Poppies. November 2015.

Dear Rowley,

Having done the walk of shame this morning and changed into a suit, I sashayed towards The Cenotaph to watch my first Remembrance Service in the flesh. I thought I was guaranteed to bawl like a little girl but I did not. Just to witness the servicemen and women in full fig made me proud to be British. I got within a gnat’s crotchet of The Cenotaph and had to perch on an iron railing that made me regret my skinny arse.

The feeling of pride and well being was palpable in the crowd and with the police services and St. John’s Ambulance ladies and gentlemen. Imagine the Italians trying to put on such pageant and show least of all the Germans or Austrians. I do take a good soldier so was positively creaming my drawers to be in the company of so many fit men. But this being a national celebration, I restrained myself.

Well, I saw Her Majesty lay her wreath before I got another blinding headache from the dreaded cough and asked a policeman to help me to the St. John’s Ambulance team. Did you know the St. John’s guys are a charity? Their work is spectacular and I was very well taken care of by a fat, jolly man with a walkie-talkie. When he asked for my medical history, I laughed. How much time have you got?

Suffice to say, I was able to exit via the BBC compound having clocked a few of my old compadres from Royal Ascot but not Old Mother Balding. Was she working? I didn’t see the TV coverage. This being a Sherwood Solo Sunday, I decided to have a strawberry milkshake then take a point of view. I decided on Covent Garden and had a G&T in The Coal Hole with a few veterans and watched the march past on telly. Very proud.

The G&T was super not least because it was cut with Fever Tree tonic. But who, in the name of Richard Harris, serves a G&T with a straw? Who did they think I was? Raquel from Coronation Street? I toddled-up to the market and espied a German sausage van offering bratwurst and sauerkraut. The sausage wasn’t half bad either. Actually, it didn’t go down too well so I decamped to Brasserie Blanc for a glass of fizz.

Sad to say, the terrace tables wobbled so my glass of bubbly went down like a Madame Claude girl. I got a fresh one but it tasted like water so I thought I’d have a mooch around the market then go and see my tarot lady. Tarot lady had a queue that I made double by telling the ladies and gents that I had had a reading six months ago and it all came true. I did indeed become an unapologetic bitch with a drink habit and anger management issues who couldn’t keep the snake in his trousers. Well, plus ça change. 

Tarot lady was happy when I said I’d see her next week. I do believe she said ‘God bless you darlin’, be lucky’. I think I will be since buying a green Malachite palm stone in Covent Garden Market to ward-off the devils. Speaking of which, don’t the editorial team of GQ look like SH1T? These men are supposed to be arbiters of taste. I think they are arbiters of taste A rhesus nougat salve Kitty.

So how’s your love life Rowley? Mine is like Grand Central Station these days. But I do have two favourites: the lawyer and the hospitality worker. The lawyer will let me down from a great hight but I have already addressed this issue saying ‘let me go gently my boy’. I think he will. The hospitality worker is much more me. He is the handsomest man in High Holborn and has eyes of almond hue. He is German. I get dressed up each night like Poland and he invades me. OK, yours Miss M.

The security surrounding The Cenotaph this morning was incredible. I suspect that The Queen had received death threats from ISIS bombers. C***s. If you don’t like Merrie England, fuck-off back to Syria. Speaking of c***s, didn’t you gag at David Cameron having a poppy photo-shopped onto his picture due to a flunkey malfunction? What a tosser. His bow at The Cenotaph this morning was like Boo Laye on closing night in A Woman of No Importance. In Slough.

I have of late been accused of being slightly cross in my tone. Fuck ‘em. Of course I am cross. My health is in the toilet and I am trying my Goddam best to write well and live well but it isn’t easy when you are coughing-up phlegm like an extra in Alien. I wish I was well but I am not and it hurts. But we’ve all been hurt before, no? So we should be used to it by now.

Longing for the last episode of Downton Abbey tonight. I missed Strictly because I was otherwise engaged with the hospitality worker. It’s a yes from me, Simon. I would like to say I am coming into my own this year but that wouldn’t be strictly accurate. Oh my God, the transformation into Mae West is almost complete.

I think I need a lie down in a darkened room and a double bill of Now Voyager and Dark Victory. It’s either that or a chemical cosh but we’ve all been there, haven’t we dear? I didn’t even have time to talk about my primary topic Ann Mitchell’s bravura performance as Dolly Rawlings in three series of Widows. Until next time…