An Egg-ceptional Easter Sunday

I love banging one out before midnight (blog, that is).

Well, I don't know about you, Jesus, but I'm having a corking Easter.

Following Friday's egg-cellent evening with The Ladies (get used to the egg shit - it's not stopping any time soon), I spent a quiet Saturday with Dr Smith chit-chatting, followed by more of the bunting thing. This was made considerably easier by having a plan. Said plan consisted of me doing fabric prep indoors, followed by a few hours of cutting triangles out in the park, sitting in the lovely sun.

Seriously, bunting has taken over the fucking world. I predicted this about 3 years ago (ask Howard Local) and bless me, if it ain't come back to bite me on the arse. Not only am I making the stuff in my every waking hour, but the word is printed everywhere I read. I'm blaming That Bloody Wedding/The Festival Of Britain/Nostalgia Wankfest.

Spent a lovely afternoon (following a self-disciplined morning of triangle sewing) on the Southbank. Met up with Dr Smith again, replacing yesterday's coffees with cocktails and wine. No idea where three hours went sitting on the terrace in the sun, but it did and it was lovely (suspect chat and setting the world to rights may have had a hand). Suddenly, it's 18.20hrs and I have to scoot. The whole point of me being here is to see Peeping Tom at the BFI. Kiss Dr Smith goodbye and leg it as fast as my tiny heels will carry me.

Arrive breathless at the BFI to discover my film is sold out. What a total knobhead I am. It's a brand new print of the film, there's only two showings and the other is sold out already - why didn't I book??? I am egg-sasperated. The lovely young man behind the desk registers the dismay, but there is no seat to sell me. I walk away. But no, I think (fuelled by a desperation to see this wonderful film on the big screen...and booze), try again, ask again. So, I asked again. And he laughed. "We've even sold the wheelchair seats", he said, with a smile. He read my mind. Very funny. Then, he said, "go ask the girl on front-of-house, someone might not have turned up". So I did - and someone hadn't, bless them, Baby Jesus. And so, film Cinderella went to her Michael Powell ball. For FREEEEEEEE!!! And in an amazing seat. Sometimes, Life can be very serendipitous and kind (not often, but all the sweeter when it is).

Came out of the film (finally seen it on a big screen - knowing this film ruined Powell's career is heartbreaking - were we really so backward back then? Written by Leo Marks - years ago, I bought my Dad his book, Between Silk And Cyanide, about his cryptography work in WWII, not realising he'd written such a groundbreaking fiction/screenplay) and saw the lovely Edilaine (my kind front-of-house fairy godmother) and she waved and did thumbs up. I thumbed up back. Egg-static.

As I meandered back to Charing Cross, I noticed a text off Mr Local inviting me to hook up with him and friends. So, back to Crouch End and The Queens pub for a nightcap. When I get there, I'm thrilled to meet up again with Neil. Neil is a very funny man, and I believe he books the bands for the Reading/Leeds festival. I'm not sure - my experiences with Neil so far involve pub quizzes and football. Tonight, it turns out Neil has a piece of history in his pocket. Back in the mid 80's, Neil (lefty leaning - good bloke) was rather anti-Thatcher but with a sharp sense of humour (it hasn't left him). Following the bombings in Tripoli, Neil wrote to Colonel Gaddafi asking him to send money and tanks to help wipe Mrs Thatch out (he called himself General Neil - I'm almost crying just writing this stuff).

It's a long story. It involves Billy Bragg, who's a good friend of his. Neil's a funny man and he tells it very well. I can't do it justice here (in fact, If I'm not careful I may bore myself to death, and you too, dear Reader). But here's where it gets good. Neil got a reply to the letter. The letter that he posted in Crouch End Post Office in the mid 80's. A letter he addressed by watching the BBC news on the bombing, seeing the Jon Snow-esque map drawn on the screen to show where the BBC thought Gaddafi lived. Neil re-drew this map on the back of the envelope, so Postie would find the Colonel. The front of the envelope simply said "Colonel Gaddafi, Tripoli, Libya", a bit like a wee kiddie would send a letter to Santa.

The reply arrived and is addressed to General Neil. When he told me about this letter a few weeks ago, I thought he was making it up (we were rather drunk). But I've seen it now. And it's fo' real. It has been the icing on my Easter Egg cake (that's not actually a thing, but it should be - imagine cake/Easter Eggs mashing it up!).

It's been an egg-cellent weekend. If Easter Monday brings any more enjoyment, I might fucking pop. Or eggs-plode.

Bank Holiday Bunting Bonanza

August Bank Holiday - the gateway to lovely Autumn. Spent a really good Saturday evening with my two oldest girlfriends and their menfolk, beers and chit-chat and laughs. Pretty much the rest of the weekend has been me, Wilf the dog and the sewing machine.

My bunting appeared in The Sunday Times Style magazine last week (whooooo!). Some 'cool camping' article - my bunting adorned the opening to the tent. Funnily enough, I'd read the article and not even noticed it was my bunting...! Just thought "oh, that looks sweet". A mate rang me up to point it out - quite exciting, really.

More bunting news - my handiwork will be tarting up The Local tent at the End Of The Road Festival soon. This nearly happened a couple of years ago, when I predicted to Howard Local that bunting was about to rule the world. He's finally come round to my way of thinking, and he's paying me in kind for the pleasure of my bunting (stop with the double entendres) - two tickets to the festival. Result! Top bit of negotiation on my part - it still entailed a whole heap of stitching, but I reckon it'll be worth it to see Black Mountain, Iron & Wine, Felice Brothers, Charlie Parr, Frank Fairfield, Forest Fire, Oh Ruin, Phosphorescent, Singing Adams, Voice Of The Seven Thunders, Wolf People etc etc - hell, I should be paying him.

None More Bunting

A few year's back, in the manner of some sort-of nostalgia Mystic Mug, I made a prediction. Bunting would take over the world. You know, small bits of ordinarily triangular fabric attached on a long length of string. Think " war-is-over-we-are-English-let's-have-a-street-party-get-out-the-best-china" type of stuff. I just KNEW.

Fast forward a couple of years. I'd been harping on a bit about this for some time, maybe starting to get some odd looks. But now, it formed my main plan, one of my many get-rich-quick schemes to get back to Oz as soon as poss. And I thought I could corner the market -but then, suddenly, it was everywhere. Onimpresent, like a very triangular tipping point explosion only Malcolm Gladwell would understand. I had to move fast, and think of an angle. So, I reckoned - what is an English Summer? And I didn't think strawberries, teadresses and the thwack of leather on willow...no, I thought, folks want to be having a lovely time in the garden but it's always pissing it down. Let's face it, the weather's shite here in Summer. So, if you're a bunting fancier, you can't be arsed constantly taking it down every downpour. Here lies my stroke of genius.

I made waterproof bunting. But not tacky shit, like the polyester stuff adorning every dodgy Wetherspoons throughout the World Cup. No, it was a thing of kitsch beauty, candy coloured, bunting Cath Kidston would give her antique floral tits for. And the shiny yummy mummies of Crouch End love it. And the glitterati too (celeb count so far: Kirstie "Queen Of Property and Poshness" Allsop, and Emma "that fit bird off Big Brother thing married to Busted fella" Griffiths...male friend description). I'm sure they all think it's being made by some domestic goddess, bit of a Nigella in a polka dot apron, on a huge scrubbed pine kitchen table, homemade jam bubbling away on the Aga, ringlet-haired kids skipping round...but no. It's being made by me, sporting worn out denim and extra eyeliner, on a 25 year old sewing machine, cutting out on any space I can find as hop from one friend's spare room to another like the Littlest Hobo I am.

And now the boys at The Haberdashery (lovely Crouch End cafe where they sell my wares - more of them later) tell me that Vogue want to do a photoshoot in the tea garden, where my bunting takes pride of place, which could potentially send me into bunting overdrive...now if only Her Madge would make an order for THE garden party...