I have taken advantage of a new ironing service. They come round in a van, pick it all up and return it the next day.

 The name? .............Iron Maidens.

That'll be Dirty Deeds Done Cheap then. 

 Well it made me laugh. 

 Please don't think I am complaining.* I love the work I'm doing for Nottingham Pride at the moment. I'm enjoying being back into the media whirl, sending out my finely crafted press notices, talking to jounalists and  giving out radio interviews. I'm hounding celebrities for prizes and gifts and donations, going to meetings, giving suggestions and generally running a tight campaign.  But the down side of it means that my usual hedonistic round of pleasure and London has been regretfully put aside. My diary is squeezed and complaining of exhaustion - and not in the usual way either.

Today - as most days recently - I  am cramped over the laptop on the sofa, ignoring the blandishments of Mad Frankie to go out and play at squirrel-hunting (they appear to be playing 'chicken' with him on the garden fence this week) and - with much regret and sulking - I have  had to turn down the chance of a  lovely literary day in London today. Lunch, a private showing, and the possibility of an evening in town.

 I'd better get my reward in heaven 'cos I sure as hell won't even get a snog of out this lot..... 

*Well maybe just a tiny, tiny kvetch.. 

I am in danger of turning into a crabby old woman. Lots of reasons but it's raining, my kitchen is costing more than I expected (I need a new ceiling? And let's have it hand-painted by scores of magical elves while you're at it) and I can't believe I've still got the heating on in June.

And there are trolls around. Trolls abound in this cyber world evidently and I have no idea how to get rid of them. Now trolls are Swedish I think (Or Scandinavian certainly. Don't ask me, I'm fine on the Greco/Roman gods and have a vague grounding in Celtic myths and legends but anything else I'm lost on. There's obviously a gap in my reading somewhere) and the only thing I can remember is that they reside in the Frozen North and live under bridges. Or in tunnels or similar. (As I said my details are a little hazy) Certainly a place where the light has yet to reach which probably explains their aversion to coming out and being spotted and therefore removed. So how does one get rid of them? (Look don't ask me, mention Scandinavia and I get all confused with hot geysers and Fingals  Cave and go off on a tangent about The Hall Of The Mountain King)* I must admit the only reference I have to them is the Three Billy Goats Gruff and all I can remember is that the Troll seemed incredibly stupid to me and was bested in the end.

But I tell you what darlings, in my lovely new be-sequined heels, you won't 'arf tremble when you hear me trip-trapping over the bridge....

* Or is that Emmerson, Lake & Palmer? 

Now I witter on about things being wonderful and fabulous and divine - even when just applied to a cup of tea or a darling handbag. But Friday night was FABULOUS. Amazing. Wonderful and breathtaking. There are no superlatives suitable for such and event.

I saw Liza Minnelli on stage. In Nottingham. I expected to have to be... well... generous about her. I expected to have to make allowances and just appreciate all that she was instead of what she is if you take my meaning. From her first show-stopping number and the standing ovation on her entrance, to her endless, effortless singing and dancing, ending up with her singing her heart out a cappella, I was captivated. My eyes and ears were hungry for more, more more. She was not a washed out torch-singing diva with a past we had come to see, this was pure energy and class and a consumate entertainer. Her voice soared and had lost none of its range, her actions seemed natural and her warmth and happiness at being on stage and performing, genuine. At 62, her legs were gamine and worthy of someone half her age and her banter - including sly swipes at her own oft-mentioned bad husband choices and 'liquor and pills' - did not seem scripted or trite. She looks like her Momma the older she gets, she sounds like her Momma at times but she is always, always, herself. Liza-with-a-Z

I hope to God I look like that at her age. Hell, I wished I looked as good as that now...

So much good karma and my heartfelt thanks, love and devotion to Mike who kindly took me along as his guest.

Now in the not-so fabulous category, obviously Liza sucked all the wonderfulness out of this world and sadly, sadly, Yves St Laurent has died. I shall be wearing my YSL jacket in his honour today. It is fittingly, black grosgrain silk. (Vintage darlings, vintage).My wedding dress in red satinn was a YSL style and pattern, and was a classic design of his from the 80's. If you remember all those crazy, crazy 80's fashion years, you remember the bad stuff. But HIS designs stood out from that melange. Classic lines, beautiful cuts and never out-dated. Ah! now there was man who could dress a woman....

 The joy of not working continues unabated. The sun is shining, the ironing is done (though not  by me I must admit)  the cat is happy, contented and happy to see me,  the fridge is full and there is champagne galore to be found. There are Gentlemen I  Adore in abundance and more trips to be made.  I am in danger of turning into a Disney/Pollyanna type heroine, constantly  talking to the little bluebirds dancing around my head, trilling away as I go along my way and gernerally being so nauseatingly chirpy that I expect all who see me will long to hit me with something large and heavy and guarenteed to take the smile off my face.....

 And the reason? Well, quite a few (see above) but  these   darling boots put the icing on the cake really. An afternoon spent with a  Man I Adore who showed his worth by  not only waiting patiently while I tried them on but also insisted that  my life would be worthless without them.  I tell you, sometimes days don't get any better than that .

 Of course the only problem now is what do I wear with them? 

Not a lot of things distress me - well apart from Darfur, the state of British politics and the inability to find a pair of Doc Marten 'Le Sequin' boots in my size - but there comes a time when one has to simply  shake one's head and despair at the modern world. There have been three or four such occasions in my full 'Farewell tour' diary recently and it appears to be getting worse. Standards are slipping and when you try and explain what it is should happen, why it should happen and why it's simply WRONG in any other way, you are met with an air of puzzlement or  - even worse - total incomprehension.      Tea making. Yes, tea making. 

 I only drink Earl Grey. Yes, I know a little bit wanky and I apologise for that. I can drink any kind of bad coffee as long  (as the saying goes) as it's warm and wet with a spot of sugar in it.   My favourite treat is a Starbucks decaff/skinny/caramel/latte which makes that trip  round the shops go with an extra  zing but tea is Important. It is Sacred. And I simply can't start the day without  it.

  But in the last few  weeks there have been such terrible descecrations of the art that I have been lost for words at such cavalier behaviour.

1. Travelling to London. My first class coccooned splendour used to be (in the days of Midland Mainline)a safe haven of polite and quiet well-behaved service. Now that East Midlands Trains are running the ship (train?) I'm afraid that standards are slipping. Oh, they still come round with the flasks of tea and coffee and I normally wait and ask them - when they have a minute - if I can have a POT of Earl Grey. It's not such a hardship and I don't mind waiting. But when they  turn up with a tea bag in a mug and offer to pour hot water over it I can't help but wonder if I am being a teensy bit  of a pain in the fundament to them and this is their revenge.

2. Travelling from London.  Three days later and with a different crew. Same request. A  teapot arrives.   Full of hot water and with the tea bag on the side still in  the paper wrapper. I sigh. But at least they've got the idea...

3. A Birmingham hotel. When I made my reservation I asked for extra towels and tea pot in the room. But natch, it wasn't there. So I called down for one. . So I called   and explained (such a simple request really) that I wanted a TEAPOT in my ROOM for making TEA.  They didn't quite seem to get it. Were there no tea making facilities in my room? Yes, I explained but no TEAPOT to make the TEA IN. They seemed very non-plussed by this as if I had asked  for a Matter-tronic Brain Enabler as standard. So with some slight confusion  and after ten minutes of speaking to housekeeping, room service and reception AGAIN, they said they would send one up.  They did.  They sent up a tea-tray, with sugar bowl, milk jug, biscuits, a cup and saucer and... a pot of hot water with tea bags on the side again. And charged me £5 for the delight too.

 So look, if ANY hoteliers - or ANYONE in the service and catering industry - are reading this then please, please teach your staff - especially those who do not have English as a first language and you are paying a pittance - EXACTLY what a teapot is and why it is not a startling desire to have one in your room.

 Trust me, it will save a lot of exasperation and shouting.  

 I tell you I don't have time to get a job....

 There was a wonderful and hedonistic Significant Birthday celebration of a glamorous friend on Thursday. Hiring the Electric Cinema in Portobello road,  we drank champagne, nibbled canapes and sat down with a bottle to watch 'The Red Shoes'.  A few of us 'Ladies Who Lurch' (AKA 'The Gin-Raddled  Hags')   squeezed in as much gossip as we could over  a few hours and left  slightly full of joi de vivre and more wine.   Husbands may be pleased (relieved?)that despite our talk of shopping, there was none to be done that day....

Of course I am not complaining at the sight of a Gentleman  ordering  champagne in my honour in the hotel bar but I do think we went above and beyond the call of duty by ordering another one to round the evening off.  The  table next to us seemed amused at this heroic sight or maybe they were just impressed or shocked - who could tell? So it was a bit of a relief when my next Gentleman Caller the next day only required a cup of tea. Then honestly darlings,  I only meant to pop out for a cocktail or two (oh and maybe a glass of bubbly?) but ended up in a restaurant getting slightly squiffy discussing Tits v Kitchen?, the delights of  Ben Cohen (well  maybe rugby players in general) and dropping my cigarettes on the way out.

If people had told me this  redundancy lark would be so much fun, I'd have buggered off much earlier.

  But alas! my exciting life has come to an end and I am now picking up bits of dead rodent from the dining room floor and hanging out my smalls on the washing line. There's a kitchen to clean, a bathroom floor to wash and a pile of ironing yet to contemplate. But NEXT week.....

 I meant to add something about the comments being turned off. Trolls I'm afraid darlings.

 You know who I am, where I am and how to contact me anyway. Do keep in touch.

Not that I have upset anyone, or spilled secrets or been a Naughty Civil Servant but I have now left my comfortable little niche. Of course I DO know where the bodies are buried and have a fine selection of photographs to blackmail people, sorry, to peruse and do with as I see fit but I can't quite understand why they gave me so much money to leave. Perhaps I did swan in from a fabulous few days with a Gentleman or two, tell all around the water cooler of where we went, whom I met and what I wore and only finally getting to my desk an hour later. Maybe my habit of swishing in straight from the train a little late with the sunglasses on, an armful of flowers and Tales Of Excess and Backstage Tales Not To Be Repeated did not show enough commitment to the job. And of course, slumping at my desk, and diligently going through work, only to crack and book more leave after an exciting phone call invite meant my mind was not as fixated on the office as it should have been. Not that I am complaining of course. I have left as they say, to spend more time with my shoes. Whitehall can manage without me for a few months while I try and spend my way out of this financial bounty. (I must admit that it is rather nice having the bank manager invite me in and give me tea instead of wagging his finger and uttering Dire Warnings)

In the meantime, I am catching up with all the London shows I meant to see, having a mini 'Farewell Tour' of colleagues, offices, stages and far-flung associates, clearing out the dressing room and generally doing all those things I never had time to do before.The book list is being caught up on - although added to all the time - and, with the in and out return of Gentlemen I Adore, squeezing in catch-up time before they bugger off again. (Plus the odd brief trip abroad to arrange in concert with other people) Then there are lunches and concerts and gigs and festivals and things to organise so frankly darlings, it's a good job they (hopefully regretfully) Let Me Go.....

So what do do with some of the loot? New kitchen or new bosoms? Both would be a bonus....

  Despite my air of cultivation, of calm assurance and confidence, I am at times a complete klutz. I am to be found dropping hair pins and wraps and the contents of my handbag in various places. I have dropped my handbag down the stairs at the BAFTAs, hurling lipsticks and tampons under the feet of the great and the good, I have  caught my wrap on the stairs to the Ladies at The Ivy, (before having a drink I might add) giving the dining room a damn good show of  self-strangulation. I have  completely missed the top stair of  lovely  wine bar going in and left a shoe behind in the process. I have left a hat in Torquay, a hat in Alton towers, gloves (paired and singular) in various taxis in the capital,  wraps in pubs,  earrings and perfume in hotel rooms and my glasses in the bathroom of a Gentleman's Farm, necessitating a  fevered search. Trains have been the recipents of books,  note, reports and scarves and - once! - a whole bag of  Harrod's goodies.

 But this time, I have outdone myself. I have left my filofax in a cab. This has ALL addresses in it, some personal photographs, (nothing that I would be blackmailed over, but still...) my itinerary for the next  three months, some lovely and expensive writing equipment, a couple of data sticks with important (and luckily encrypted) information on, my book list, poems, lyrics,  the odd card with a message on from people I adore, business cards of people I NEED  to keep in touch with,   some M&S vouchers, some theatre tokens  and details of which hotels I am booked into for the next month.  There's also  email addresses, dress notes, play notes and suggestions, wedding dates and other such important information.

 So if anyone finds my life can I have it back please?