Stuck here in my domicile at 'the edge of teh known world', I've been feeling increasingly less important. I suppose it would be different if I lived near a throbbing metropolis like, say, Birchington.
So to puff myself up a bit, I spent yesterday at the old pied-a-tèrre in Chelsea. It's just a small terrace on Cheyne Walk, nothing too flash. I've been renting it to a producer pal of mine, who made the odd bob or two out of some game show. Entangled in a few domestic difficulties recently (= ran off with the production co-ordinator), he needed a bolt hole.
He's moved out now, but cripes, the way he's left it! Beer bottles, old Havana cigars, and as for the state of the dunny. Well, I've heard of roll your own, but that's taking it a bit too far.
I'll have to call in those cleaning ladies from Channel 4.