poem I wrote and had published on the BBC news website the day John Inman died.

John Inman RIP

Dear John you left us today
Up to the big department store in the sky
’72 till ’85 and then Grace and favour
You’re all doing very well
Ground floor perfumery stationery and leather goods
Wigs and haberdashery kitchenware and food
Are you free Mr Humphries?
That’s what they’d all cry
When the phone rang you said ‘menswear’ in a deep butch voice
But you were celebrated for your high camp
Molly’s still alive, Frank Thornton too
Wendy on the box today face like thunder
You played the dame for many years
Saw you sing on the good old days
You said there were only two types of Lamb
Welsh and Harrods
So farewell Frederick John Inman
You were born on 28 June, 1935, in Preston, Lancashire
I hope Ron will be OK
Ade says its Dan next and he’s bringing holy water

In other news - Evie sitting up on her own!! and I have applied for two new jobs - one at the beeb and one at the audit commission. Also as Evelyn Ward reaches 98 and Rory Green turns 10, Merlin Godwin has passed away at the grand old age of 20! Prayers and thoughts go to Mary and Chris.

All the best from the West,

Will xx

Do You Have This in a Medium?

Does he have dark hair?

"la fenêtre!" "Ladies and Gentlemen - she knows no French!"

Do you remember David Icke? He was a footballer then a BBC presenter who went on to develop crack pot conspiracy theories, ideas on Prince Phillip being a reptile (possibly true) god twisting alien astonishments etc.. Importantly though he had a mullet and regularly wore a shell suit.

But the question on everybody's lips is where is he now? Well fret not dear reader, for I have found him, or rather Jo, Anne and Evie have found him.

As citizens of the world, conscious of their carbon footprint (obligatory nod to Live Earth Day - "Allo Hamburg") and big fans of Michael Palin, they oft travel by train. On one of their recent journeys Jo called me 'du train' to make some final arrangements to our hectic social life. When she had completed the call and hung up, that's when it happened.

"Does he have dark hair? I can see the letters USA - He's changing his job and moving to America"

The mouthy stranger opposite had mousy brown hair, a pinkish complexion, and was wearing a shell suit! [to Jo] "You're wearing pink, because you need to look after yourself more" Well I know she's got a glowing aura, which will always attract, but I think that's a bit rich - it's one thing if silver has passed over a palm, but to a stranger?

He saw Evie travelling, he saw her in Italy, and she's going to be a Physicist. Well that's the pension sorted at least. He didn't say anything about Anne. Maybe this was because her aura wasn't in focus that day or could it have been the 'mess with my aura and I'll have your crystal balls for table decorations' look. I wonder?

He let them know that he sees the future and has always worked in a bank, Little Madeleine would be alright he noted. One wonders why if he could see the future he hadn't made a more lucrative career with the gee gees, or through acting as a consultant to world governments. He's planning on retiring to Spain though, so I suppose that's something nice to look forward to.

So there you have it -I'm off! When in the USA I shall probably be starring in the sex and the city movie as Chris North's younger and far more handsome brother. They haven't quite come up with the name of my character yet, but I think it will no doubt be something like Chip, Brett or Hank. Well as you all know I've never had any problem getting my Mabel to the back of the auditorium, so it's no surprise Hollywood called, only a suprise that it wasn't sooner.

So watch this space. I have to change my name though. Adrian tells me it's a numbers game out there. So from now on my adopted monika will be William Harold Godwin III.

All the best from the West.

WHGIII xxx

From the News Shopper http://www.newsshopper.co.uk/display.var.1516761.0.0.php?utag=22557

May Contain Nuts

Before I start Ladies and Gentlemen, I just want to tell you that I had a lovely call from Joany Collins this evening, yes isn't that lovely. She was calling from Roger Moore's place to wish me luck for this evening's blog. Yes How lovely ladies and gentlemen. (CD)*

'I'm talking Colin!' well I'm not actually, that's the beauty of living alone - no unnecessary chat required. What I am doing is listening to the beautiful Brideshead Revisited music from the Granada series. Oh wistful melancholy, longing of youth and adventures ahead, of beauty and art, of Larry Olivier in Venice. You know the stuff I mean.

Now I need a couple of minutes to get ready for this evening's demonstration, so please go and enjoy yourself at the following link for a couple of minutes, then I shall see you back here for something very special.

Toodles!



All done? good - now please scroll down to start this evening's demonstration.













Welcome back my proud beauties. Now this evening I want to take you through the rudiments of Apron dancing. Now apron dancing is an age old tradition practiced by both nuns and Pols alike - they've been doing it for centuries. It was reintroduced in the 80's by Adrian and I after our 7th bottle of Chateau Margaux, shortly after the Boat Show. God knows how we ended up in Denmark, but luckily most of the charges were dropped.

It is very important not to confuse Apron Dancing with apronectomy, which although equally lovely, does have a tendency to scar where as apron dancing is usually injury free.

To crack on with your apron dance, one should first be in the kitchen. If you have been baking this is all for the better. A ruddy complexion from hours over the AGA, a flour dusted apron from the day's baking, a slight warble in the voice along to the Radio 2, and the lubrication of a couple of glasses of cooking sherry all blend together to make the perfect moment. As the ancient astrologers predicted the alignment of stars, as the sunrise over Stonehenge illuminated druids' panty lines, so do the afore mentioned situations prepare for the apron dance.

If like me you jump out of bed on a Sunday morning when the fruity tooty jaunty, french Bretton stylee weekend archer's theme comes on and do Miss High kick impersonations - the moment takes you, AND................ You reach down, you carefully take hold of each corner of your Apron. Whilst bending down to engage the corners with your dough covered fingers it is important to start the feet chattering. A little musical playful dancing on the spot needs to start, all in readiness, and all in this short window of bend and grab.

Now if at all possible have your assistant place some Winifred Atwell on the radiogram or 'town talk' as this will make the moment complete. Have another swig of sherry (cooking) and off you go...................

What is important now is that you all actually put on some swinging music and an apron NOW!!

Whilst dancing around on the spot hold the gripped hem of your apron out in front of you at waist height. First to the left and then to the right, all in time to the music and with a nod to the east end. Carry this on as you and the music get into the swing. Up the tempo and start dancing around the room whilst swaying with your apron from side to side.........Just go with the music - let go! no one's looking.

Now start to kick from side to side in a tiler girl stylee, just gently, moving around whilst you go, do a bit of hoping from one leg to the other, just enjoy yourself, you know you want to.

As the juices start to rise, you need to release and let the apron madness wash over you. Now continue to move around the room but slowly start to move into on the spot high kicking from one leg to the other, jump kicking type of moves. Now you are in the apron trance. If your assistant is still on hand, have him poor you another sherry and rewind the Winifred Atwell. You should be 'coming up' now and moving toward what we term Apron Nirvana.

Welcome to our world, welcome to apron dancing.

I had so much more to say this evening, but I am spent.

All the best from the west and Toodles!

Wxxxxx




* Channeling Dan