Guess what arrived in this morning's post? Yes, besides the ointment, do you really need to talk about that, my new microphone. Yippee! I've been experimenting, much to the cat's amusement, by trying out various and different-sounding voices. Sexy. Intelligent. Hard but vulnerable. Husky. None of which worked except the husky voice and that's only because I'm getting over a cold which I have had for EVER.
So! Ready for business. Taping now. Podcasting, fingers crossed, this evening.
Exciting! Listen in or lose out... etc., etc.,.
Proposed readership is aimed at predominantly female: mature thirties through to young sixties. Interest groups may include any type of organisation which features cats or disabilities (predominantly ME/
CFS) nostalgia (particularly for the 1970s) and a host of amicable nutters who are neither incapacitated, or have a cat, but against their will find themselves tuning into James Last.
It’s 2001 and the start of a new millennium. And the start of a new life - or is it? At forty-one years old was my life over? I was single. I had ME. But I was ever hopeful.
When I wrote about my life in the quarterly newsletter for a local charity, my Christmas edition was voted ‘the best ever!’ along with the recipe for my silky chocolate cake, which I suspect is what tipped the scales. I hinted at harbouring deep and secret ambitions. Feelings married people weren’t supposed to have. Did it stem from taking my favourite philosopher to bed each night? Had Michel de Montaigne finally penetrated? And was I alone in having a controlling and dysfunctional but colourful character for a mother who flew on Concorde yet shopped at Oxfam? And is it just me who drives a Mini on the pavement during rush hour? So what if some toes happened to get flattened it was preferable to a head-on collision with a Mercedes-Benz because there’s no surprise as to who would have won that particular confrontation.