Owing Money

 I am again apologetic for my infrequent posts.

If I am honest I borrowed £5 off of Brian Blessed and the bloody man is virtually camped outside my flat. I am having to do things very, very quietly, lest his bionic ears pick up activity and smash down the other external wall.

The reason for my caution is that I simply do not have the money to pay him. And the rumors I hear about when Derek Nimmo borrowed fifty pence for the fruit machine, well... the glaziers were very understanding and the social club landlord couldn't have been happier with the gratis out of court settlement, although it didn't really cover the smashed and broken stock. Nimmo himself fled to what was at that time Persia and wove baskets for several months, while Blessed scoured Europe in a fury unrivalled. Thankfully the whole business was solved when I, acting as a sort of peace maker, invited both of them to an eatery to discuss a deal. And through the brickdust, broken windows and bodies of waiting staff, an agreement was reached. And thank heavens for that; the acting profession would have suffered badly had this feud continued to spiral out of control. Heaven knows the middle east has enough problems, without an incident in the theatre world to add to their plate of problems.

Sitting here, in the dark in the corner behind the small cabinet in the fireplace, I spend a lot of time recalling incidents and anecdotes. Many of which I could not possibly relate in detail for professional reasons. The problem is moral and legal. Recently, I detailed a story of the late Dame Thora Hird. The uproar must have resembled Pompeii when the volcano erupted. I received email after email from lawyers, fans, the Panamanian Ambassador, the National Association for Parrot Owners and Fiat all of whom threatened me in one way or another. I even had a dream that Dame Thora came back from the beyond and kicked me in the cobblers, while a winged Harry Secombe hovered behind her saying 'Go on girl. Needle nardle noo'.

I wish Brian would go away, but I fear he is there for the long haul. I can hear him breathing outside the door. The furious breath of the enraged. Plus I can smell he's cooking sausages.