The Corner House

Last post, I hope, I have a whole house to pack up by Friday.
Nice Niece, 18 and waiting for her "A" level results, wants to be an actress.
Did I tell you the O'Looney's opinion of that when they heard?
"But I tort she was a nice girrrl."
"You put her up to dat!"
No, I didn't put her up to anything but I'm so pleased. Maybe acting is genetic and not some perverse career I dreamt up to upset everyone.
Auntie O'Looney suddenly recalled that an old, dead, erudite uncle had a daughter who for a time "was with a top theatre company in Dublin". Couldn't establish whether this was an amateur or professional engagement and, anyway, she gave it up to teach.
"They all end up teaching" I said which caused Auntie O'Looney to put me in my place by pointing out that "teaching is a very good job."
My Dad also used to speak of a cousin who was an excellent actor (and he must have been if my Dad considered him such). His best performance occurred one night in the village hall when he was blind drunk but still faultless (as well as footless). (Footless, for the uninitiated, is Irish for legless).
"Ah! He could have gone to Hollywood if he hadn't had the farm" said Dad.
Anyway, Niece. Failed all her drama school auditions and everyone worried, especially her Mum, 'cos Niece refusing to go to university as an alternative. Then I saw a weekend acting course (because I keep up with these things) and suggested Niece went on it. Sista said it really helped because Niece has since been accepted for an Acting Foundation Course at an accredited school. It's something and I am so pleased for her and proud of her.
Would I have been a Stage Mother or would I have been a Stage Mother.

One good thing about moving back to London - I can go and see the new version of "Calendar Girls". All sorts of reasons for seeing it, I mean, I loved the book and the film but mostly - hee-hee, I want to go and see if Jerry Hall is still as appallingly bad an actress as she was in "The Graduate."
Sometimes, you know, there is a God.

Spent a pleasant Saturday evening with the ladies from my psychic circle. Lovely meal, wine and then, naturally, the tarot cards came out.
The very glam Terri, who runs the circle and looks every inch mystic with her long, black hair and enormous dark eyes, does not think London is the place for me. She's very much "no, no, no" as far as Hackney House is concerned and says I must brace myself for forthcoming upsets and difficulty in that direction. Spirit want me elsewhere, she says, Hackney House was just an opportunity I was given to fund the establishment of the elsewhere.
I don't know. All I know is things are difficult - the Housing Association are mucking me about, big-time. First I get the house back in December, then 'very soon', now I've heard that the tenant has refused her new housing offer and they are going to have to take legal action to evict her. My landlord good but I have to leave here by Friday because he has a new batch of students coming in. At first, I was going to rent another room from him (he owns loads of houses) but, as it could be only for a week or two, I've decided against it. Bonnie, bless her, is being very supportive, although, naturally, this support is delivered in her bossy, teacher knows best manner.
"Stay here till you get the hoose back. I will nae take any rent as long as you walk the dog. No, I'd rather you put the rent you'd pay me towards your mortgage re-payments. Just get that place on the market as soon as posssible and get rid. Sell it, for fuck's sake, you dinnae want to be re-possessed."
Anyway, the imminent move is from here. Piles of tat to be sorted and packed. I don't know where to start, why am I such a hoarder?
Money crisis once again. The Tarot line was so quiet, last month, and, I dunno, despite earning half what I usually earn, I suddenly went on a spending spree and bought some new clothes and a couple of jars of wonder face-creams. Sense! No!
I've got £200 in a Tesco savings account somewhere, will just have to try and access it to fund my imminent move.
When will I get rich?
Or even thin?

Well, down at Lemonie's all last week. Bless her but the poor woman does need educating at times. She can have some very 'Daily Express', genteel little ways.
'Don't you love that song, Hallelujah' sez me, taking it as given she would.
'Ugh, no. What's it's about? Tying people to chairs? Horrible. They said it was about a war at work...'
Work is a fracture clinic. Their probably okay at setting bones.
We go round to her friend's house. Friend away but Vonney, her daughter is at home. Wine comes out. Bottles of it.
I tell them about Bathsheba and Samson and Delilah; stories neither of them can ever recall hearing before although perhaps they'd forgotten because of the wine.... Plus, I make them listen to Leonard Cohen on 'YouTube'.
I'm still not convinced they really appreciated it although Lemonie didn't seem quite as disgusted when she cottoned on to the Biblical references, Daily Express readers being generally in favour of the Bible, as far as I know.
(I'm such a snobby old hypocrite, I'll happily sit reading the Express and the Mail, for hours.)
But the Bible's full of sex and violence, isn't it?
Gay friend said the Mary Magdalene story was the sexiest thing ever. She washes His feet, dries them with her hair (long and probably red from henna) and then covers them in some fabulously expensive, perfumed ointment.
What's wrong with me tonight? If I wasn't post-menopausal, I'd say it was hormones.

Ex-soap star very nice, by the way. Only really got to say that I enjoyed the show (which I did). Friend said to her, 'I'd wish I was as successful as you' to which she replied that she'd been lucky. Apparently, she's coming to do a workshop with us sometime.
Career doldrums, again. Made about a tenner since half-past-seven. When am I ever gonna get lucky?

Luckily, it wasn't necessary to pre-order my graduation gown. Back to this topic again because one of Menhir's comments reminded me of the fracas the night before the graduation ceremony.
I was at Bonnie's, drinking gin, watching The Young Victoria or whatever is was. All well and good until Bonnie asks for her ticket to get into the graduation.
I'd lost it, naturally.
"I'm sure you're on a list, it won't be a big deal."
Excuse for her to go into one. How could I have lost it etc.
Her new husband (Henry 8th, I call him, 'cos he's got the same Christian name as her late husband), well, Henry 8th recently got his Masters (from Durham) and he didn't lose his ticket, oh no.... and he's never paid Bank Charges in his life, either.....
"Why on earth didn't you order your gown sooner? You'll end up with no gown. You'll have to ring Jay (notorious hoarder) and she'll have to rush down with that old gown she keeps offering you. The one she's had in the garage for the past 35 years. You might shake the dust off, perhaps, but then you'll be walking across the stage and a cat will jump out of it" (Jay also notorious cat lover).
Needless to say, Bonnie's worse-case scenario didn't happen, she got in perfectly okay and I've got photos of self in cap and gown (still to go onto disc).