‘Allo mes amis. Je suis back from Nice, where I spent a lovely weekend with my friend Alex in her chic apartment opposite the Museum of Modern art a stone’s throw from the old town. What’s with the salt craze? Everywhere you go, there are stalls selling different types of salt. Rose-scented salt, thyme-scented salt, apple salt, snail salt, liver salt. Okay, okay, I exaggerate, but there is a lot of coloured salt in those shops. Why? Who buys it? The things they try to sell to tourists. very strange.

 

I am still in love with Marc Chagall and quite partial to Matisse as well. Took in some art, climbed a few hills, ate some fantastic food and didn’t get pissed enough. The problem with me is that although I like the effect of alcohol, I’ve never enjoyed the taste. It’s a kind of ordeal getting it down my throat. It’s not that I don’t WANT to be a lush - what a great word, lush - it’s just that I lack the love of it.

 

Nice is noisy, full of traffic, chic old ladies and large yachts. It is full of the rich and famous, but also their entourages. We met one woman who’s chef to a very wealthy German industrialist. ‘Well,’, she told us very seriously.‘The more money you have, the harder the credit crunch hits’. Apparently these people don’t actually know where their money is, and have always lived on the interest. It’s not in the bank anymore, she tells us, or at least the bank can’t give it to them now, so they’re having to cut back. Oh, quel domage. In their case this involves major sacrifices. For example, now, instead of sending the private jet back and forth whenever they feel like it and travelling to the fourteenth home in Monaco in dribs and drabs, they now have to coordinate their journeys as a family and all fly together. That must be tough.

 

Did you know the ultra rich all communicate with each other via agents? If you want to invite another rich person to your house for tea, you have to get your agent to speak to their agent. Apparently when the Angelina/Brad entourage moved in next door in Monaco, our German industrialist, let us call him Herr Sauerkraut - sent the agent round two or three times to invite the family round for the day so the kids could meet each other. But never any answer from the Brangelinas, until a response came from Brad: ‘Tell them we’ll come if they pay us’.  Poor movie stars. Poor family Sauerkraut. I guess it is hard to find suitable playmates for your kids when you live on another planet.

 

Travelled back from Luton on the bus, the train, the bus, low-slung cloud, wind, a bit of drizzle. Very smelly man (urine I think) on the 134 in front of me. Held my breath from Kentish Town to Muswell Hill. But I’d still rather be me than Frau Sauerkraut.

 

Then yesterday I took a trip to Portsmouth to rehearse and perform for a Disparate Housewives gig in Petersfield. We had put together a brand new script and rehearsed it on the phone. Then spent a feverish afternoon running through it, in between fetching and feeding Stella’s two children. Just a typical day in the lives of the Disparates. At the gig itself, all went well. We enjoyed ourselves (and each other) thoroughly, and Stella’s friend Roy stuffed microphones down our shirts and filmed us. Be interesting to see how that comes out. What I really want is a big tour bus with The Disparate Housewives emblazoned on the side, a stage manager, a chef and a make-up artist. But I’d still rather be me than Frau Sauerkraut.

 

So another half term holiday looms. I plan to spend time with the kids, stop worrying about my work output and bake cakes. But November will be different. I plan to finish a draft of my verse play that I started last year. There. I’ve said it here. Publicly. Now I just have to bloody do it. Terrifying. But more fun than a mansion in Monaco with an agent, a private jet you have to share, and a credit crunch. Eat your cabbage heart out, Frau Sauerkraut.