The Feminine Side

OK, I'm back, after a fashion.

I had a working trip to the Bahamas a few weeks ago. It was warm, sunny and the most frustrating place I've worked in thirty nine years in broadcasting. I'll say no more about the business aspect.

The hotel in which we were based was styled in a gross interpretation of an ancient legend, a cacophony in concrete, polystyrene and glass fibre. Luckily I wasn't paying to be there and it is perhaps an indication of the level of sophistication of the food offered that it was exceeded by that in the nearby Starbucks. I will say, in an effort to redress the balance somewhat, that my room was excellent. If I'd been a ten-year old child with a father with bottomless pockets, I'd have been reasonably well-served. Or an inveterate gambler anxious to dispose of my wealth.

So a good whinge, then, just to re-establish the genre.

What else?

I like working at Maidstone Studios; easy to get to you, easy to park, easy people to work with. Niki and Tracy kept me company in Lighting Control on this occasion, making sure our punters looked spick and span in all respects. During our far-ranging discussions on life, the universe and everything, it became obvious that my feminine side has been creeping up on me recently. I'll not go into detail but I reckon I know more than I need to about some subjects not normally in the masculine purlieu.

I know what's caused this shift in my view of life. It's books. I've been reading too many female authors. I'm sorry, ladies, but you're corrupting me. Only today, out for a walk with Pixie, I was looking for some fluffy gambolling lambs to photograph. Over breakfast I was criticising the dress-sense of the so-called celebrities in Pixie's 'Instyle' magazine. And I'm already suffering from an unhealthy interest in soft furnishings.

I suppose the cure will be a dose of Clive Cussler, Jack Higgins or Robert Ludlum. Unfortunately it will have to wait until I've demolished the mountain of volumes I've got by Rose Tremain, Isabelle Allende and Anita Shreve.

So something twee for a picture? No, I don't think so. How about a dim and spooky path through a grove of trees? Much more Stephen King, much less Katie Fforde.