SATURDAY NIGHT...

The nights are drawing in and the pages of the calendar will soon turn from green to gold but there's Strictly! X Factor! Thai Sweet Chilli Flavoured crisps and dips! Sofa! Heaven!

Now that the world's two favourite programmes are back, fighting for ratings and keeping our channel-flipping thumbs happily occupied, there's only one place to be on a Saturday night. Rejoice and celebrate.

Our old friends Brucie, Tess, Simon, Cheryl, Louis and that girl with the wonky nose are back so no need to feel lonely or afraid if you don't have a date. He'd only talk all the way through it or demand to watch the football instead, and some things - like bars of Green & Black's Dark Organic Cherry Chocolate chomped in front of trash TV - are far better enjoyed alone.

The Wedding in Marbella turned out to be a bit chavvy, in case you were wondering. Despite the beautiful setting, with a ceremony on the fringes of a sunset beach, the company left something to be desired (salvaged at the 11th hour by some cool people on my table).

The first person I set eyes on when I arrived was Paul Danan. And I thought this was meant to be a "Celebrity" wedding!! I was also teamed up with the most boring man on the planet but in case he's reading this, I better say: "Oh no I wasn't!" (then you can say: "Oh yes you was!")

I downed a couple of kir royales in quick succession in an attempt to make the other guests look marginally more attractive. I then embarked on a side-splittingly misguided toyboy moment. Unable to accept the fact that amongst a blur of middle-aged faces I was just another one of the same, I attempted to claw back some of my personality by making eyes at the very bloke who'd filled me with dread on arrival: Paul Danan.

I vaguely remember lurching up to him, telling him I was losing the will to live and demanding that he entertain me. How embarrassing was that? More so, because although he rose to the occasion and promised to comply with my instruction, even suggesting we head off down the beach to search for stranded dolphins, he swiftly disappeared into the crowd never to be seen again!

The expression: No Fool Like An Old Fool was obviously invented for a reason. Shame that night the reason was me!

On returning from sunnier climes, I found a proper old-fashioned letter amid my post. You don't get many of them to the pound nowadays. It had been forwarded by my publishers and contained a 5-page hand-written missive from a man I did not know, whose address began 'H M Prison...'

I'll tell you all about it next time...

OH ME OF LITTLE FAITH!

Well not only did he NOT cancel, he arrived with all guns blazing... or at least the Big Gun that mattered. I was ambivalent about how to handle this. Does one slide between the sheets with ex-lovers who've become friends just because one of you is horny? I guess it depends on the amount of alcohol consumed and I was stone cold sober at the time.

It did, however, put to rest something that had been bothering me since the last visit from Beautiful Cherokee. On that occasion, we talked for five hours and then he went home. Much as I enjoyed the social intercourse, his departure left me slightly miffed. I was saddened to think he no longer fancied me. By way of explanation, however, he told me that he had grown to like and respect me so much, it didn't seemed appropriate to have sex any more! Shucks! Does one not have sex with people one likes and respects?

As of today, I am the mother of a 40-year old. How in hell that happened, G-d only knows - I remember giving birth to her like it was yesterday. I've long since stopped worrying about numbers though, and I no longer lie about my age and the ages of my children. It's all out there, loud and proud.

We had a fabulous party,and she ended the day bedecked with new diamonds - a pendant from her husband, a ring from me and a bracelet from her father. My 11-year old granddaughter Tatiana sang 'Hotel California' well worthy of Simon Cowell's approval and we all joined in the line "...we haven't had that spirit here since 1969..." because that was the year of the birthday girl's birth.

The only thing she found disconcerting was the fact that when her newborn third daughter Xenia celebrates her 40th birthday, she will be 80! And I'll be 103! Or dead!

For the next two weeks, I shall be in Andalucia immersed in writing my second novel - working title: The One and Lonely.

I have a showbiz wedding in Marbella to attend in between. If it's worth blogging about, I'll let you know.

ENTERTAINMENT OVERLOAD!

A full week at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival produced such a glut of comedy, theatre, culture and various other weird and wonderful forms of performance art that I felt the need to lie down in a darkened room. This activity obviously could not be done alone...

One of my sometime toyboys is now a stand-up comedian and was appearing at the Fest. On the comedy front, whenever this particular gentleman was upstanding before me, I tried not to laugh. He is incredibly well blessed. Gasp? Yes. Guffaw? Noooo.

Although I was unable to catch his show due to a clash of agendas, we did meet late one night for drinks. Our physical relationship dwindled into friendship a while ago as he had a steady girlfriend at the time. He was also working the clubs from Land's End to John O'Groats. Although it was suggested, I don't do matinees with attached men... well not that particular one at any rate...

However, with the heady adrenaline rush produced by great reviews in the Edinburgh press, he suddenly turned up the heat on me again. This resulted in a rather public snog in the shadow of the Udderbelly - a giant, purple, blow-up cow used as a venue at the Fringe.

That old feeling flared at once but I was sharing a hotel room with my sister and he was gigging nightly, so our romantic reunion has had to delayed. I'm a sucker for anticipation. We have a date for Thursday. My instinct tells me he's going to cancel. I think when he comes back down to earth and London, he may feel differently. Insecurity is alive and well and living in Maida Vale!

Post Edinburgh, I managed to slip the Lesbian Love Slut event into my calendar and very nice it was too. It involved an old lover (he's 39 now!)I see infrequently who doesn't mind wearing lipstick and silky lingerie. This produces an erotically androgynous character who is ALL MALE in every other respect, while fulfilling some of my darker urges in others. I may need to explore this further at some point...

On a more sombre note, two of my girlfriends have cancer and are undergoing chemotherapy. My heart, thoughts and prayers go out to them. There but for the grace of God go any of us. They are brave determined women but one has confessed to being terrified, especially on her own at night...

I wish them courage and renewed good health. And I urge you all to CARPE DIEM. You never know what's around the corner and that is why I seize my days (and nights) and squeeze out their juices for all they are worth.

YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST LOVE . . .

How do you explain to someone you haven’t seen for 44 years the depth of the footprint they left on your life? Especially when you only have 15 seconds in which to do it and they haven’t the faintest idea who you are!

This happened to me last week - but first let me take you back to 1965. . .

The place is Marbella, a sleepy fishing village on the southern coast of Spain. An 18-year old English girl is taking an extended vacation from her boring job, capricious friends and controlling parents.

She escaped to Spain because when she was nine, on holiday in Alicante, the girl had an epiphany: she was taken to see her first bullfight. Mesmerized by the passion, drama and raw courage of a man prepared to place himself - unprotected save for a piece of cloth - in front of a wild and raging bull, she became fascinated by the savage beauty of this ancient art.

Over the next few years, the girl researched the culture, studied the language and learned to dance flamenco. She longed to spend more time in her beloved Spain, her greatest wish being to see more bullfights.

Her grandmother muttered: Be careful what you wish for . . .

The girl enjoyed her first few weeks away, but money became tight so she began to look around for something to do. Sitting at a sidewalk café one afternoon, she got talking to an American - a journalist. He’d been commissioned to write the life story of the world’s most famous bullfighter, Manuel Benítez El Cordobés! He needed assistant and interpreter! The girl could not believe her luck! They set off next morning for Córdoba.

I was that girl and over the next few months, I travelled the length and breadth of the Iberian Peninsula as part of the matador’s entourage. Manolo, as he was known, was the craziest, most charismatic person on the planet. He’d begun life as a feral, gypsy orphan and had risen, through sheer bravery and determination to global stardom – the quintessential ‘rags to riches’ story.

The title of the book “. . . or I’ll Dress You in Mourning” was taken from what Manolo said to his sister on the morning of his first fight.

“Tonight, Angelita,” he told the fretting woman as he left the hovel where they lived, “I will buy you a house or I’ll dress you in mourning. . . ”
Angelita got her house and then some.

Although initially banned in Spain due to its references to the Civil War and supposed disrespect for the dictator, Franco, it went on to become an international best seller.

The problem with Manolo was you couldn’t just take him or leave him – you had to get involved. Women threw themselves at him wherever we went. Young, old, married, single - he was The One they all wanted to know.

Even nuns in convents campaigned to have TVs installed so they could watch their hero fight, twitching no doubt later in the privacy of their cells in places man had never been. He was James Dean, Elvis, John Lennon and Mick Jagger all rolled into one. Except he had an added twist: he faced death every afternoon.

Although I found him magnetically attractive, I tried to keep my feelings hidden. I was, after all, working - doing a serious research job. He wasn’t an easy man to resist, but resist him I did. . .

Over time, we became rather attached. He was relaxed and comfortable in my company – unlike the others, I wasn’t after him for what I could get.

On rest days, we’d spend lazy afternoons at his ranch, hanging out with his friends and family, sharing al fresco lunches and flamenco-fuelled dinners or buzzing around Andalucía in his Piper Aztec plane.

On fight days, we’d travel across country in his chauffeur-driven limo, him asleep with his head in my lap, me tenderly stroking his forehead, my heart melting with love as I kept vigil on the long roads through the night.

The international press soon picked up our story. They called him ‘the English girl Wendy’s personal Peter Pan’ and wrote that ‘El Cordobés had a British fiancée and was learning the language of Shakespeare’! In truth, his parish priest travelled alongside us teaching him to read and write. A scholar of the Bard he was not!

One afternoon, in the middle of his hectic season, he dedicated the life of his noble bull to me - a high accolade and display of affection of a very public nature. The animal, however, did not share this affection and tossed him mercilessly until his pants were ripped to shreds, his buttocks exposed for all to see.

He raked his fingers through his floppy hair and changed hurriedly into a pair of jeans. Then he went back on the sand and showed that toro who was boss. He displayed such valour and artistry that he was awarded the trophy of an ear.

To further compliment his dedication to me, he lobbed the severed appendage straight into my outstretched hands. As I caught it in a clap, warm blood splattered all over my dress. Boy! Was I proud of that! I never washed it off and later, if anyone asked me where the stains came from, I bloody well told them!

That night, persuasion overcame propriety and I allowed him the sword thrust he had so often sought. . .

In October, the Spanish bullfight season terminated and the toreros prepared to fly south for the winter, to Mexico and Latin America. I was invited to accompany them but my father wouldn’t let me. And so the dream ended and I went sadly home. I packed up my photographs, press cuttings, cine films, diaries, letters and bull’s ear and stored them away in my memory bank.

Over the next four decades, I revisited those memories many, many times. I also got married and divorced twice, had two daughters and now have four grandchildren. Manolo also married and is the father of five children.

I continued to visit Spain two or three times a year, but I never saw him again. I became an antique dealer and then a writer. Last year I wrote my first novel, Blood On The Sand, based on our story or at least the beginning of it. . .

And then I heard he was to receive a Lifetime Achievement Award to be presented to him in Marbella. A grand occasion was planned: a midnight bullfight by candle light with flamenco music instead of a brass band showcasing three of Spain’s top matadors. I didn’t hesitate. I booked my flight . . .

I arrived at the bullring with my sister well ahead of time, flustered and nervous. I was no longer 19 yet I still felt it inside! A limo drew up. I could see him through the window. Without hesitation, I pounced like a panther and explained - in the 15 seconds I had available before the press descended - exactly who I was.

He smiled broadly and took my hands in his. He looked confused, bemused, amused.

“You’re still so pretty!” he enthused kissing me warmly on both cheeks. At 63, I could have been a wizened old crone. . .

I showed him some of our old photos. He beamed and put his arm around me. My sister took a picture. My heart soared. I was right back in 1965. Maybe I should have defied my father and gone away with him after all. Who knows how my life may have turned out?

After the bullfight and award ceremony, I managed to snatch another few moments just as he was leaving.

“We have so much to talk about!” I told him. “Talk to me! Talk!” he managed before another microphone and TV camera were shoved in his face.

He did his interview then the chauffeur floored the pedal and off they sped - out of my life for a second time.

I’m sure I’ll see him again, though. I’ll make damn certain of it. And it won’t be another 44 years this time!

HEY BABY!

I’m afraid the Lesbian Love Slut affair had to be postponed due to inclement weather and another event which unsurprisingly took precedence. LLS will be rescheduled and reported on in due course but for now here’s what happened this week written live and direct from my dining-room table:

"I’m writing this with shaking hands in between devouring a large bar of Green ‘n Black Cherry Chocolate and waiting for the phone to ring.

It’s been a rather surreal day which began at 8 in the morning when my elder daughter called to tell me that she had, at last, gone into labour. The baby was only a day overdue but it’s been a long nine months and as it’s her third, we all expected the birth to happen quickly.

It is now 9.15 in the evening and I’m still waiting for news. She’s texted me intermittently throughout the day with details of epidurals being administered and waters being broken, but she requested that our large extended family do not descend on the hospital until she’s all done and dusted and her other children have had the first sighting of their little sibling.

I live the closest to the hospital and it’s been very frustrating. All I want to do is get in the car and go down there, either to keep her and her husband company or at least pace up down expectantly outside the delivery room. But they like their privacy and I must respect that.

My two older granddaughters, Tatiana and Normandie, are with their other grandmother and my grandson, Noah, is with his mum also awaiting news.

We don’t as yet know what the sex of the new baby will be. They’d quite like a boy for a change but as long as it has ten fingers and toes and is healthy inside and out, it doesn’t really matter.

9.40 p.m. A call comes through to say 'It Won’t Be Long Now!' Enough of this procrastinating, I think, so I leap in the car, arrive at the hospital in record time and burst in through the double doors. I’m sent straight up to the fourth floor and there is my daughter, halfway between birth and afterbirth, looking calm, serene and very happy.

In a crib by her side is a tiny head covered in a dark mop of black hair.

‘You have another granddaughter!’ she says with no trace of disappointment, just joy and relief that the little mite has arrived safely.

Weighing in at 4.04 kgs or 8lbs. 9 ozs. in old money, the baby is to be called Xenia Minnie! My mother was called Zena, another grandmother was Minnie. Mouse may become her nickname but not from me!

So no toyboy stories this week I’m afraid, though I do have a tea date with one tomorrow. I’ve been washing, shopping, cooking, cleaning and generally performing my maternal duties like the good girl I sometimes am...

Some r ‘n r would be most welcome, but it’ll have to wait till next week...

A WEEK IN THE LIFE OF...

After the celebratory night of passione with The Smouldering One - aged 29 - I threw myself headlong into a hot date with a 70-year old.

This had all the similarities of trying to extract a bottle of fine wine from a handful of dry leaves. He is, however, an Old Friend and as he always shows an interest in my work, I gave him a copy of TB2 - The Daily Male.

He called me the next evening having read about a third of it.

"I need to have a serious talk with you, face to face, not over the phone," he said in deeply sombre tones, like a doctor who was about to tell me I have a terminal illness. "I think I've worked out what your problem is..."

Ooh eck! Do I want to hear this? No! Not if it's negative and not if it's critical. And definitely not if he's going to try to convince me that settling down for a life of dull domesticity with a man old enough to be my husband is the answer to all my prayers!

On Monday, I looked after my 15-month old grandson which is always an absolute joy and the best little boy toy a girl could have.

On Tuesday I guested on a chat show on Radio Coventry and Warwickshire. Yes! It finally happened! Today Coventry, tomorrow Ze Vurld! but the lowlight of my week came on Friday evening, when a girlfriend and I went to a double bill at the Arts Theatre.

The first half was called F**king Men, a well-written, well-acted play about gay love. So far so interesting. The second half, however, was called Naked Boys Dancing (or it may have been Singing...)

Now the clue should have been in the title but imagine our surprise when halfway through the penultimate number, we were presented with six limp dicks. Never mind too much information - this was simply too much vegetation. One limp dick is bad enough, but six? Enough to turn a girl vegetarian!

Unfortunately, my friend and I were bang in the middle of the second row which made it rather hard to get out. This was the only part of the performance that was rather hard. It emphasized the expression 'less is more'. They should have kept their kegs on, or a subtle towel at least...

When we eventually got home, I actually felt like gargling with Parazone. I'm not sure why, but somehow, having all that male genitalia shoved in my face was quite a turnoff...which may sound strange coming from me!

Luckily I was turned right back on again by a further date with The Smouldering One. I'm still not sure if I actually like him. He may have a Phd in Lovemaking but his personality is edgy and confrontational.

I might not see him again. But on the other hand...

Next week's blog will be entitled Lesbian Love Slut - you'll have to read it to find out why!

THE DAILY MAUL!

Check out today's FEMAIL online for a double page spread on yours truly...

My words and some of the facts are slightly distorted. After a 2 hour interview and 3 hour photoshoot, they chose to dumb down most of what I said and print a 2 year old photo but hey!

The ONLINE COMMENTS are the most interesting part...I'm reeling from the worldwide 'interest' or denigration of my lifestyle choices!