You shall not go to the ball. Doh!


I wake at five am this morning and whiz back to London arriving at  10am for a photoshoot  at The South Bank. Helen Baxendale walks past. The last time I met her was at The South Bank years ago, at least, I think it was her all those years ago. I am about to say hello but as she walks past I withdraw my pointing finger in embarresment and continue walking.

I cancel meeting with Thomas Priestley the son of JB Priestley for whom I am writing a
piece for the re-publication of An English Journey which has just given me an idea for an event at its launch. Why not Ian McMillan?  And by one pm I can barely keep my eyes open
so get a lift from the photographer, home. Yes.

The journalist has an article in the national newspaper  she works for and it highlights the event that she asked me for earlier the week.  I call her and say “yes” I really want to go. It’s a black tie affair. The black national screen awards this following Monday. But it’s too late.  On Tuesday of this week I said that I didn’t want to go. It must have been connected to the queens gala that I couldn’t go to either.  She’d already  asked someone else this morning. Nyaaaaaaggghhhhhhh.

Shoot.  So The Journalist is going to the event in an evening gown to a black tie event that is a celebration of Black actors – everyone is going to be there. And she is going with another man!   I’m at home. All afternoon and evening to  work on The poem for BBC programme Saturday Live tomorrow. The car will be purring outside my home at 8am ready to whiz me to the studios.


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