Claire Fordham

Rhythm and Bliss

2012-01-26T08:47:00.000-08:00

In my dreams, I am smiling at the cameras in the season finale of Dancing With The Stars, waving at the adoring crowds with one hand and holding the mirror ball trophy in the other, with confetti raining all around.

In reality, I only dance after a couple of glasses of wine at a party. And it’s more shuffling from one foot to the other, hoping no one is looking.

My sister Julia suggested I accompany her to a 5 Rhythms Dance class. She’s been going every Tuesday in Topanga and thought it would be good for me to step outside my comfort zone and dance around a) with abandon, and b) among complete strangers.

Developed by Gabrielle Roth in the 1970s, 5 Rhythms is a cathartic form of dance for body, mind and heart with classes held all over the world. The practice focuses on putting the body in motion in order to still the mind and allow the student to connect to the spiritual. The five rhythms (in order) are: flowing, staccato, chaos, lyrical and stillness.

There’s a reason why I hadn’t been to a class before. Julia told me that at some point the teacher invites people to dance with the person nearest to them. Not in a “strictly ballroom” or “pas de deux” kind of way, but in whatever way takes your fancy.

Julia assured me that the class is not just for professional dancers, that no one will look at me or care if I am any good or not, and it’s not too touchy-feely. So I bit the bullet and prepared to dance the night away.

A quick, discreet look around the room confirmed that my fellow dancers were all shapes, sizes and ages, men and women – regular people. The music was loud and, well, rhythmic, and impossible not to dance to.

Kate Shela, a fellow Brit, is a brilliant teacher and a wizard at weaving the five rhythms.

There’s a guided structure but you cannot get it wrong. We were encouraged to dance whatever comes up for us and embody it.

That first time, I pretended I was a ballet dancer and just wafted my arms about with the occasional leap – for most of the class. I stomped around for the last half hour and genuinely didn’t care what anyone thought. That’s actually a very big deal for me. It was intensely and immensely liberating.

Kate runs weekly classes in Topanga and Santa Monica, California and gives individual tuition. She’s also a shamanic healer. Kate says, “5 Rhythms is a map that can take you anywhere you want to go. It fuels so much passion and gives you confidence in all aspects of your life. It teaches you to be truly present and fuels creativity. It can be life-changing and life-affirming. For some people, it’s just a great workout.”

It certainly makes me feel good and the best $15 I’ve spent in a while. It’s also aerobic exercise that doesn’t feel like a chore. Wear loose-fitting clothes and take a big bottle of water. The class lasts two hours and you will get hot and sticky. You can dance in bare feet or soft shoes, but you will dance. Oh, yes.

For more information and to find a 5 Rhythm Dance class near you: www.kateshela.com and www.gabrielleroth.com

Call me Bubu

2011-07-12T18:06:00.000-07:00

I may have been a little hasty 10 years ago by stating I would stop coloring my hair when I became a grandmother. That time has now come, but my colorist will still be seeing me once a month. I also need to tell my sister I’m moving the goalposts on my request that she smother me with a pillow when I start peeing my pants. Let’s change it to: “when I start peeing my pants regularly.”

It was a one-off, honest, and only a teeny, tiny bit after I’d consumed a lot of water, was out on a long hike, and someone made me laugh.

Forget about growing old gracefully, I am going to be dragged into my dotage kicking and screaming. There are so many adventures to be had ‒ like more trips to Fiji, where my Man Child lives, to get to know my first grandchild properly. Photographs and Skype are all well and good, but I want to teach her to bake, swim, read, write, and play hide-and-seek in person.

I hope she likes me. Of course she will. I’m fun. Parents are annoying. But grandparents are fun, fluffy and kind. Or rather, we should be. And wise. My grandchild’s father and aunt chose to ignore most of my advice and words of wisdom, but they are happy, healthy and thriving, so I must have done something right.

One of the best things we can do for our children (apart from loving and feeding them, of course) is to set a good example and learn from our own parents’ mistakes. My mother was unable to resist mentioning (constantly) that she didn’t like the name Marley that my sister chose for her daughter, as it reminded her of Marley’s ghost in Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. I vowed never to be so tactless and rude about my own children’s choice of names for their offspring.

Although I defy anyone not to raise an eyebrow when their son announces he is going to call his unborn child Vosamana, a Fijian name meaning: “what he says happens,” if it turned out to be a boy.

The baby is a girl, so we dodged the Vosamana bullet. She is completely gorgeous, super-smart, and has been named after her aunt and maternal grandmother: Mia Claire.

The Fijian word for grandmother is Bubu. That’ll do nicely. I’m way too young to be a Grandma or Grannie. I see one of my jobs to ensure Mia Claire is the best-dressed and best-educated girl in Fiji. My husband, Colin (or Grand Poppa C as he is now known), has never had children of his own, but is almost as besotted as I am with the baby.

He said it seems like the world is a different and better place since she’s been born. I’m glad he feels that way, because his Porsche fund just became Mia Claire’s college kitty.

Hawaii Six-Oh

2011-06-01T08:08:00.000-07:00

Marley’s Hawaiian-themed sixth birthday party was a triumph. My tropical bra was actually made of two scallop shells; worn over a tank top plus a shirt to spare my embarrassment.

Leis and all other Hawaiian accessories ‒ including napkins, plates and cups ‒ were bought from a Dollar Tree store. Who knew? It costs more than the 99 Cents store, but well worth the extra penny.

Most of the delicious food was cooked by Marley’s grandmother, Luba. You could taste the love. Marley helped me make the cake the day before, although I was also in charge of the salmon, green salad, Pass The Parcel and Musical Statues. But my greatest contribution was to use pineapple juice instead of peach (more Hawaiian) for the adults’ Bellinis. I could barely keep up with demand.

Highlight of the party for me, as it is every year, is to go in the bouncy castle with a few other game mums after the kids have exhausted themselves. Joy.

Fresh Pineapple recipe
Ingredients:

1 Ripe pineapple
Brown sugar
Fresh Mint

Cut the pineapple into four pieces leaving on the leaves for prettiness. Remove the core with a sharp knife as its bitter. Then sprinkle with brown sugar and the chopped mint. It looks spectacular and is delicious and refreshing. My friend Diane who gave me the recipe pounds the sugar (not much) and chopped mint in a mortar and pestle first but I can't be bothered.

To blog or not to blog...

2011-04-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

Overheard in a Santa Monica restaurant: a distraught man was telling his dinner companion that not a single comment had been left on his latest blog post.

Then I read an article on the New York Times website (before the recent paywall) saying the blog is dead and has been for years. Couple that with snide comments from some (alright, many) people who think those of us with blogs have enormous egos and deserve derision for thinking that anyone gives a shit about what we think or do.

I know several journalists who write for websites and get paid for it. They become quite huffy if anyone calls them bloggers.

In my defense, I started writing a blog when my book was published (June 2005 – yikes!). I was advised by other authors and my literary agent that everyone blogs and you simply must have a website. The idea being that readers will be so amused by your blog they will buy your book(s).

Not so much. My few followers have bought the book already, but I persevere nonetheless. Not from a place of arrogance, but a love of writing and the faint hope I might amuse a friend, family member or complete stranger who is bored at work and has stumbled upon my blog by accident.

My good friend and web mistress, Diane, who actually has hundreds of people follow her blog, advised me that blog posts should be no longer than 400 to 500 words (my first few ran to 1500 words), have a photo and be about something. In Diane’s case, she writes about book binding and other creative pursuits. So I decided to include recipes in mine, as I love cooking and hope to publish a recipe book one day. It has been fairly easy to accept that my life isn’t funny or interesting enough on its own.

To this end, please see below the recipe for Prince William’s Groom’s Cake to be served at his wedding to Catherine Middleton. I made it to celebrate my woman-child’s 30^th birthday this month and it was very well received. And yes, I will be setting my alarm to get up for the royal nuptials.

Chocolate Crunch Cake

Ingredients:

4ozs/110 g butter or margarine

10ozs/300 g chocolate (milk or dark, according to preference)

140zs/400g tin condensed milk

Large packet Rich Tea or Digestive biscuits or half and half.

15 glace cherries (Chopped)

2ozs chopped nuts

2ozs raisins

Recipe:

In a large bowl, crush the biscuits.
Stir in the cherries, raisins and nuts.
In a pan, melt the butter, condensed milk and half the chocolate.
Pour the chocolate mixture over the biscuit mixture. Stir well until all the crushed biscuits are coated.
Line a tin with parchment paper and pour in the mixture.
Melt the rest of the chocolate and pour over the cake mixture.
Freeze for at least two hours or until needed. Remove from the tin, leave at room temperature for two hours before cutting into slices and serving.

The Sundance Kid

2011-01-25T16:31:00.000-08:00

Turns out Colin was right, I could have packed the clothes I needed for the Sundance trip in a carry-on. Paul Reiser, Julia and I were the only people in our party who brought their biggest cases. But they were performing. I missed the email that said there would not be time to go snowboarding, so I needn’t have bought new (and expensive) ski pants and coat.

At least my case wasn’t overweight by two pounds like Paul’s and I was able to take the manuscript for his latest book, Familyhood, thus saving him $95 in excess baggage.

It pained me to have to pay $25 each way to check in a suitcase filled with outfit changes and six pairs of gloves in different shades that I didn’t use. Lesson learned.

I didn’t care that Paul could only get Julia into the first class airport lounge with him. Lori (Julia’s manager), Joan and I were happy in the Malibu bar drinking champagne and Bloody Marys with a surfboard as a table.

The gigs at the ASCAP Music Café on Main Street were a triumph. I loved being in the green room with the young rock bands who were also on the bill, so full of enthusiasm and excited about being on the road. Our favorites were The Manchester Orchestra, who became firm pals.

Paul was ready for a celebratory whisky after the last gig, but the young rockers had drunk the two liters ASCAP provided. Well, it was four o’clock in the afternoon. I went and found Paul some single malt and therefore proved myself invaluable on tour.

Julia and I were in an apartment with a fan that blew cold air - the Reisers, meanwhile, were slumming it in the Waldorf Astoria.

Thanks to Paul’s great celebrity, we were invited to many places and events where companies line up to give away their wares. I brought home hoodies with earphones sewn in, the headphones of Colin’s dreams, Ralph Lauren aftershave, a camera, drinking bottles, Moleskine notebooks, jewelry, a bracelet to be worn at all times to make me “balanced,” sweatshirts, ski hats and a pair of Shape-Ups. The vodka in my rucksack was confiscated at the airport, but my big case was able to hold the rest of my bounty.

We were determined to see at least one movie, and let Paul and Paula choose. It’s not as easy as you might think to see a movie at the Sundance Film Festival. The good ones are sold out well in advance and you need to get to the main office, a bus ride away, to collect your tickets. It’s incredibly well organized, though, with free and abundant buses and shuttles. Each shuttle stop has a volunteer on hand to point you in the right direction.

With great ceremony, Lori handed out our tickets, collected earlier by a nice lady from ASCAP. We had to be at the Egyptian Theatre at 9 p.m. sharp. We went for a farewell dinner before the movie, and it was there that Paul and Paula flaked, saying they were too tired. I had three words for them. Rock. And. Roll. But there was no budging them.

The rest of us raced to the cinema and were the last ones to take our seats in the packed theatre. I was sat behind the tallest couple in the world. The film was Cuban with sub-titles I had to crane my neck to see. It was a cheery tale set in 1993, where the impoverished, homeless, young protagonists deliberately get infected with AIDS so they can get a permanent bed in a hospital with regular food. There was some incest thrown in for good measure. The soundtrack was heavy metal. Death and misery and lots of suffering. Kind of the Buena Vista Anti-Social Club. It was called Ticket To Paradise and will probably win best foreign film.

The next morning at the airport, I gave Paul a hard time for a) choosing such a bleak film and b) not even sitting through it with us.

There’s talk of gigs in New York, San Francisco and possibly the UK in the late spring. I’ll be traveling light. And choosing the movie.

Aaaaaaand action!

2010-12-29T14:20:00.000-08:00

“Ladies and gentlemen… it is my great pleasure to ask you to raise your glasses -- apple juice of course -- in a toast to celebrate the Internet publishing campaign of all time (look over to Eric Roberts). To The Novelist!”

“To The Novelist!” (the gathered throng raise their glasses).

Five (or was it six?) takes. For the different angles, you see. I only fluffed my lines on one occasion and did once start speaking before the director shouted “Action!” All in all, I opened to rave reviews.

Filmmaker Mary McGuckian who made The Making Of Plus One…said I did such a good job playing myself in that she wanted me to play the publisher in her latest film, The Novelist.

My brother, Mark, who is visiting has been teasing me relentlessly. When he isn’t saying “aaaaaaand action!” he says “The Novelist” with as many different emphases as possible. Over and over again. Wearing a tad thin, I have to say, though I am enjoying being his favorite sister. I have forgiven him for calling me “portly” over Christmas.

Julia takes him hiking up Red Rock every day and to Monday playgroup social gatherings in Topanga, while I get him a part as a film extra, play table tennis at the Mondrian hotel (where we shot the party scene) and take him for drinks in the Sky Bar. Then on to the producer’s Hollywood mansion for Veuve Cliquot, single malt whisky, In-N-Out burgers and cold fries.

Mark nearly choked on his champagne when a lady casting agent said to me: “I know you’re an actor, but I’m sure I’ve met you somewhere before.”

Colin and I have had a coughing competition over Christmas and I won, having been diagnosed with bronchitis. But thanks to antibiotics and cough syrup laced with codeine, I battled on and cooked the Christmas feast wearing a surgical mask and plastic gloves so as not to infect the other guests. Colin was so sick he missed Christmas and Boxing Day.

Now, I accept that Julia and I had decided to get each other just a token gift this year and I chose to ignore this agreement, but I gave her: a pair of stylish spectacles (it’s getting harder for her to read the small print), a silk purse filled with quarters as she never has any for parking meters, a table that attaches to her microphone stand for water, shakers, etc., her favorite peppermint bark, loose leaf Earl Grey tea, fancy face cream, and a few other things I’ve forgotten – all beautifully wrapped with matching bows and ribbons.

She gave me… a fridge magnet that reads: “She knew she had a Big Fat Ass and her attitude was “Kiss It!”

Driven to distraction

2010-12-09T09:09:00.000-08:00

When we were kids and went out on a day trip, my brother, sister and I would pretend Dad was our carriage driver and command: “Home, James. And don’t spare the horses.”

So it was especially poignant that the limo taking Julia and myself to The Tonight Show was driven by a man called James. Despite my protestations, James insisted on calling each of us “Ma’am.” It’s just plain wrong that any human being should have to defer to another, but that didn’t stop me asking James to stop texting the studio every five minutes while driving in the fast lane.

He explained that everything is timed down to the last minute and he needed to keep base informed of our progress. We compromised and I did the texting for him.

It’s a big deal to be a guest on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. Every artist with new product to push vies for the music slot. Just Julia and Paul Reiser’s luck to have a record out the same week as Annie Lennox, Bruce Springsteen and Rod Stewart — but they all made the cut that week.

The band had already played through “Unsung Hero” (from Julia and Paul’s album “Unusual Suspects”) twice, then had to wait around several hours for the camera rehearsal. Julia had received her five-minute warning to be in her place. I could tell from the TV screen in our dressing room that the band were already on their marks, including Paul.

Julia’s singing teacher advises performers to keep detached from emotional stories on a gig day, so they can keep in the zone and ease those nerves. Just as Julia was putting on her boots, her manager, Lori, told us about the last episode of The Big C (on Showtime) where the character played by Laura Linney has terminal cancer. Her son found a garage full of gifts and letters for the rest of his life that she wouldn’t be able to give him because she’ll be dead.

I hope Paul, the band and The Tonight Show staff don’t think Julia was being a diva and kept them waiting on purpose, she was just trying to compose herself after sobbing like a baby at the sadness of the story.

It’s been a fantastic, roller-coaster week: The Tonight Show, then two triumphant gigs at The Catalina Jazz Club in Hollywood. When I wasn’t pulling Julia’s boots off after the shows, making her buckets of chamomile tea, flat ironing her hair and feeding her dog (and her neighbor’s dog), I was collecting Marley from school en route to the gig and dropping her off at Grandma’s.

Marley likes to play I Spy. This was the first time she ever beat me. I still can’t believe I didn’t get “sea” as I was driving her along Pacific Coast Highway. Once she had tired of that game we moved on to more philosophical questions. “Do you believe in God?” my favorite five-year-old asked. I side-stepped the issue and marveled at the weather.

My sisterly duties also included dropping off Marley’s friend, Charlotte, aged four. They were discussing, between fits of giggles, how boys like to kiss girls.

Marley: “…and some girls kiss other girls.”

Charlotte (howling with derisive laughter): “No they don’t! Girls can’t kiss other girls!”

Marley: “Yes they can. Girls can marry another girl if they want to.”

Charlotte: “No they can’t! Girls can only marry boys.”

Marley: “They can. Ask Claire. Claire? A girl can marry another girl if she wants to, can’t she?”

Claire: “I spy with my little eye something beginning with S.”

Marley: “Sky.”

Claire: “Correct.”

Creature discomforts

2010-11-08T09:23:00.000-08:00

I am an adventurer. My woman child and I just went to see my man child in Fiji.

From Los Angeles, it’s a 10-hour flight to Suva, the main island, then an hour on an island hopper to Vanua Levu. The landscape is spectacular, lush and verdant. That would be because of the rain.

Day one was heaven on earth. A stroll along the magnificent beach, a swim in the warmest, cleanest water I have ever known and a quick sunbathe, being careful to avoid the shade of a coconut tree. Coconuts fall on people’s heads and kill them.

And then the rains came. Biblical rains. And with the rains came the creatures: mosquitoes, lizards, giant cockroaches, frogs and rats. And power cuts.

There is nothing more disconcerting than being in the dark with the sounds of a rat scratching to get in from the rain and playing tag in the attic with his pal. I was confident one hadn’t actually come into the house until the rat poo in the kitchen and bathroom proved otherwise.

Things became far more bearable once Anita the housekeeper and cook arrived. She is a wonderful Indian Fijian who gets up at four every morning to make food for her husband and children, clean her own house, and then goes to work.

It turns out that Fijians like bones in their food, the more the tastier. Anita’s duck curry included the beak and feet. She also made us the most delicious fish curry, and even here she used the whole fish, head and all. Still, I had to get the recipe, which I reproduced once I got back home (and is set out below). I used fish fillets, though.

My geography isn’t so bad that I didn’t know Fiji is tropical and therefore expected some rain. My children scoffed at the three sets of emergency rainwear I packed and swore blind they would never be seen dead in any such thing, however torrential the rain. Anita saw things much differently and wept tears of joy when I left her my plastic mac. I promised to send more for the rest of her family.

There is so much to love about this place. Nothing seems to bother Fijians. They are always laughing and smiling. I was a little anxious when I first saw a local coming towards me with a machete, until I learned that they all carry them to cut down coconuts. This is a peaceful country. A former British colony, they still celebrate the Queen’s birthday.

Dentists are cheap in Fiji. No disrespect, but it would appear from the number of gappy smiles I saw that Fijian dentists remove teeth rather than fill them. There’s also a lot of diabetes here, due no doubt to the high amounts of sugar they eat.

Most locals live off the land, as fruit and fish are plentiful, so no worries here if you lose your job as you won’t starve. And you’ll never eat a sweeter, better papaya anywhere else in the world. Apparently, the rains that dominated our trip were especially heavy and the weather is usually fabulous.

If money is no object, there’s no shortage of luxury in Fiji. Check out http://www.namalefiji.com/ and www.tuitai.com. After seeing these beautiful places for myself, I have come to a realization.

There’s a difference between being an adventurer and a traveler. A traveler visits distant locations, while an adventurer enjoys taking risks in hazardous and perilous places. Although I endured a cold shower two days in a row (including a hair wash) because of a power cut, I have accepted with no shame that I am more of a Ritz-Carlton kind of girl than a lover of the simple life.

But I couldn’t have had a better traveling companion than my woman child. What didn't bite us, made us even closer. This time spent with my kids was absolutely amazing and precious. My man child said that since we left there’s been no sign of rats.

The day after my woman child left Los Angeles, my pal Sue, who is Al-Jazeera’s Afghanistan correspondent, came for a visit and invited me to go and stay with her in Kabul. If creepy crawlies and cold water are torture for me, I don’t think I’d fare well in a war zone. That would be because I am a traveler, not an adventurer.

ANITA’S FISH CURRY

Ingredients:

2 lbs white fish (filetted!)

Coconut oil

6 lemons

1 onion

1 red chili

Whole garlic bulb (Anita uses a whole bulb. I think half a bulb is enough)

1-inch chunk of peeled fresh ginger

1 tsp masala (use curry powder if you don’t have masala)

1 tsp turmeric

½ tsp toasted cumin seeds crushed in the mortar and pestle

Fresh chopped cilantro (a third of a bunch)

2 cups of water

Recipe:

Squeeze four lemons over the fish
Crush the garlic cloves, chili, fresh ginger and a little salt in a mortar and pestle. It will be lumpy and that’s OK. Use more chilies for a hotter curry.
Rinse the fish. It will still be lemony.
Squeeze two more lemons over the fish. No seeds, that will make it bitter. Sprinkle the masala and turmeric over the fish.
Fry the onion in a big splash of coconut oil until golden brown.
Add the cumin seed and paste mixture of chili, ginger and garlic.
Add the fish. Pour on the fish juices. Cook for five minutes.
Add 2 cups of water for a wet curry. Without the water, it will be a dry curry. Salt to taste.
Add the chopped cilantro and cook for 5-10 minutes, being careful not to overcook the fish.
Serve with rice and roti or naan bread.

S#*! my mum says

2010-09-20T09:03:00.000-07:00

If Oscar Wilde was right and all women become like their mothers, you can forgive me for feeling a little anxious after Mum and Dad’s trip to LA.

Not that they are losing their marbles, far from it, but they have been known to tell the same story several times a day. And the fact they must have the TV on maximum volume (and it’s still not loud enough for them) has done permanent damage to my own ears.

Fearing this might be their last trip, we wanted it to be a memorable one. Julia used her air miles to fly them over Upper Class. Trouble is, having sat in the lap of luxury, they have vowed never to fly any other way.

There are advantages to living in a one bedroom apartment. Mum didn’t want to be at Julia’s in Topanga (she now calls it Satan’s Hills, because the first day we all went there on this trip, it was baking hot and the winding roads made her car-sick), so they stayed in an apartment in Santa Monica. A few years back, before she vowed never to stay in Satan’s Hills again, Mum and Dad stayed with Julia, and have only just got over the shock of coming face to face with a rat, one of the perils of country living.

I had hoped I had met all Mum’s cleanliness needs by having a pair of rubber gloves and a proper dishcloth available, having made the mistake in the past of just supplying a selection of scrubbing sponges for her to choose from. Mum measures success by how clean and tidy someone's home is.

I got it wrong this time as well. Mum needs three dishcloths: one for the kitchen and one for each toilet which she wipes down every day with disinfectant… “That’s why your father and I don’t get diseases.”

Colin and I only moved into our brand spanking new apartment two days before my parents arrived. Every box was unpacked and everything put in its proper place. I knew this would make Mum happy and proud.

During the time we were technically homeless, we loaned our furniture to some friends. Some fleas from their cat had migrated onto the bed and sofa and proceeded to bite me to buggery. Various homemade and natural remedies are being tried to eradicate the problem before we nuke the bastards with the hard stuff.

After days of scratching until I bled and fearing I might lose my mind, I finally found relief with a daily dose of antihistamine. The fact that my mother is aware of the flea situation is an even greater source of irritation. At least I’m no longer homeless.

Mum and Dad’s trip has actually been triumphant on many levels. The main highlight was Julia and Paul Reiser performing the first single, “Unsung Hero,” from their new album, to rapturous applause at a $1000-a-plate charity event in Laguna for wounded warriors. And they got to stay at the swanky Ritz Carlton in Laguna Beach (see picture above).

Watching Mum dance with her youngest grandchild brought a tear to my eye and taking Marley to kindergarten was truly memorable. I have never heard Mum laugh so hard as when Marley and I went through the steps she (Marley) had learned at Princess Ballet. Mum said it was even funnier than the Dawn French ballet sketch with Darcy Bussell. I was not trying to be funny.

My pork chop and apple sauce dinner was another highlight in three weeks of unusually disastrous meals from me. The spicy sausages were a genuine mistake, hot on the heels (if you’ll pardon the pun) of the cottage pie made with tinned tomatoes that I didn’t realize were laced with chilies (honest). “Your father and I don’t like spicy food.”

Ironically, Mum found the “guatemala” Julia made too bland. She meant guacamole. But my all-time favorite miscommunication has been Mum thinking that I said I “make a cake” every day when I actually said I “meditate” every day.

It would not be fair to give the impression that my mother is less than stellar in many ways. This is a woman in her 70s who doesn’t dye her hair, has had no Botox or facelift (she’s never even had a facial), who, if there were only four pieces of cake for her family of five, would say she’s watching her weight and will pass on the cake, even if it’s her favorite.

Her most-uttered phrase is: “Everything in moderation.” I recall her once thoroughly enjoying a raw carrot. When I offered to get her another one she said: “No thank you. I don’t want to get addicted.”

Deeply suspicious of all medication, Mum rarely takes even an aspirin. Because the midwife had the day off when Mum went into labor with Julia, Dad delivered her at home. On his own. My brother and I slept soundly in our rooms throughout as Mum didn’t make a sound.

This stoicism has come in handy for me in particular. Mum had such terrible morning sickness when she was expecting me that her doctor prescribed a new wonder drug, Thalidomide. She wouldn’t take it. She did take a course of antibiotics once when she had severe bronchitis and is currently receiving Vitamin B12 shots for pernicious anemia.

I walked back into our apartment last night, having dropped my folks at the airport and told Colin how annoying it is that Mum and Dad have started to repeat themselves. “If they’ve told me once how disappointed they are about the marine layer at the beach, they’ve told me a hundred times,” I said. Colin replied without looking up from his computer: “Yeah, you told me… about a hundred times.”

This is the Oscar Wilde quote (from The Importance of Being Ernest) in full: All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.

Home sweet home

2010-08-16T09:28:00.000-07:00

For the first time in 10 months, I see light at the end of the tunnel – and not a freight train slamming toward us – as Colin and I prepare to move into our new home. (http://www.thetidesandwatersedge.com/)

I shall spare you the tedious, exhausting details of trying to find the right place that included one apartment in Woodland Hills so close to the 101 we could almost touch it from the bedroom window, or being pipped at the post to the perfect place in Topanga.

At first I thought it was my fault we lost the Topanga place by admitting to the landlord we were both freelance writers. Until I learned it had gone to a drummer and a belly dancer.

We found an even better home, at the beach, where we belong. Well almost at the beach – Marina del Rey, one street away from where we were before. Thanks to Colin working his fingers to the bone writing about cars, we are back in the black, as it were, and finally able to afford our own place again.

As I said to Colin this week, if we can make it through these last 10 months of no fixed abode, our marriage can survive anything. I thanked him for his creative endeavors that are putting a new roof over our heads and food in our bellies, and promised to get a proper job if one of my creative projects doesn’t come to fruition soon. “Any idea when that might be?” he asked.

The trouble with relationships is that the one who earns the most money tends to have the upper hand. But I think the balance of power just tipped back in my favor with this chocolate cake. Colin’s digestive system doesn’t do well with gluten, so I took Marley’s birthday cake recipe and used rice flour instead of wheat. I didn’t have any buttermilk, so used what I had in the fridge – two percent – and it was absolutely delicious, though I say it myself.

Life is about to get even crazier than usual: we’re moving this week, Mum and Dad arrive for three weeks at the end of the month, Julia has a CD coming out and Marley starts kindergarten. Now where did I pack my Bach Flower Rescue Remedy?

Chocolate Cake

Trader Joe’s claims on the front of its cocoa powder that this is the greatest and easiest chocolate cake recipe. I think Joe may be right.

Ingredients

3 & 1/3 cups flour

1 & 1/3 cup cocoa

3 cups sugar

1 tbs baking powder

1 tsp salt

12 ozs softened butter or margarine

3 cups buttermilk

1 tsp vanilla

5 eggs

Recipe

Pre-heat oven to 350
Grease and flour or line with parchment paper 2 x 9’’ round baking pans or line cup cake cups with paper liners.
Place all the ingredients in a large bowl and beat on high speed for 3 minutes, scraping down the sides of the bowl once.
Pour into prepared pans or cupcake cups
Bake cakes for about 55 mins or until a toothpick comes out clean or bake cupcakes for 20-25 minutes. Make sure you halve the mixture evenly or it will overflow the pans.
Sandwich cakes together with your favorite butter cream frosting. Here’s mine:

Vanilla Cream Frosting

Ingredients

3 cups confectioner’s sugar (icing sugar in the UK)

1 cup softened butter (salted)

1 tsp vanilla extract

1-2 tbs cream or milk

Recipe

Whisk together sugar and butter on a low speed till well blended then increase to medium and beat for another 3 minutes.
Add vanilla and cream/milk and continue to beat on medium speed for 1 minute, adding more cream/milk if needed for spreading consistency.

The spirit is willing, the Fleshie's weak

2010-08-10T09:24:00.000-07:00

Julia, along with 3,339 other foreigners, became a U.S. citizen during a swearing-in ceremony at the Los Angeles Convention Center as I and thousands of other family and friends waved our flags and cheered. Not only did she pledge allegiance to the American flag, but she promised to take up arms if required. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

Is it against the law to impersonate an American citizen? My intentions were entirely honorable, your honor. I pretended to be Julia to save her the trouble of being on hold to Virgin Atlantic for seven hours, trying to get our parents upgraded using her air miles.

To confirm that I was indeed one Julia Fordham, the charming and most helpful Virgin representative asked for my date of birth, to which I answered in all honesty: March 10. Which was a shame, because that’s not Julia’s birthday. The Virgin rep said: “That’s not what it says here.” I managed to convince him that I had temporarily forgotten my own birthday and that it is, in fact, August 10.

Then as I confirmed my parents’ names and mine/hers, he wondered – beside himself with glee – if I might be the actual Julia Fordham of singer-songwriter fame and of whom he is the biggest fan with all of her/my records, which he proceeded to list, and wondered if I might sing a few lines from “Girlfriend”?

I thanked him for his kindness, even though there still weren’t any Upper Class upgrade seats available for Mum and Dad’s flight to L.A. and couldn’t get off the phone quick enough. I had broken into a cold sweat and was babbling so much incoherent crap and felt so sick with nerves having almost blown my cover that I wanted to puke blood.

Julia can call Virgin herself next time. But not today, as it’s her birthday. August 10. We’re celebrating quietly this year with afternoon tea – just we sisters, Marley and Marley’s friend, Lily. This birthday morning, Julia is going to hear the first playback of her newly mastered CD, co-written with Paul Reiser. This will be her 11th. She started recording her first album on her 25th birthday and here she is, quite a few years on, still in the music business, and still writing and singing great songs that people want to hear. I am so pleased and so very proud. Happy Birthday, Fleshie! (Our latest and possibly most favorite pet name for each other, as in “flesh and blood”).

Red Hot

2010-07-09T14:14:00.001-07:00

I managed to stop myself eating all these delicious Gaviota strawberries from Harry’s Berries (Santa Monica Farmer’s Market) and saved some for the ice cream recipe below. Gaviota are slightly more expensive, but well worth it. I have been spoiling myself while Colin is away visiting his family in

New Zealand

. He hadn’t seen them since they came over for our wedding four years ago in September. At the time, I recall thanking Colin’s and my parents for living long enough to see us get married. They’re still going pretty strong.

A friend told me this story of a colleague who invited his then recently widowed mother, aged 61, to come and live with him, his wife and young daughters, thinking she would be a most convenient babysitter and probably only last another 10 years. She lived to be 101. This cautionary tale has held me back from suggesting our parents come and live with us.

Not that I don’t like senior citizens, especially Betty White. I spent a few days staying with my sister, Julia, and Tivo’d Hot In Cleveland, Betty’s new sitcom on TV Land. We watched it together and loved it.

Earlier, Julia had been scrolling down the list of recorded programs (looking for a Max and Ruby for Marley) when she came across the Hot In Cleveland and, not having prior knowledge of the show, was mortified, thinking her chap, Arthur, had recorded some porn. If she had known more about Cleveland, she might have realized that it doesn’t lend itself to being an exotic backdrop for erotic goings-on.

We also thoroughly enjoyed the World Cup now England has received their just deserts. I’m rooting for Spain in the final. Talking of just desserts (kind of), here’s a simple but delicious recipe for strawberry ice cream from one of my favorite cooks, Nigel Slater.

Ingredients

1 lb strawberries (Gaviota are the best)

3.5 ozs baker’s sugar

10 fl ozs whipping cream

Recipe

1. Rinse the strawberries, remove the leaves and slice the fruit.

2. Cover them in the sugar and leave for an hour.

3. Whip up the cream until it’s thick enough to lie in folds rather than stand in peaks.

4. Zap the strawberries in a blender.

5. Fold the strawberry puree into the whipped cream, leaving a bit of a ripple.

6. Cover and freeze, checking and stirring the mixture as it freezes, bringing the outside edges into the middle.

Committed

2010-06-21T14:57:00.000-07:00

I love this picture. Yes, that’s Paul McCartney, pre-knighthood, post-MBE, having lunch with my friend Kara Noble (just to the left of the frame). Kara’s parents were very pally with McCartney back in the day and he was a regular visitor to their home on London’s Abbey Road. On this particular occasion, Paul had originally said he couldn’t make the lunch. Then he heard that Jackson Browne was going to be there (sadly, we can only see the back of his head here, but believe me, it’s Jackson). Paul was a big Jackson Browne fan and wanted to meet him. The hand and nose to Kara’s right belong to the man who brought Jackson along, Don Henley of that little combo, The Eagles. Quite the rock-and-roll chick was Kara. Still is.

Call it British reserve, but Kara never mentioned this event to Jackson, or indeed that she had ever met him before when they were sat on the same table at my wedding almost four years ago. But on the subject of saying things to famous people, as well as “I do”, Colin said something else at our wedding he never thought he’d ever utter: “Jackson, this is my dad, Ted.”

I have just finished reading Committed, Elizabeth Gilbert’s follow-up to Eat, Pray, Love. While not as brilliant as her previous book, it’s still worth reading. It’s about the history of marriage and the author, having vowed never again following a hideous and painful divorce, plighting her troth once more .

A therapist friend of Liz’s (her friends call her Liz) says in the book that most of her female clients suffer from a sort of ‘grass is greener’ syndrome, a condition explained thus: all her single patients wish they were married and all her married ones secretly wish they were single. Not me, obviously.

No nuptial is complete without a toast, so here’s the recipe for my favorite cocktail served at our wedding - delicious and so much cheaper than champagne.

Bellini

Ingredients:

Sugar to rim the glass

A wedge of orange (lemon is a tad bitter, but works as a last resort)

Peach juice (Trader Joe’s Dixie Peach is excellent)

Prosecco (Trader Joe’s Zonin is ideal and a very reasonable $5.99 a bottle)

2 fresh raspberries per glass

Recipe:

Wipe the rim of the champagne flute with the orange flesh.
Dip the glass in a saucer of sugar.
Pour an inch of peach juice in the glass.
Top up with prosecco.
Place 2 raspberries in the glass.
Clink glasses with your beloved and say (as Colin and I still do with every alcoholic beverage): “To us.”

They wrote the songs...

2010-06-15T08:59:00.000-07:00

I hate to name-drop, but pull up a chair: Neil Sedaka, Stephen Bishop, Paul Reiser, Tony Orlando, Julia Fordham. And here are some names you’ve probably never heard of: Charles Fox, Dean Pitchford, Mac Davis and L. Russell Brown, yet they’ve written some of the biggest hit songs and theme tunes ever, like Killing Me Softly, Fame, Footloose, Tie A Yellow Ribbon, In The Ghetto.

They were all on the same bill at LA’s Wadsworth Theater last night for The Songs Of Our Lives, songs performed by the people who wrote them, in aid of www.fulfillment.org, a most worthy charity that helps young people realize their dream of a college education.

I am still on a high from the sheer brilliance of the evening. Tony Orlando, the only non-composer on the bill, paid homage to all songwriters who have touched our hearts and kept him in business for 50 years, especially L. Russell Brown who co-wrote most of his hits.

You might be wondering why actor/comedian Paul Reiser is mentioned in this esteemed songwriting company. Not a lot of people know this, but Paul actually majored in music and has co-written an album of great songs with my brilliant sister, Julia Fordham. The album is currently being mixed, as we say in the biz, and will be available in stores and for download on a website near you in the fall. Paul also hosted the evening and, as if it were possible, is even higher in my estimation for having made a, shall we say, mostly “mature” audience laugh heartily at his hilarious monologue that included the word “cocksucker.”

Here’s a trailer for NBC’s The Paul Reiser Show that will be broadcast early next year. Top telly.

Stand by your meringue

2010-06-03T13:56:00.001-07:00

The perfect day, for me, involves good food and conversation with family and friends. Ideally, a game of tennis will be involved but this Memorial Day, once we’d raised a glass to our fallen and serving troops, we played cricket with some English pals in our hosts’ garden under a warm Californian sun.

I tucked my skirt up into my knicker legs and assumed the wicket keeper position for our team. No catches, but I did score a couple of runs before being bowled out.

Julia, Arthur and Marley went to Mexico for the long weekend. “Are they stark raving mad?” asked a fellow cricketer when I told him they’d gone to Rosarita, a resort just over the border. “Three years ago, the chief of police was beheaded there by drug runners,” he said.

Everyone had a Mexico horror story to share so I was relieved when Julia called that night to say they were home safe and sound and had a fantastic time.

My contribution to the Memorial Day feast this side of the border was a traditional English trifle with homemade custard, plus some meringues. I usually make meringues when I make trifle as it’s an ideal way to use up the egg whites left over from the custard. Meringues are gluten free, sublime and simple to make so long as you have parchment or baking paper and an electric whisk.

Ingredients:

Six large egg whites

12 ozs of caster sugar (granulated or baking sugar in the US) – 2ozs per egg white for a smaller batch. Six egg whites will make about 20 small like the ones pictured.

1 pint whipped cream

Recipe:

1. Pre-heat an oven to 250.

2. Line a baking tray or two with parchment or baking paper – greaseproof paper won’t do.

3. Whisk the egg whites together in a large bowl until they form stiff peaks.

4. Fold in the sugar or whisk in on low.

5. Take a tablespoonful of the mixture and place onto the tray using another spoon to ease it off. You can make lots of little ones or two giant plate-size ones and sandwich them together with cream and your favorite fruit. Or cover one with whipped cream and fruit for a classic Pavlova. I think making two large ones into a cake looks most spectacular. Just remember to spread both sides with cream.

6. Cook for two hours. Thanks to the parchment paper they’ll come off easily once they’ve cooled for five minutes. Sandwich two together with whipped cream and arrange on your best plate. Stand by to become very popular indeed.

Party favors

2010-05-25T11:09:00.001-07:00

Marley was very clear what she wanted for her fifth birthday party: a chocolate cake with pink frosting and sprinkles like the one at the beginning of kids’ cartoon Max and Ruby, cup cakes, a bouncy castle, face painting, a nail salon, a pinata, the girls to dress up as princesses, and positively, absolutely no boys.

Wise beyond her years, Marley asked me to make the cake. Julia (Marley’s mum) says in her defense: “I have other skills.” My responsibilities didn’t end there. I was also in charge of bellinis for the mums, pass-the-parcel, musical statues, bubbles and washing up.

I found a chocolate cake recipe on the side of a Trader Joe’s cocoa powder tin that claimed to be easiest and best. It should also have said biggest. It took me fifteen minutes to prepare and two hours to clean the kitchen. The walls and cupboards looked like a Jackson Pollack painting by the time I’d finished whisking. Add another two hours to clean the oven, because the cake mixture flowed over the tops of the tins.

I had forgotten how much mess icing sugar makes when whisking it with butter to make frosting, and how few drops of red food coloring are required to make it pink. I had a devil of a job spreading the frosting with a knife, so resorted to using my hands to slap it on. They’re still pink.

I arrived at party central to find Marley’s dad sawing up the tree he’d had to cut down to make room for the bouncy castle.

No dramas during the party. Apart from when the bouncy castle collapsed. Twice. The plug had come out of its socket, but everyone got out before any of them suffocated. There were a few suspicious glances when the kid who won pass-the-parcel was the daughter of the lady in charge of stopping the music.

In keeping with my determination to be more adventurous in part two of my life, I had my face painted and jumped up and down like a crazy fool on the bouncy castle. Here I am with Marley’s other aunt, Irena, who was in charge of face painting, the nail salon and cup cakes. Fab photos of the party are by Marley’s godmother, Susanna Bech Young. While godmother is quite an important role, it’s not blood. The cake, by the way, was blinking delicious.

Eat, Pray, Lunch

2010-03-29T08:39:00.000-07:00

Let me make this quite clear, I am not aligning myself with the Tea Baggers. I was all for universal health care until I realized (once the law was passed and I had stopped clapping and cheering to read the small print) that the fundamental way of bringing this about is to make health insurance compulsory come 2014.

The reason I and 45 million other permanent residents don’t have health insurance is because we can’t afford it. And if we can’t afford it now, what makes the government believe we’ll be able to then? I shall watch with interest to see how Barry makes that one work. Barry, I learned from a man who went to college with him, is how Barack Obama’s fellow students addressed him.

Back to health care (mine). I have always believed that prevention is best. Rule number one if you want to up the chances of a long and healthy life: don’t smoke. My friend Dr. Suzanne Donovan told me years ago that she would never marry a smoker as she knew she would spend their last 20 years together looking after him as his health declined. I don’t smoke, drink plenty of water, alcohol in moderation, eat sensibly, take regular aerobic exercise, meditate and do yoga. And I’m fortunate enough to have good genes.

If I get cancer or a serious health issue (positive thinking, another good health tip), I’d go back to England for treatment. This will spare America the time, trouble and expense of taking care of me, or me going bankrupt to pay for it here.

While trawling the internet for confirmation that my theory to rinse your mouth with peroxide once a week is brilliant and far cheaper than using those hideous and expensive teeth whitening guards whose one ingredient is… peroxide, I found another health tip: oil pulling. The idea is to swill a gob full of sunflower oil around in your mouth (in and out of the teeth) for 10 to 20 minutes a day, as soon as you wake up, to ward off and supposedly cure all sorts of diseases, including cancer. While I am unable to do it (it makes me gag), Colin is oil pulling religiously every day, much to my revulsion. Seeing or hearing him in the process sends me rushing to the bathroom to vomit. Let’s see who lives the longest. It has certainly improved his tennis. He beat me yesterday for only the second time in our history.

A useful tip for Barry and Co. over in Washington to keep the nation happy and healthy: give everyone a job. My temporary job as a researcher/producer on a TV special has brought me joy, a feeling of purpose and a pay check that has made me feel so much better in general. I love being part of a community where people bring in cup cakes (not so good for the figure) and bagels on a Friday. There’s even wine on Friday afternoons, but I’ve had to stop partaking. After just one glass, I mistakenly deleted a column of important information on my Excel spreadsheet I had spent days working on and was unable to restore. It all worked out in the end, but the stress did nothing for my blood pressure.

It was my birthday earlier in the month. I had intended not to mention it to my colleagues what with me being so much older than everyone else, but then decided what the hell. I gave the game away by saying “birthday girl” every time I answered the phone.

My lovely lady colleagues took me out for a slap-up lunch and I got to wear the office birthday hat (see above). My Woman Child sent me flowers, my Man Child and husband bought me a massage from Burke Williams. No birthday party this year, but a check for Colin came in just in time to justify a dinner for two at Chaya Venice, one of our favorite restaurants. I didn’t have the heart to tell Colin I was still full from my late lunch at Tony’s Taverna in Malibu and had to force down the delicious blackened cod, but I was very happy.

Home thoughts from a broad

2010-02-15T07:52:00.000-08:00

I had forgotten how hard work is. It’s been over ten years since I toiled in a hectic television newsroom and, while my new job as a producer/researcher on a TV show is nothing like as stressful, the hours are bloody long.

Up at seven every morning and not home until 9.30pm sometimes. One night, I asked out loud: “Haven’t you people got homes to go to?” To which Jason, the VT editor, replied: “Well you certainly haven’t.” It’s funny because it’s true.

I made the mistake of telling my co-worker that Colin and I have sub-let our apartment, and moved in with friends to re-group financially. But things are looking up as 2010 continues to bring good fortune.

Not least the fact that our Green Cards have arrived, and Colin and I are now proud permanent residents of the United States of America. Everyone is thrilled for us, apart from my mum who thinks this means I am no longer British and she will never see me again.

Colin has started saying elevator, ’erb and sidewalk, and can’t stop smiling. That may be because I have a proper job with pay. And he was offered three writing commissions yesterday. There has definitely been a cosmic shift. In a good way.

My boss said I could work from home for a few days, which made me very happy indeed. The downside is that I don’t get to hang around the water cooler with my colleagues and miss gems like this:

Jason: “I had a great time filming in New Orleans, went to a gay club…”
Tia: “Why did you go to a gay club?”
Jason: “A couple of reasons… one being I’M GAY!”
Tia: “Oh, I had no idea. Well, of course, that’s fine.”
Claire: “Are you in a relationship?”
Jason: ‘No, unfortunately.”
Claire: “What sort of guy are you attracted to? So I can keep my eyes and ears open.”
Jason: “I really fancy that guy in Prison Break.”
Tia: “He’s not gay, he’s British.”

I have a gift for saying the wrong thing myself. Our roomies were hosting a dinner party and I was busy chatting to a guest and her African-American (it’s relevant) boyfriend. I told them Colin and I were about to move to another friend’s fabulous place at the beach as he is away for a while, and how lucky we’ve been to have access to some incredible places rent-free. She suggested we carry on like this as long as possible. I said: “No, we want our own place again as soon as possible. I don’t want people to think we’re liggers.”

She was outraged and mortified and sidled up to comfort her boyfriend, convinced I had dropped the N-bomb. I managed to stop her putting on her coat and collecting her purse by apologizing profusely and explaining (stuttering) that, in England, a ligger is someone who sponges off other people.

Part of me is wishing I was in London so I could go and see the fabulous singer-songwriter Judith Owen at the Purcell Room on the South Bank on Friday, Feb 26th at 7.45pm. Special guests: Claire Martin, Ian Shaw, Harry Shearer and Danny Thompson. For tickets and more info www.southbankcentre.co.uk

My head is and always will be in England, because I know the proper way to spell color is colour, while theater and center should be spelled theatre and centre. And butter is not pronounced “budder.”

Desert Song

2010-01-19T09:04:00.001-08:00

Julia and I listened to the Susan Boyle CD during our two-and-a-half-hour drive to the desert. We were surprised how bloody good it was. Then we put in Barbra Streisand’s new CD. We didn’t get to hear all of it as there are 35 tracks. Note to Barbra: you can have too much of a good thing. I mention our road trip listening pleasure on the way to the Palm Springs Film Festival to give some idea of the type of ear candy Julia and I prefer.

We were meeting our great pals, Lori and Joan, at Lori’s dad and stepmother’s fabulous pile in Palm Springs. Lori currently prefers The Black-eyed Peas and Lady Gaga wherever she goes ‒ really loudly and constantly, so all conversation was shouted and there was much asking each other to repeat what was just said. Five years have passed since the four of us used to hang and travel together on a regular basis (BM: Before Marley).

Later, in a restaurant, Lori was taking forever to decide on a bottle of wine. Joan opened her hands in wonderment at such protracted indecision. Julia saw Joan’s opened hands and wrongly assumed (more loud music in the restaurant) that Joan wanted to say Grace, so took mine and Lori’s hand until we were all linked, heads bowed waiting for someone to start the prayer and wondering why no one had mentioned that Joan had found the Lord since we were last together.

An amazing and beautiful 86-year-old lady hosted a cocktail party for The Making Of Plus One…before its world premiere at the film festival (Cannes didn’t count as a premiere; that, apparently, was just a screening).

I spoke to the venerable woman’s sixty-something daughter who told me she had seen a couple of good films at the festival as well as some terrible ones, including one foreign entry where she walked out, because it was “nothing but fornication and human defecation.” Holy fucking shit.

Director Mary McGuckian told us the exciting news that she had secured distribution for the film. It involves a new distribution model where the movie is released in a different state every month. More on this as details come in. I guess it’s to avoid paying out $25,000 for each print of the film for every theatre.

My group agreed to meet Mary, Jennifer Tilly and Michael Eckland at the red carpet outside the Regal Cinema where our film was being screened, but we couldn’t find the red carpet, what with there not being one. More wishful thinking on our part.

The screening went well, a packed cinema filled with people who paid for their seats, laughed in the right places and applauded at the end. I won’t lie to you, the film’s not Avatar, but a pleasing romp through the trials and tribulations of getting a movie made. As I said during the Q & A, it’s a miracle that any film ever gets made at all, let alone released, and this has been the most amazing adventure for me.

The next morning, Julia and I went for a walk and wandered onto a beautiful golf course. We kept to the path and marveled at the glorious scenery. However, we soon learned from the course marshal who came chasing after us that the path was not for walking, but for carts, and we were lucky not to have been killed by a golf ball. Ironically, we were on the cell phone telling our dad (who is president of Hayling Golf Club) about our weekend’s adventure just as we were escorted off the course.

Play Mitzi for me

2010-01-13T13:56:00.000-08:00

I don’t know about you, but 2010 has got off to a cracking start. This may be because I am a Pisces and this, allegedly, is going to be our year. http://www.susanmiller.com/forecasts/monthly/pisces_full.php

This is excellent news because, frankly, 2009 sucked. The Making Of Plus One… screening at the Cannes Film Festival and my dad’s 80th birthday party were the highlights of a year drowning in lows.

As one door closed, another was slammed in my face. And then another. Until finally Colin and I had to sub-let our apartment and move in with friends to re-group financially. Despite being a normally robust and positive soul, the year’s rejections and disappointments almost brought me to my knees with stress-related illnesses and chronic insomnia. So much so that I looked like I had been hit by the ugly stick and felt like shit.

My misery was compounded when a friend of the same age suddenly looked 10 years younger than me, thanks to a $10,500 facelift.

Arthur, the acupuncturist and Chinese herbalist, came to my rescue (he’s also my sister Julia’s other half). He brought me back to the land of the living and the remotely attractive.

So, before you submit to the knife, might I suggest you try Arthur’s acupuncture facelift? He can cure other ills at the same time. That’s me above with Colin on New Year’s Eve. Not bad for almost 55, though I say it myself. Thanks to good genes, I only needed eight sessions; most would need 12 at $85 a pop. Arthur’s offices are in Woodland Hills: 818 999 0300 or naturalmeddoc@gmail.com. I am proud to be his poster girl.

Back to 2010. My children were here and it was the best Christmas and New Year ever. In the first week of January, I was offered some research work on a network TV show. My work was so well received that I have been offered a producer job on the show (a one-off) for real money.

Julia and I are going to Palm Springs this weekend for the film festival with two of our bestest friends ever, Lori Leve and Joan Scheibel, where The Making Of Plus One… is being screened. Two extra screenings have been arranged because the one at The Regal on Saturday at 6.30pm is sold out. And there are parties, parties, parties.

A producer has offered $1.5 million partial funding to make the movie Plus One actually based on my book using my script. The fabulous Academy Award nominee Jennifer Tilly has read my script, loves it, and agreed to play the Mitzi character.

Another 11 months like this please, Cosmos.

Palm Springs Eternal

2009-12-21T09:55:00.000-08:00

The Palm Springs Film festival has just announced : we are happy to be presenting THE MAKING OF PLUS ONE as a world premiere at the 21st Palm Springs International Film Festival and have scheduled it for the following date: 1/16/2010 SAT EVE - 6:30 pm Regal Palm Springs. Wahoooooooooooooooo!

Ladies Night

2009-12-14T12:47:00.000-08:00

Mary McGuckian — the writer, director and producer of The Making Of Plus One... — has been honored by WIFTS (Women’s International Film & Television Showcase) with a Career Achievement award.

Actors Jennifer Tilly, Amanda Plummer, Donna D’Errico, Lothaire Bluteau and I were there to cheer her on. Mary’s big moment came at the very end, after more than three hours of award-giving. By that time, I confess, we were nearly losing the will to live. Mary received a roar of gratitude from the audience for promising to keep her acceptance speech short.

The event was held at the upscale Andaz hotel on Sunset Boulevard and, apart from going on way too long, it was an uplifting evening with some incredible women being lauded. Like Betty Markoni, who has helped tens of thousands of women in her native Zimbabwe fight back against sexual exploitation, poverty and violence. It’s a commonly held belief among Zimbabwean men with AIDS that they will be cured if they have sex with a virgin, usually against her will.

Betty helps these girls and women find their voice. She provides counseling, rehabilitation and somewhere safe to live. Betty rightly received the WIFTS Humanitarian award. There’s an amazing documentary about her work, Tapestries Of Hope.

Art and artifice

2009-11-09T08:43:00.000-08:00

Top of my wish list for physical improvement is a smaller (much smaller), pert bottom. But this is closely followed by decent eyebrows. I hate mine. They are too thin and one of them isn’t nearly long enough.

I was in Beverly Hills for a screening of The Making Of Plus One… the mockumentary inspired by my book and in which I have a cameo role. Fearing that filmgoers might judge my pathetic brows, and as I was in the hood, I visited the premises of one Anastasia. Not only is she the world’s most expensive eyebrow plucker, Anastasia sells a range of products to give us eyebrows to be proud of.

An assistant offered to demonstrate their most popular products. The screening was in an hour and I was thrilled at the chance to look like a film star. She found a template of the perfect brow for me after measuring angles and doing various calculations. I loved it that she was taking my plight so seriously.

Twenty minutes and $122 later, I left the store with Anastasia’s Essential Brow Kit and the thickest eyebrows since Joan Crawford. I had been feeling very guilty about the expense of the ’brow kit because Colin and I have been on a “is it a want or a need?” regimen, as recommended by financial guru Suze Orman.

My mood was cheered by attending the star-studded BAFTA/LA Britannia awards with filmmaker Mary McGuckian as her plus one. The highlight for me was Kirk Douglas singing ‘Maybe It’s Because I’m a Londoner’ after he was presented with an award by Arnold Schwarzenegger for his contribution to film entertainment. Also honored were Robert De Niro, Colin Firth, Emily Blunt and Danny Boyle. Stephen Fry did a great job hosting and Ben Stiller gave a funny speech presenting Robert de Niro’s award. I suspect Colin Firth regrets asking Minnie Driver to present his.

The best night of the week for me was watching DV8 Physical Theatre’s astonishing performance at Royce Hall with some dear old friends. Back in the day, Julia shared a council flat in Camden with Angie Giles (another great singer/songwriter) and Lloyd Newson. Lloyd was a dancer who went on to achieve international acclaim as DV8’s artistic director and choreographer. Lloyd and Angie had been introduced by Angie’s brother, designer Steven Giles. Check out Steven’s store, www.baseworld.com.

Angie and Steven are pictured above at the DV8 show with Julia, who had to borrow my glasses to read the program.

I remember visiting their London flat and first glimpsed the artistic life. I knew then that the four of them were extraordinary people leading extraordinary lives and how honored I felt to even be in the same room as them.

Steven and Angie flew in from Miami for the show and we have had an incredible reunion, catching up and reminiscing. I won the prize for “most creative irons in fires.” Who spotted the unintentional gay pun? I tried ‘fingers in pies’ but that sounded worse.

Not so easy street....

2009-11-02T08:28:00.000-08:00

My producing partner and I have shot the sizzle reel for my reality TV show idea. The shoot couldn’t have gone better. Two weeks to edit, then her agent and my manager can try and sell it.

While we were out filming, a pleasant-looking man of about 30 walked into the frame and sat down nearby. This turned out to be a happy accident from our point of view, so I asked him if he’d be so kind as to do it again. He told me he would be happy to help. As we walked back to the others, he said he was homeless and asked if I could spare a couple of bucks for some food? I gave him five.

The wonderful singer/songwriter Celia Chavez referred to a book by Steven Pressfield, The War of Art, in her blog. Celia wrote:

"The premise of this book is that resistance is a creative person’s tireless and impersonal nemesis, and you have to resign yourself to battle it. You will encounter the worst and most heartbreaking obstacles around that which you are most called to do. It defines the different forms resistance takes and recommends that an artist hunker down and assume the mentality of a professional soldier in an endless conflict."

Most people who achieve success would agree that luck plays a part. Maybe they were in the right place at the right time, or knew someone who knew someone who could help or guide them. Yes, it’s a battle at times, but the harder we work, the luckier we are. And the ones who make it are the ones who don’t give up.

Getting warmer

2009-10-12T08:00:00.000-07:00

There is movement on “The Making Of Plus One…” front. The L.A. push begins this month. There’ll be a screening for family and friends at the William Morris Endeavor agency on October 22^nd at 6pm to start a word-of-mouth buzz within the industry.

On October 26^th at 7.30pm at the Harmony Gold theatre on Sunset, BAFTA/LA is holding a screening for its members, followed by a Q & A with director Mary McGuckian and the cast (including me).

The movie will also be premiered to selected press at the AFI/AFM at the Fairmont in Santa Monica at 5pm on November 4^th.

RSVP to screenings: info@pembridgepictures.com

Here’s the trailer:

I had a meeting with a top talent manager last week who wants to represent me and is confident she can get me my own TV show. I’ll tell you how successful she is: she just secured a $7 million dollar deal for one of her clients and it costs $24.50 to park for less than an hour at her fancy offices on Century Park East.

Habit forming

2009-09-10T10:55:00.000-07:00

Just had a long phone chat with Mary McGuckian, the writer/producer/director of The Making Of Plus One…

Here’s the latest scoop. It will be properly premiered at the American Film Market early November, located very conveniently just up the road from me in Santa Monica, followed by a BAFTA/LA screening later in the month. Then WIFTS (Women in Film and Television Society) will honor Mary and her brilliant film-making skills and screen the movie in Los Angeles at the end of November.

Mary has just returned to France, after spending two weeks in the Italian monastery where St. Benedict once lived, writing a sequel to The Making Of… (I just re-read this line and want to make it clear that it is Mary, not St. Benedict, who has written the sequel). It wasn’t so long ago, while she was going through the hell of financing, filming, editing, refinancing and trying to sell The Making Of… while coping with the ensuing mental and physical debilitation, that Mary told she would never make another film. Now she wants to go through the whole process again. That woman has metaphorical balls of steel.

Before finalizing distribution for The Making Of Plus One Starring Cate, Kate and George, The Story Of A Hollywood Nobody and reimbursing those financiers, Mary is now working on another ‘mockumentary’ featuring the same stellar cast (including, ahem, Julia and me). This time it’s about trying to get a distribution deal for Plus One... The opening scene will be a bunch of industry types yawning at the end credits of the three-and-a-half-hour director’s cut of a (pretend) movie based on my book. It will be shot entirely in Los Angeles.

I am not going to even try explaining this to my parents.

It's in the stars

2009-05-25T08:25:00.000-07:00

I am back from Cannes and the most amazing time. The first night was a spectacular party on the company yacht of one of the film’s producers. Our party was by far the most happening of all along the jetty. Really.

The Making Of Plus One Starring Kate, Cate and George, The Story Of A Hollywood Nobody was indeed screened, but not without some drama. It was a packed cinema full of invited guests. I was introduced as the author of the original book, some of the cast was there who also took a bow then the lights dimmed. Surely, the most exciting and nerve-wracking moment in any film maker's life.

Five minutes in and the picture disappeared from the screen. The new digital projector had crashed. It started again after the longest three minutes of my life. Then it crashed again. This time the audience was getting restless. You could feel it in the room that the famously impatient Cannes moviegoers were about to leave. The director and producer had raced upstairs to the projection room, the associate producer (a man) was crying. I knew something had to be done to stop people leaving so I stood up, pulled out the copy of my stars from the day before's Daily Mail (May 16th) that I had torn out from the paper on the flight over and read the following: (I am not making this up!). I'm Pisces by the way:

“Lights, camera action… roll ’em! Here comes another dramatic scene in the action-packed adventure movie of your life. Another roller coaster ride to take you high up to the breathtaking mountain of glorious expectation and then send you hurtling towards the deep, dark valley of disappointment. Another heart-pounding, jaw-clenching nerve-wracking experience. How worried should you be? About as worried as you get when you go to watch a film projected on the silver screen. Or when you climb aboard a ride at the fair. Things are more under control than you imagine. A cosmic hand is guiding you now, towards a truly pleasing future.”

It brought the house down. Nobody left. The director and the producer feared everyone would have gone when they came back into the theatre, but people were laughing and chatting. Astrologer Jonathan Cainer and I had saved the day. The movie started up, everyone stayed and seemed to enjoy it. You can't fake these things. There were no distributors in the audience who might have bought it - little business has been done at this year's festival, but there's been massive buzz and the producers are now taking it to Los Angeles to screen here.

For me, the most enduring lesson in all of this is that the process to fund and complete a feature film is phenomenally tough. Any movie that makes its way into production should be commended for its very existence, whether it receives critical acclaim or not.

Dad says his 80th birthday was his best ever. Julia’s UK gigs were triumphant sell outs. Both venues said they could have sold out three shows. I’m glad Julia was in Japan and missed Cannes as I think she might have broken down and wept when she heard the song she wrote especially for the film over the end credits. Her beautiful ballad had been massacred into the most heinous thumping disco beat. Not sure whose idea that was but it was a crap one.

All in all a brilliant trip, another reminder that a life lived well is one filled with love and fun times with family and friends. My Cannes experience wouldn’t have been half as much fun if my pals Diane Aldred, Sheran James and Levi Freeman (pictured above) weren’t there to share it with me.

Yes, we Cannes!

2009-04-10T12:51:00.000-07:00

I am writing this on my new laptop, a Toshiba, that my Man Child bought me for my birthday. I think I might have had more children if I’d realized they could one day provide so generously for me.

It has been a rollercoaster few weeks. Colin and I house- and dog-sat for some friends whose fabulous place is right under the Hollywood sign off Beachwood. Our charge, Delilah, had a bladder infection that involved the need for a doggy diaper. I was sorely tempted to take a photo and show you how funny she looked, but decided against it in case Delilah’s owners sued me or, worse, didn’t ask us to stay there again for ridiculing their beloved bulldog/pit bull. Yes, that’s right, half pit bull – the great white of the canine family.

Many dog lovers think the pit bull has a bad press (certainly Delilah is a sweetheart who never barks), but not a friend who turned up for dinner with her toddler, took one look at Delilah and called a babysitter to come and get the kid.

The next weekend, Colin was invited to the launch of the new Audi Q5. He looked at me over the top of his own laptop (a Mac) and wondered if I might like to go as his plus one. I politely declined until I learned the launch was an all-expenses-paid weekend at The Biltmore in Santa Barbara. I have dreamed of staying there.

It was everything I hoped and more. Margaritas (fancy ones with Cointreau) by the pool, amazing food, endless champagne, a cruise, tennis on the astroturf court, croquet, a suite, matching bathrobes, a mountain bike ride along the coast and staff – lots of staff. This is where I belong, I thought.

Having tasted and enjoyed living in the lap of luxury, you can understand how excited I am that ‘The Making Of Plus One…’ is being launched at the Cannes Film Festival on May 17. It was screened for the selection committee yesterday but canny director Mary McGuckian has hired a cinema to launch it there with a big fanfare whether it gets into the competition or not. With some 3,000 films competing for 16 slots, the chances are slim.

And I got paid the movie money I’ve been waiting for and assured was coming for almost a year. There was much rejoicing in our small but perfectly formed apartment when the money was wired into our account. This was an important moment both psychologically and practically.

I have booked my flights and will be staying in a lovely little hotel my friend Sheran found (and has sworn me to secrecy as to its location). She and another great friend, Diane, are also flying to Cannes to share this amazing trip with me. Julia will miss it because she has gigs in Japan, but she wrote a song for the movie and she’s in it for about five minutes.

Here’s a link to a trailer for the film. The distributor, New Films International, has retained the services of a top PR firm, DDA, to promote it. ‘The Making Of Plus One…’ sets things up nicely for the movie actually based on the book. I shall be armed with copies of the book and my adapted script, and will be in Cannes networking shamelessly to sell said wares.

Whatever happens, this has been a wonderful adventure and Mary McGuckian has pulled off a series of miracles to get our little movie funded, finished and set for its big launch.

The luck of the Irish (or Kiss Me Kate)

2009-02-20T15:08:00.000-08:00

Trying to be a success in Tinseltown has been described as swimming with sharks. I think it’s more like swimming with sharks in a sea of bullshit.

But yesterday I felt like a winner. The gods were with me, all my ducks were in a row, Mercury was not in retrograde… you get the picture.

The day started with a letter from the brilliant Augusten Burroughs, the number-one New York Times bestselling author of ‘Running With Scissors’, ‘Dry’ and ‘Magical Thinking.’ I had asked Augusten and anyone else I know who is at the top of their game to write me a letter of reference in support of my Green Card application.

Colin thought someone had died and came running (not with scissors) into the living room when he heard my sobs. I was crying, not from grief, but deep, deep gratitude that someone as busy and successful as Augusten would take the time to write a long letter that ended: “It is precisely Claire’s rare combination of remarkable talent coupled with her shirt-sleeves-rolled-up willingness to work as hard as she can for as long as it takes – a truly American quality – which enables me to strongly recommend – without any hesitation – the swift approval of her visa application. Claire is a tremendous asset to our literary and entertainment economies. We must not – and cannot afford – to let her go.”

Then I beat Tracey at tennis. Yes, she had a shoulder injury and a bad ankle, but I won.

There’s more. Mary McGuckian (the Irish director of The Making Of Plus One) copied me on an email she had sent to Hylda Queally at CAA who represents Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet and who, last night, was honored by the US-Ireland Alliance. Mary told Hylda I would be there and to look out for me. Kate, who’s been repped by Hylda since she was 16, presented Hylda with the prestigious award, which is how I was in the same room as Kate Winslet.

I was there as the plus one of the gorgeous Sonya Macari, an Irish actress who played one of Anne Boleyn’s ladies-in-waiting on ‘The Tudors.’ The presentation was supposed to be at 7.30pm, but the hundreds of us who were sitting patiently waiting for a glimpse of Kate had to wait until 8.15 before the last VIP, one Tracey Ullman, was seated. Neither of us knew the other was going to be there. Tracey stopped to chat with me on the way to the front of the room. Which is why I think so many people subsequently gave me their business cards because they assumed I must be important.

I didn’t go up to Hylda or Kate and introduce myself as they were always surrounded by hoards of people. I can tell you that Kate looked absolutely stunning and positively skinny – as did Hylda. I read in ‘People’ magazine (so it must be true) that Kate doesn’t watch what she eats or exercise at all. If she hasn’t been exercising, she must have had lipo. She is perfection and so hot right now, and can play me in the movie based on my book, ‘Plus One: A Year In The Life Of A Hollywood Nobody’ if she wants.

I have a good ‘in’ with Kate – both our daughters are called Mia (it's a sign!) and I have her agent's email address. Then I spotted Harvey Weinstein, but he didn’t stay long enough for me to ask him if he had any problem with me calling my film production company MiaMax (after my two children).

It really was a fabulous evening. Just as I was leaving my chum, Patricia Danaher, who writes for ‘The Irish Times’ among many other prestigious newspapers shouted out that she’d get my letter of reference to me on Monday. She’s a member of the Hollywood Foreign Press and a Harvard scholar. I reckon with Augusten’s letter, Patricia’s letter, the others I have and one from Tracey who’s won eight Emmys and countless other awards, I could be elected Pope, let alone get a Green Card.

Why can’t they clone Clooney?

2009-02-11T16:41:00.000-08:00

For the first time in seven years, my hairdresser didn’t ask me to remind him which side I part my hair. Then I went The Omelet Parlor for lunch where I’ve been ordering two poached eggs on a toasted English muffin for almost ten years and was finally greeted as a favorite and regular customer.

I was so excited at the possibility that I might actually matter that I stepped outside my comfort zone and ordered the chicken tacos. And very nice they were too.

The next day it was off to the ER set on the Warner Brothers lot in Burbank where Eriq La Salle and Noah Wyle (Doctors Benton and Carter) were filming their scenes in this the final series of my all-time favorite TV drama.

John Wells, the Executive Producer of the show wrote and directed this episode. I was sat right behind him with his wife - my great friend, Marilyn. I had my own director’s chair and set of headphones.

For one glorious moment I thought I was going the week before, when Gorgeous George was filming his guest appearance on the show that made him famous, but it was a closed set for the obvious reason that women like me might try and touch him. The fact remains: I am one degree of separation from George Clooney and not a lot of people can say that.

The final edit of The Making Of Plus One is in post production in Toronto. The plan is to get our little movie into the Cannes Film Festival in May. Even if it isn’t accepted into the festival (as if!), Mary McGuckian has booked a theatre in Cannes so it WILL be premiered there. Incidentally, the full title of the movie about trying to get my book made into a film is The Making Of Plus One Starring Kate Winslet, Cate Blanchett and George Clooney.

The Making Of Plus One… sets things up nicely for a film actually based on my book. Wouldn’t it be amazing if art imitates life and Kate, Cate and George star in it? My hope is that there’s a big enough buzz about The Making Of Plus One… that a big studio will come knocking and want to option my book then commission a script based on it. I’ll whip out my screenplay and say: “Here’s one I prepared earlier!” and laugh all the way to the bank.

The Cannes Film Festival is very conveniently around the same time as our Dad’s 80^th birthday so Julia, Marley and I have already booked our flights to London. Julia may not make it to Cannes as she’s been invited to sing at The Blue Note in Japan for real money. Julia asked me to go with her to Japan from England to help with Marley while she sings two shows a night for five nights. Sorry, Sis, I’m going to Cannes! My daughter is first reserve to go to Japan instead of me.

Just when you think life can’t get any better, I returned home from the ER set to learn the joyous news that some outstanding invoices that Colin and I had abandoned all hope would be paid, have been paid.

Bum’s rush

2009-01-14T11:34:00.000-08:00

I’ve been trying to kick my caffeine habit for a couple of years. I gave up tea and switched to coffee, one cup in the morning, but it seems to be enough caffeine to keep me awake for hours at night. The chance to spend a week house-sitting on my favorite street in Santa Monica where I used to live with Julia seemed the ideal opportunity to eat nothing but healthy food and drink no alcohol or coffee. Cold turkey. I’d have my own creative space as well. Brilliant.

Colin would be just up the road in our apartment and we could meet for dinner. But the best laid plans… the fridge in my holiday home was full of fancy cakes left over from a party. There were three bottles of expensive wine with a note attached: “Please enjoy these.” One of the bottles was open with just an inch missing. It was too tempting. I’d start again the next day.

On the first morning, I stepped onto the porch and bent down to pick up the newspaper, forgetting the cord was broken on my favorite baggy pyjamas. The bottoms fell down around my ankles just as the front door closed behind me, locking me out. I finally found a neighbor who had a spare key. “We’ve missed you on the street,” he said.

I did get some writing done and think I’ve finally waved goodbye to the bean and the leaf.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-05T15:16:00.000-08:00

I tried to shake it up a bit this/last Christmas Day and spend the day with friends but Julia was quite devastated that Colin and I could even consider not spending the day with her, Marley Rose, Arthur and his parents - Russian Armenians who are quite the nicest couple in the world but insist on calling me Clara and Colin Kevin.

We did have a lovely day. I cooked, with Julia as my lovely young assistant. Then it was our traditional Brits Boxing Day bash for 30 ex pats who like a bit of cold meat and a baked potato.

I was very happy to see the last of the holiday ham on Friday. I think I did well to keep it interesting for five nights in a row.

Mia had flown back to freezing cold, wet London to spend Christmas Day with friends. She bitterly regretted her decision and has been wearing three pairs of socks since her return. Max is still thriving in Fiji. No socks required there.

It was great to have Mia in LA for three weeks in December, not least because she paid for her own ticket this time. She was sunbathing here. In December. Sorry to rub it in.

The year has started off brilliantly for me. Some friends have offered us their fabulous house in Santa Monica while they enjoy a last-minute skiing trip to Utah. I so need some creative space to myself. It's hard for me to write now that Colin works from home as well.

I spoke to my literary agent this morning and he really likes my new book proposal. He said he knows a couple of editors he thinks will find it wonderful. I’m calling it “The One.” It's a sort of sequel to Plus One about Colin and I getting back together after 25 years. We both kept our love letters from that time and they will be interspersed throughout the book. It hasn’t been an easy journey so there’s plenty of drama and conflict to keep the publisher happy and lots of funny stuff too.

I’ve seen the first assembly (or rough edit) of The Making Of Plus One... movie and it’s terrific. Really. Very funny and a wonderful insight as to how hard it is to get a movie made. The plan is for the film to be premiered at the next Cannes Film Festival in May. And it’s Dad’s 80th birthday at the end of April, so everything is falling into place for a trip to Europe. Julia is planning some gigs in England too. Well, her manager is.

Here’s to a happy, healthy and wealthy 2009.

Claire and Julia's excellent adventure

2008-11-12T10:52:00.000-08:00

After weeks of searching, Julia and I finally found something I could wear for The Making Of Plus One shoot in the south of

France

. Colin thought it looked like an overall, but I prefer to think of it as a classic shirt dress in the style of Yves Saint Laurent - something Catherine Deneuve might wear to lunch. Dark blue, as it’s slimming, and long sleeves to cover my arms that have lost their youthful tone.

Director Mary McGuckian likes her actors to improvise their scenes rather than work from a script, so there was plenty of opportunity to interject and get my face on camera. A particularly hilarious scene had Julia teaching the brilliant Jennifer Tilly one of her songs, which Jennifer proceeded to murder. Another great scene was when Geraldine Chaplin, who plays the casting director and voice coach, gave Jennifer’s character elocution lessons. From left to right: me, Sarah Stockbridge who plays the scriptwriter, Mary McGuckian, Suzan Lori Parks who plays the director, Julia and Jennifer Tilly.

From where I was sitting, it felt like we have a very funny little film on our hands. Now it’s all down to the editing. The plan is to get it premiered in Cannes 2009 (May). Fingers and toes are crossed.

Everyone on the shoot was an absolute star. We adored our make-up artists, Suzanne and Trish. Mary should make a movie about Trish, who lives a most exciting life that includes four lovers. “A lot of men like older, larger ladies,” she says. Here's Trish with Antonin.

When Antonin, the set runner, popped his head in the Hair and Make-up room and asked if the Fordham sisters could be on set in twenty minutes, Trish replied: “These are hands, not wands.” That has become our favorite phrase; Julia and I try to say it at least five times a day. Following this amazing shoot, Julia and I flew back to London, picked up my daughter, Mia, then drove to Hayling Island for a few days with Mum and Dad. Here we are after a wonderful meal at Hayling Golf Club, one of the few genuine links courses on the south coast of England. Dad's president of the club, founded in 1883.

I dropped Julia at the airport at dawn’s crack and had an extra week in London sorting out my visa at the US embassy and spending time with Mia. There weren’t enough hours in the days to see all the friends I’d have liked.

Highlight of the week in London was going to see The Allan Carr Show being recorded. Mia works on the show as a runner. I was so proud of her. She wore a headset and looked very important indeed. I’m going to get her a clipboard for Christmas. There is no greater joy than seeing your children happy, healthy and living their dream. Mia assured me I didn’t embarrass her when I asked a man in the Green Room after the show what he did and he said he was the executive producer, but she’d have much preferred it if I hadn’t brought my Primark carrier bag backstage (bargain pyjamas for Marley Rose). Mia was working in the production office on Monday and Allan Carr asked her if I got back to LA safely. Isn’t that nice?

I took Gareth, the onset wardrobe supervisor from The Making Of Plus One, with me as my Plus One to The Alan Carr Show recording. Then Gareth took me as his guest to the new Soho House club in Shoreditch where we watched the US Presidential election unfold. A perfect day. Here's Gareth with the costume designer, Sally.

It’s been two and a half years since I was in London. I had forgotten how bloody cold, wet and grey it is. LA certainly feels like the best place to live. France was cold and wet too. And everyone smokes! Have they not heard that smoking stinks and it kills you?

Another highlight was going with top mate Sue Turton to The Fairy Tale Ball at Home House. The costumes were amazing. Sue and I traipsed around London looking for something suitable for me to wear. I decided to go as a fairy godmother and found all the accessories I needed at the Disney store. A terrific night of champagne, dancing and excellent nibbles to celebrate the club’s 10^th anniversary. You too could be a member for just 1500 quid a year. My camera ran out of battery so I didn’t get any good photos of the event. I’ll get one from Sue later.

It was an incredible trip, but I’m glad to be back in LA. Mum was sad when I told her, but LA feels like home, especially now Barack Obama has been elected president.

I can’t wait to see Julia again as I have a most excellent visual gag. I shall rummage in my Disney carrier bag, pull out two purchases and say: “These are wands, not hands.”

Custom built

2008-10-20T10:50:00.000-07:00

There was no sign of the recession at Galpin Auto Sports in Van Nuys, California when some 2,000 guests partied the night away at a star-studded bash that cost a whopping $3 million, according to a man sat at our table. Most of the event was sponsored and several local charities benefited.

Galpin – the most successful Ford dealership in the world - was launching its vehicle customization facility. Husband Colin was there covering the event for an auto website. I was there as his plus one.

Fuelled by Absolut vodka, with food by Wolfgang Puck, I danced (I use the word loosely) to Xzibit and the excellent Camp Freddy, with Dave Navarro on guitar, acting as house band for special guests Macy Gray, Mark McGrath, Steve Jones, Slash, Cypress Hill and the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne.

Sporting a new facelift, Ozzy sent the crowd wild. He wasn’t the best singer of the night by a long shot. That was Mark McGrath. No spring chicken himself, but looking and sounding great, Mark acknowledged Botox for helping to keep him in the game. In his case, it’s not Botox, but talent.

My feeling is that a nip and tuck is preferable over Botox. There’s something just plain wrong about putting that poison in your face. Trouble is, once some people start on Botox’s slippery slope, they can end up with the frozen features of Michelle Tuzee, who reads the news for ABC, Desperate Housewife Marcia Cross and NBC’s Andrea Mitchell.

Of course, a face can be lifted too many times, see Michael Jackson and Joan Rivers, but I’m saving up for a one-off mini face lift where the jowls are lifted just a fraction (Moira knows someone who had it done for $4,000 in her lunch hour and looks great) and liposuction.

When one is on camera, one has a responsibility to look one’s best. Yes, dear reader, the plane tickets have arrived. It’s really happening. Julia and I are off to France next weekend to play ourselves in “The Making of Plus One,” a Pembridge Pictures film in association with Invited Guest Productions and Scion Films.

Julia has just returned from a triumphant mini-tour of the East Coast where she received a standing ovation halfway through the set after she sang one of her classics, Towerblock. The last in this run of gigs is Wednesday (October 22) in LA at the Catalina Jazz Club. The next day, she’ll be recording a sketch for Tracey Ullman’s “State of the Union” which will leave her 24 hours to wash her undies before we fly to France for the movie, then England to see Mum, Dad and my daughter.

I’ll be away for three weeks and won’t be taking my laptop with me, but when I get back I’ll fill you in on all the juicy details. A big “thank you” to Allison from Glagow for sending me these two clips of Julia and me when we were guests on Tracey Ullman’s “Visible Panty Line” in 2002.

Screen gems

2008-10-13T10:11:00.000-07:00

My gal-pal Kara Noble and I took the incredible Catherine Tate to see “Burn After Reading” last week, which we all thoroughly enjoyed. The latest movie from the Coen brothers was so much better than the trailer suggested - great writing, terrific acting and a welcome chance to see gorgeous George on the big screen. His beard failed to move my meter, but his acting and comic timing didn’t disappoint.

Then it was back to Catherine’s hotel for a cocktail. She was here for some “meetings.” I wonder if the septic tanks (Cockney rhyming slang for yanks) will get her humor. I hope so. For those unfamiliar with her work, here’s a link to a YouTube clip featuring one of her most popular characters, Lauren.

Sometimes our humor doesn’t translate. American critics aren’t loving “Little Britain USA.” Brian Lowry said in Variety: “The American version of ‘Little Britain’ shares several traits with Showtime’s Tracey Ullman sketch comedy ‘State of the Union,’ yet virtually every comparison proves unflattering to the new HBO series. Whereas Ullman’s comedy is clever, ‘Little Britain USA’ is mostly just crude, reveling in mock condescension toward American stereotypes. Ullman plays multiple gender-swapping characters, but with more panache than the chameleon-like David Walliams and Matt Lucas. And Ullman's hit-miss ratio is simply higher, making the slog through ‘Britain’s’ gooey swamp to find laughs feel more arduous.” That’s my girl.

I’ve been catching up on my season premieres. I’m sticking with “Mad Men” because everyone else I know thinks it’s brilliant (in my book, it’s just pretty good). I’m so glad to have my weekly fix of “Entourage” back. Love it. And “House” rarely disappoints. But surely the best drama is “ER.” If there is any justice (which there usually isn’t) come awards season, “ER” should pick up the Emmy and Golden Globe for Best Drama. Not for sentimental reasons - because this is its last season - but because it is so deserving. I defy anyone not to be moved by Dr. Pratt’s heartbreaking death. Superb acting from Mekhi Phifer.

I refuse to give up on my quest to find a quirky, camera-friendly, dog breeder for my TV show idea. The first one I found did not pass the audition. My co-producer didn’t even bother getting the camera out of his bag.

Cinema Purgatorio

2008-10-06T10:47:00.000-07:00

It’s said there’s no such thing as coincidence. I’m not sure what the cosmos is trying to tell me about the Goss brothers, but Julia and I bumped into Luke at the Chateau Marmont last weekend. He was there having meetings with film makers who see him as a hot property after his success in “Hellboy II.” He told us he has five films in the pipeline. And he’s still happily married to singer Shirley Lewis after 22 years. We love stories like that, don’t we, ladies?

In Hollyweird, the more meetings you have, the more successful you are. It felt good to be having a meeting of our own with Mary McGuckian. She told us our movie looked a tad vulnerable last week, because of that pesky global financial crisis. The head of media at her main bank even said that the staff wasn’t able to make international calls for a while. I won’t mention the name of the bank, for fear of causing a run on it and losing our funding.

She said we won’t be getting our plane tickets to France until the week before we fly out, so I should stop worrying that it won’t happen. That’s easy for her to say. In the next breath, she informed me that I’ve been dropped from a scene due to time constraints, so shan’t be needed for the first two days of the shoot after all.

On a positive note, she did say that people who’ve seen the edited footage think it’s terrific and the movie will be a hit (she would say that, wouldn’t she?), and then we can make the movie based on Plus One, then a sequel and call it “Plus Two.” Actually, I said, the sequel’s called “Plus One More.” Or maybe “Claire Fordham and the Goblet of Fire.”

It would be grand if “The Making of Plus One” is a hit, because the option for Plus One has reverted to me. The conflict in “The Making of…” centers on whether it’s going to be a small, independent movie or a big studio picture starring Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet. How ironic and brilliant it would be (for me and my descendants) if “The Making of…” is a smash and, when the film based on my book is made, that there’s a similar conflict. Kind of art imitating art.

Julia and I had a little disagreement as to which Cate/Kate would play her and me. Mary made a note to use that conflict in this film. I had to concede that Cate Blanchett would have to eat a lot more cake if she wants to play me.

Driving home, I was fantasizing about the film version of my book. Luke Goss could play Julia’s boyfriend. And instead of being a sound engineer (as he is in the book), we’ll make him a drummer in her band, so we can get in some drummer jokes. By the time it gets made, Dakota Fanning and Abigail Breslin will be playing Julia and me with Cate Blanchett as our mother.

Never give up

2008-09-30T12:25:00.000-07:00

It was like old times for Julia and me. Here we were, at a 40^th birthday bash for Matt Goss. I can’t remember the last time we went on a girls’ night out. The party was amazing. A hip and happening disco (I realize the fact that I just wrote the words disco, hip and happening means I’m not), great food - British fodder like fish and chips, bangers and mash, and mushy peas - endless champagne and a sensational cake surrounded by Cadbury’s Flakes. A truly top night. Just 100 of Matt’s closest friends.

Being 40 isn’t so bad when you have a gorgeous fiancée who adores you, a great house, a new album coming out, drive a Maserati and only look 25. Matt’s mum was there, but not his identical twin, Luke (who was celebrating their big four-oh quietly in Palm Springs). It’s wonderful that the Goss brothers are still in the game after more than 20 years.

Julia’s busy preparing for her next tour to promote her jazz album, China Blue. Click onto www.juliafordham.com for details. And we’re looking set to go to France on October 24^th for The Making Of Plus One movie. I have a meeting with Mary McGuckian this week to hear the latest, so, all in all, I musn’t grumble. Fingers crossed the current financial woes aren’t affecting our movie. She’s invited all the cast to the Chateau Marmont for lunch this weekend. I doubt she’d do that if she had bad news.

When will I be famous?

2008-09-26T15:00:00.000-07:00

I was thrilled that Brian Cranston won the Emmy for best actor in a drama series. Especially as I said I was rooting for him when we met at a party the day before the ceremony. It was plain wrong that he always missed out on ‘best actor in a comedy’ for
Malcolm In The Middle, where he played the dad so brilliantly. His victory was a jewel in an ocean of shit. The ceremony’s opening 12 minutes with the five reality show hosts was possibly the worst television ever seen.

At the same party, I saw my old chum, Matt Goss, who invited Julia and me to his 40th birthday bash. Funnily enough, I recently bumped into Matt’s identical twin, Luke, at LAX when we were dropping Mum and Dad off. I made the mistake of calling him Matt, but he still gave us his email address and said let’s do dinner. By most accounts, Luke was the best thing about Hellboy II. And I saw him in a Cadillac TV ad recently.

I remember interviewing them both for Sky News back in the day, in a helicopter flying them to a Radio One roadshow on Weymouth beach. There have been rumblings in the press about a reunion of the great Bros, the first and, in my opinion, best boy band.
I think my first-ever ‘plus one’ event was going with Julia to their after-show party following a Wembley Arena gig. Or was it Wembley Stadium? Anyhoo, it was at a fab house in Queen’s Gate and my first taste of the high life.

I asked Matt what I should wear to the party. “Something sexy,” he answered. I explained that I don’t do sexy, so we decided I could sit in the corner with his mum. Matt’s fiancée, Daisy Fuentes, is hosting the party. Now she is sexy.

Julia is on a roll right now. This morning she was booked to appear with Vonda Shepherd in a sketch for Tracey Ullman’s State of the Union. And The Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson want her to appear in November, date to be confirmed. That’ll be after we fly back from France where we will be playing ourselves in The Making Of Plus One movie.

Tracey has also asked my pal, former top model Debbie Brett, to be in a sketch. I made a bit of a twit of myself when I played Tracey at tennis last week. “How come you’ve asked everyone I know to be in your show except for me?” I said. “Because,” she replied, “you can’t sing. And you’re not five-ten and thin.” Fair point, well made.

Being Somebody

2008-09-18T15:38:00.000-07:00

The trouble with having an authentic relationship with your sister is that when you ask her to read your work and say what she really thinks, she will. Julia read my script based on my memoir, Plus One: A Year In The Life Of A Hollywood Nobody, and told me that, while she thinks it’s very funny, it needs a couple more scenes to give it humanity and depth. But it really is very good and I’m almost there but I do need to go back in again because very good isn’t great and it needs to be great, she says.

Which is why I was still under the duvet in the fetal position and sucking my thumb when the picture desk from The Mail On Sunday’s You magazine called from London to set up a photo shoot with the brilliant Mimi Haddon for a picture of me to accompany the article I’ve done for them about the myth of the empty nest.

I’ve also found some dogs and owners for my reality TV show pilot. Even though the producer is too busy to return my emails and phone calls to set up a shoot, I have done what was asked of me.

Mary McG’s producer has emailed confirmation that Julia and I will be needed in the south of bloody France on October 27th where we will be playing ourselves in a proper movie with a proper budget and that our business class tickets will be sorted any day. Julia says she won’t believe it until we’re sitting on the plane.

People of a nervous disposition might also be concerned that director Mary McG could be run over by a bus before the shoot, but I take comfort that because this is a proper movie, the insurers insist that another director be signed up to take over in case of accident or death of Mary McG. In this instance, Jim Sheridan (My Left Foot/In The Name Of The Father/In America) is first reserve.

I’ve been wondering for some time if, because I describe myself as a Hollywood Nobody, it has become a self fulfilling prophecy. To this end, and because this has actually been a very good week for me in Hollywierd: I’m gonna be in a movie film, inspired by my blinkin’ book, and my friend Marilyn asked me if I wanted to go with her to the ER set (my favorite TV show of all time; where I first gazed upon the gorgeousness of George Clooney), I shall henceforth be known as a Hollywood Somebody.

Must dash as I have a script that only needs two more scenes to make it great.

There's no business...

2008-09-11T14:39:00.000-07:00

I finally gave up waiting for the TV producer to answer my emails and asked to see him face to face. He told me over lunch that before he talks to his agent in detail about my TV show idea we need to decide what it’s REALLY about. He hadn’t even read my previous emails as he’s been so busy working on another show. Just the six weeks wasted.

So we thrashed out some ideas which he told me to write up and now we need to get something on tape. All I need to do is find four dogs with camera friendly owners who want to be on TV.

I can’t go into detail about the program idea because one of you might steal it. This business we call show is a dog eat dog world and I have been advised to trust no one.

Then Mary McG called to say she’s been ill and needs to put the second round of filming for The Making of Plus One movie back until October 25^th. I resisted the temptation to say “nothing trivial I hope.”

As Julia reminded me, it takes a Herculean effort to make any creative project happen and then survive the process. In the meantime, here’s a brief promo of what’s been shot so far of The Making Of Plus One movie.

Let's Get Physical

2008-08-23T07:06:00.000-07:00

No matter how much tennis I play and how many cakes and chips I don’t eat, I am still piling on the pounds. I’m no longer a voluptuous goddess and definitely a tad on the chunky side. This is especially depressing as I have to be ready for my close-up on September 19th in the south of bloody France, when I shall be playing the role of me in The Making of Plus One movie.

As we all know, the camera is a cruel beast that adds ten pounds, so there’s a danger people will start lumping me in with Kirstie Alley once they see me on celluloid. I treated my Woman Child’s unhelpful and ridiculous suggestion that I join Overeaters Anonymous with the contempt it deserved. She wasn’t joking. That’s her pictured with me. She’s the young, beautiful, slim one on the right.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Confucius, he say: when the student is ready, the teacher will appear. So it came as no surprise that, while loading a tumble dryer in the communal laundry room at Mariner’s Village, my gaze should fall upon the flyer pinned on the notice board, inviting me to join Kim’s boot camp, three days a week from 8 until 9am, at the beach end of our road.

Colin dragged himself out of bed to come with me. I enjoyed it much more than he did. He has a bad shoulder and dodgy knees and couldn’t keep up with the rest of us. He was singled out for “special” attention. He was given his own “easy” exercises to do, away from the main pack. He’s not a morning person, so what with being sleep deprived and getting “the special-needs kid” treatment, I doubt he’ll be coming again. But I am on a mission. If this doesn’t work, I’ll be dusting off the credit card and buying myself some liposuction, or lipo-sculpture as they call it these days.

It’s been a while since my last visual gag, but I was inspired by the Beijing Olympic gymnasts to scrape my hair back into a ponytail held in place with twenty assorted pins, don a swimming costume and perform a floor routine in front of the telly box for Colin. He was suitably impressed, but insisted my last visual gag was even better.

A few months back, I conveyed the passing of Marcel Marceau in mime, which Colin found quite brilliant. Whichever one of us logs onto our computer first will report to the other the latest celeb to pop their clogs. This week, we announced (with due respect and reverence)… Bernie Mac: gone. Isaac Hayes: gone.

The best visual gag ever was many years ago, when my parents were looking after a friend’s piano. We heard banging on the keys and rushed in to see what was going on. Dad was sat there bollock naked, à la Monty Python, beaming at us over his shoulder. Mum was not amused, which made it even funnier.

On a serious note, the opening ceremony at the Beijing Olympics was absolutely astonishing and brilliant, and I doubt I will ever see the likes of it again. Well, I can because we Tivo’d it, but you know what I mean. I get goose bumps just thinking about it. Tracey and I were raving about it in between tennis shots. She said you can imagine the organizing committee for the 2012 Olympics in London in panic, saying: “I don’t think Elton John is going to be enough.”

No news on the reality TV show, but no worries. I re-read The Secret after boot camp and have asked the cosmos to handle it. I believe and I’m waiting to receive.

An Englishwoman’s home is her chateau

2008-08-06T02:28:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the radio silence, but my Woman Child has been visiting and monopolizing the computer. If she’s not on Facebook, she’s playing poker online. Not for money, thankfully, otherwise she’d been down $385,000.

This trip has been much better than her Christmas visit. She decided to give up smoking as she boarded the plane for Los Angeles and, frankly, was pretty unbearable to be around for the month of her stay. She started smoking again as soon as she got back to London.

As those of you who have read my book, Plus One, can attest, I detest smoking, but am so grateful to have a happy, reasonable Woman Child that I’ve placed an ashtray on the balcony and haven’t moaned or groaned once when she and the Man Child go outside for a smoke. Nor have I said: “it stinks and it kills you.”

They really have been a joy. Here they are just about to set off to Santa Barbara, on their first road trip since the Man Child passed his driving test. They had a grand time, apart from getting badly sunburned. Of course I told them to cover themselves in sun tan lotion and wear a hat. Don’t get me started…

I hoped to report that the reality show has already been snapped up by a network or cable TV station, but my producing partners have yet to connect with their agent to discuss the pitch, what with him being head of worldwide television at William Morris and getting up at 4.30am every day to answer 300 emails. Patience is a virtue I’m going to have to acquire. This business we call show is not good for the health. I’m told things will get even more stressful if/when it actually gets bought. Then I really will be on the verge of insanity.

Mary McG (director/producer of The Making of Plus One) invited Julia and me to join her and some other guests at the Chateau Marmont. A few tables away, Daniel Craig was having dinner with Joel Schumacher. Ellen Barkin wandered around, chatting with various people and looking absolutely stunning in turquoise. She was immaculate – great hair, great everything. And her body. She must have been surgically enhanced. She’s in her mid-fifties and looks twenty years younger.

Amanda Plummer was at our table (I saw Amanda a few weeks back at The Catalina Bar & Grill, a jazz club on Sunset, and introduced myself, knowing she was going to be in the film. I told her Julia and I were going to be playing ourselves and she kept introducing me to people as Claire Fordham, the actress. I love this town). She’s playing the production accountant in The Making Of movie. I’ve seen the rushes of what’s been shot so far and they look terrific. Phew.

Anyway, because Amanda moved along to chat with Mary McG and Lothaire Bluteau (a dead ringer for Colin Farrell) who’s also in the movie, there was nowhere else for Jim and Fran Sheridan to sit when they arrived, so they sat with Julia and me and are our new BFFs. Jim (My Left Foot/In The Name Of The Father/In America) Sheridan! Other diners kept coming over to shake Jim’s hand.

Jim asked me if I spoke any Gaelic. Apparently, he and Fran start talking in their mother tongue when they want to gossip about someone nearby. I told him I only knew “feck off.” He nearly fell off his fecking chair.

One of Jim and Fran’s daughters directed August Rush. Jim reckons she’s a better director than both himself and Neil Jordan. I’ve put her on my director wish list for the movie actually based on Plus One. Jim can produce it if he likes.

A couple of days later, we were at another event. Lorna Luft (Judy Garland’s other daughter) was in attendance, talking about her godfather Frank and how much she missed him and dear Sammy. Don’t we all?

The main reason for going, though, was for a reunion of sorts. Pictured at the party are my husband Colin, Julia and Michelle Collins, all of whom were in Mari Wilson’s (centre) band, The Wilsations. Mari is still a singing sensation and looking great 25 years on. Michelle left The Wilsations before they hit the big time and went on to be Cindy Beale in EastEnders. I embarrassed my Woman Child by calling Michelle ‘Cindy’ a couple of times. It’s easily done.

Here’s Mari singing a couple of her hits. Colin is playing bass behind her and Julia is one of the backing singers. Enjoy.

Action!

2008-06-07T15:47:00.000-07:00

I hate to gossip… but pull up a chair.

The filming did start on ‘The Making Of Plus One’ movie during the Cannes Film Festival. But sans Meg Tilly, who fell out with the director over, shall we say, artistic differences.

Director/producer Mary McGuckian called me this afternoon as I was wheeling my trolley around Albertsons and filled me in. She said the filming went great but the second phase, when Julia and I will be required for our close-ups, has been put back until September.

One scene called for Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet look-a-likes to walk down la Croisette. The fake Kate must have been convincing because Gwyneth Paltrow (the real one) waved at her.

Back to my reality. Here’s Julia on the ‘Lucky Ducks’ stall at the Topanga Fair. We did a roaring trade that made up for my disappointment over not running the ‘Hoops’ stall, as we had been led to believe. ‘Hoops’ sounded a lot more fun than ‘Lucky Ducks’ but we had an absolute hoot.

Marley Rose’s third-birthday, belly-dancing party was an enormous success. It really was a magical day. Not that it's a competition (or is it?), but I didn't think it was possible to have a more magnificent birthday party than Marley Rose's. The next kid's birthday party had water slides, bouncy castles, horses and a zebra. When my kids were small it was a couple of rounds of pass the parcel, musical chairs, Cadbury's chocolate fingers as a special treat, a bit of cake and a balloon!

It's official...

2008-05-27T12:54:00.001-07:00

Actress Jennifer Tilly has announced the start of filming of ‘The Making Of Plus One’ at the Cannes Film Festival. Jennifer and her real-life sister, Meg Tilly, play sisters who have optioned the rights to my book, ‘Plus One’, who intend to make a small independent movie based on it, with them playing Julia and me.

Their characters are two American TV soap stars who hope that, by playing English women, they have a chance at an Oscar nod (incidentally, both Meg and Jennifer have had Academy Award nominations). Geraldine Chaplin plays their voice coach. John Sessions and Amanda Plummer also star, plus a bunch of other people you’ll recognize even if you don’t know their names.

Michael Eklund plays the movie’s producer, working behind the scenes at the festival to get Cate Blanchett and Kate Winslet attached to play the sisters, even though the TV soap stars bought the rights so they could take those roles. The plot thickens.

People will be on the edge of their seats by the end of the movie, gagging to know if the film gets made or not and wondering who will play Julia and me. That’s the plan, anyway.

As I get more and more excited about our trip to the south of France to play ourselves in a proper movie inspired by my book, you might be forgiven for thinking that Julia would have checked with me first before volunteering me to run the ‘What’s Beneath The Duck?’ stall with her this Sunday between the hours of 1 and 3pm at the Topanga Country Fair. Hang on a minute while I answer the phone.

That was Julia. Because we have “personality” and are “flexible”, Julia and I have been promoted to the Hoops stall. Plus ça change...

Young at heart

2008-05-17T07:57:00.000-07:00

Many years ago, when I had my first VCR, I foolishly allowed Julia to select the movie for us to rent one Christmas for all the family to enjoy: ‘Sophie’s Choice.’ I still have nightmares about that film.

Five minutes into the movie we took Mum and Dad to see (my choice), I feared I had made an even bigger blunder. ‘Young At Heart’ is a documentary about a bunch of senior citizens who travel the globe singing rock tunes, some disconcertingly more senior than others. Mercifully, it lightened up and we all loved it. It’s truly wonderful, but a stark reminder that life is not a dress rehearsal and we must all seize the day. Three clichés in one sentence – sorry about that. Here’s a quote from Nietzsche to make up for it: “Without music, life would be a mistake.”

The parents’ trip went well and it was very emotional waving them off at the airport, especially as Dad needed a wheelchair because his arthritic knees were giving him jip. Julia tried valiantly to get them upgraded to first class using her air miles and they were on standby if anyone was a no show or cancelled at the last minute. No such luck.

I tried to broach the subject of a master plan for their future, especially as several good friends of ours are dealing with their parents’ ailing health where dementia and diapers are involved. Enough said. But Mum and Dad insist they’ll deal with that if and when the time comes. “Will you at least sell some premium bonds and get a cleaner and a gardener in once a week?” I begged. But Mum wants to hold on to the premium bonds in case they win a million pounds.

As you can see from the photo above, Mum is in fine fettle. Julia and I took her to the Café Del Rey for brunch on Mother’s Day. She said it was the best Mother’s Day she’s ever had and made up for all the ones we’ve spent apart since Julia and I moved to LA.

Ageing parents is just one reason why I need the ‘Making Of Plus One…’ movie to be a success. Filming started this week. We cracked open a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Just to be clear - this is not a movie based on Plus One. It’s a mockumentary about the making of a movie based on Plus One and the wheeling and dealing that goes on during the Cannes Film Festival to get it made. Julia and I will be flying to the South of France in July for the second phase of filming. We will be playing ourselves and only in a couple of scenes.

If ‘The Making Of Plus One’ movie is a success, it will give Plus One the book a new lease of life and pave the way for a movie actually based on the book with the added bonus that the rights have reverted to me. The Man Child has suggested we call it “Lesbians On A Boat With Robots and Ghosts” as that has all the ingredients for a box office smash.

A week in the life.....

2008-05-03T10:09:00.000-07:00

Hallelujah! The Man Child passed his California driving test, cousin Tim (Dad’s sister Auntie Joyce’s son) managed to get Dad and brother Mark tickets to see Portsmouth play in the FA Cup Final and this photo of Marley accompanied the invitation to her Belly Dancing Third Birthday Party on May 29th. Julia said I can publish it as you can’t really see her face, but her general cuteness is there for all to see.

It was Dad’s 79th birthday on the 27th April and we held a small but perfectly formed tea party for him at Julia’s house in Topanga. We watched Brothers & Sisters as Julia had a song featured. The air conditioning wasn’t working and we couldn’t find the remote to turn the fan on so it was like being in a sauna.

The heat wasn’t as unbearable as having to explain to the guests who weren’t familiar with the show who each character was and where they fitted in to the plot. Julia’s song was barely audible in the background but at least she got paid handsomely for it. Twice as much money, in fact, as I’m getting for the use of title rights for Plus One.

Director Mary McGuckian called from France to say she’s on the last push to start filming the ‘Making Of Plus One’ movie. She is “reasonably confident” the money will be in the bank to enable her to start filming on the first day of the Cannes film festival.

For logistical reasons, Mary’s decided to split the filming in two, and Julia and I won’t be needed to play ourselves until the second round in the South of France, in July now. Mary says we should be thankful we won’t be in Cannes for the zoo that is the film festival.

Yesterday, I leased a new car, a Camry. I LOVE it, but not as much as I love America for awarding me such an excellent credit rating. Colin drove it to work today and we loaned the Man Child the PT Cruiser as a reward for passing his test. So I cycled to a friend’s house to fax my signed copy of the agreement with Mary. I realize there’s something wrong with that picture.

Mum and Dad’s trip is going well. They’re staying in an apartment identical to ours, just along the corridor. Julia and Marley come down to us most days and we swim in the pool. But they’re spending today in Topanga, watching Marley dance around the maypole at her pre-school. A day off for me!

Last night, Marley and I were dancing around the living room together. Mum was howling with laughter and said I reminded her of Dawn French in the classic Darcy Bussell sketch. I catered a party last week to help keep the wolf from the door until my movie money comes through. Mum said I should look on the bright side as all that running about will help me lose some weight.

After 53 years of marriage, Dad told Mum that he doesn’t like cold lamb. Not as annoying as Mum walking in front of the TV just as Ronaldo missed a penalty for Manchester United against Barcelona. Frankly, I have been nothing short of saintly since Mum and Dad arrived. My days and evenings have been spent shopping, cooking, teaching Max to drive, ferrying him to and fro, and listening to Mum tell me over and over again how she doesn’t like American bread and how she couldn’t live here.

It’s no wonder I parked the car in the wrong parking bay. At least I didn’t get towed this time, just a snotty note. While I viewed the not getting towed as a result, Colin wondered if I might have “a mental problem” because I’ve parked in the wrong bay twice now. I cannot convey how much that pissed me off.

I was up at dawn’s crack to get the coffee on and the apartment tidy for Mum and Dad’s 8.30 a.m. arrival when I noticed a spider crawling across my shoulder. I shook and shook my hair to get it out, and screamed in panic, but I could still see it out of the corner of my eye. I threw off my dressing gown and ran naked back into the bedroom so Colin could save me from the giant creepy crawly. I jumped up and down on the bed screaming at Colin to wake up and help me for fuck’s sake.

I stopped screaming when I realized it wasn’t a spider, but part of my ear plug that had fallen out in the night and got stuck in my hair. Colin said: “At least you’ve still got your dignity” and went back to sleep.

Common Scents

2008-04-11T09:20:00.000-07:00

Men are weird.

While Colin, the Man Child and I were eating the delicious Salade Caprese I had lovingly prepared, Colin announced that he doesn’t actually like salad and would I mind not serving it quite so often.

I was already feeling a tad irritated with Colin, as he keeps encouraging the Man Child to continue with his ‘pull my finger’ gag that might be amusing if the Man Child was five and even then only once. Incredibly, the Man Child can do this 20 times in one evening and Colin can have tears of laughter rolling down his face each and every time. I didn’t think it was possible for a man to laugh that hard until Colin invited the Man Child to pull his finger, which resulted in both Colin and the Man Child gasping for air. Not because of any pernicious gas, but because they were laughing so much.

As Randy Marsh said on South Park: “It’s all about moderation. If you never fart, you combust, but if you always fart, you deplete the ozone. So we must fart only at appropriate times or when it’s really, really funny.”

But I digress. “When I first made you a salad, three years ago, you said it was the best salad you’d ever had,” I said calmly and reasonably.
Colin said: “It was, but I still didn’t actually like it, because I don’t like salad.” It’s a miracle to me that more women don’t stab their husbands with a salad fork.

Apparently, he’s never liked my black trench coat with white piping from Banana Republic either.

Sensing an atmosphere brewing, the Man Child told us that his dad (my first husband) told the Man Child’s stepmother, after they’d been together 20 years and she had served spaghetti bolognaise at least once a week, that he hates pasta. They’re still together. And men wonder why we don’t understand them.

Despite all this, I still organized a party for Colin and the Man Child to celebrate their birthdays, and a good time was had by all. It was a great pity that Mia couldn’t be there ¬-- it’s her birthday on April 16th. Astrologer Linda Goodman wrote that you won’t find more than one Aries in a family, as God wouldn’t be that cruel. My husband and both my children! Talking of astrology, if you believe in it, check out www.susanmiller.com and click on the monthly forecast for your birth sign. We Pisces are in for a cracking month.

Here are photos of some of the food I served at the party.

I know pictures of the Man Child and Marley Rose would be much more interesting but the Man Child has asked me not to use pictures of him or mention his name, hence his new moniker, Man Child. And Julia doesn’t want photos of Marley Rose to be used. Fair enough.

Marley Rose (Gemini) continues to spread her joy. I spent a lot of time with her while Julia (Leo) was in Japan. Marley has quite an American accent, which is charming apart from the fact she has started that most annoying habit American children have of saying “What?” instead of “Pardon?” I’ve been trying to train Marley out of it and every time she says “What?” I say: “We don’t say ‘what’, we say ‘pardon’.” And she says: “Or you can say ‘excuse me’.” I told her that either works.

My mum (Pisces) asked Marley over the phone what she would like her to bring as a present when she (Mum) and my dad visit later this month. Marley said: “Don’t say ‘what’, Nanny, say ‘excuse me’.”

My family has been celebrating the fact that Portsmouth are in the final of the FA Cup. My Dad has supported Pompey since he was a boy. The day my dad was born (April 27th, 1929, Taurus) Pompey played Bolton Wanderers in the FA Cup final and lost 1-0. Dad took me to Fratton Park to watch Pompey play when I was a kid, and he and my brother, Mark, are trying to get tickets to the final. Mark was at the semi-final with his best friend, Wally. If anyone has three Cup Final tickets to spare (as if), let me know.

The Man Child is miserable as Liverpool just knocked Arsenal out of the Champions League. You win some, you lose some.

And the winner is.....

2008-02-28T10:55:00.000-08:00

Forgetting she was supposed to not talk to rest her voice as we drove to the Santa Barbara gig, Julia positively shouted at me that I could keep my hands off Daniel Day Lewis as he’s her fantasy boyfriend and has been since they had a clash of shopping baskets in Holland & Barrett on Kensington High Street over 20 years ago.

I was telling Max and Lori, who was driving, that I was thinking of switching my allegiance from George to Daniel in the light of Daniels’ stellar performance in There Will Be Blood, his Oscar and SAG award acceptance speeches and the fact that his significant other is a grown up.

All this despite the fact that I was draped all over a card board cut out of George for a piece I wrote for The Mail On Sunday’s You magazine (there’s a link to it on my website www.clairefordham.com). The photographer, the wonderful Mimi Haddon, let me keep the George cut out. I thought it would look splendid in our bedroom but Colin would have none of it and insisted it be thrown in the garbage. He scoffed at my suggestion he might be jealous, describing George as the Rock Hudson of the 21st century.

As Jack Nicholson said, “You know you’re a movie star when people start calling you a faggot.”

Julia’s gig at The Roxy in LA was a sensation. But don’t take my word for it. Here’s what Roger Friedman of FoxNews.com said about it…

Julia Fordham Jazzes It Up:
Tracy Ullman, TV writer-director John Wells, famed record producer Richard Perry and actress Joanna Kerns were among the lucky who made it into dazzling singer Julia Fordham’s show at the Roxy Wednesday night.
Fordham without a doubt is one of the handful of great voices of her generation. Her new album, "China Blue," available at novatunes.com and cdbaby.com, is just the latest in a series of terrific releases.
She sang a lot of her faves Wednesday night, such as "Happy Ever After," "Porcelain," "Stay" and "Manhattan Skyline" with joyousness and ebullience. Her richly textured contralto voice just soared. The new songs from "China Blue" were met with crazy ovations from the crowd, particularly "I Want to Stay Home With You."
Fordham is the most under-the-radar star in the pop music galaxy. Tonight she plays San Francisco. …

The low point of this otherwise spectacular week for The Fordham Sisters was meeting Julia at the ER with Marley who had to be put on an I.V. as she had been so sick with a heinous bacterial infection she picked up on the plane back from the Philippines. It was an absolute nightmare. The poor little might was petrified and traumatized as were Julia and I watching her suffer so.

Once she had the fluids in her she got much better but the only thing that would comfort little Marley was Julia singing to her. “Sing, Mama Julia. Sing,” she whispered in between sobs. Tears were streaming down my face as Julia sang her little girl “How I Love You Baby.”

How Julia got up on stage this week and gave such blinding performances after five sleepless nights with a desperately sick child I’ll never know. Julia never ceases to amaze me. She’s an extraordinary talent and a wonderful mother.

I didn’t go to San Francisco as I’m on Marley duty today. Must dash as I have to pick her up from Pre-School. Just before she was sick, Marley, aged two-and-a-half, was sitting at the piano, banging away at the keys. She said: “Mama. Teach me to play the piano. I wanna be in a band.”

Plus One : The Next Generation

2008-02-12T08:35:00.002-08:00

Max has only been here a week and already he is carrying on our fine and noble family tradition. He accompanied Tracey Ullman as her plus one to Clive Davis’ Pre-Grammy party – the hottest ticket in town. They sat at the same table as Rod Stewart and Lionel Ritchie. Gladys Knight was behind him, Whitney Houston to his left. What a great start to his new life in Los Angeles.

It is wonderful to have him here. He’s staying at Julia’s at the moment while she, Arthur and Marley are in The Philippines enjoying the five star treatment as befitting “The Jewel of Pop Jazz” as Julia is known in those parts.

Max takes Muttley for a long walk every day, something the hound hasn’t had since Marley was born which is why he’s as fat as a pig. Max is loving being in Topanga Canyon, although he is rather trapped there because he doesn’t drive. Californians gasp in disbelief when they hear he can’t drive yet. They can’t comprehend that many people in Central London don’t drive as they use public transport or walk and there’s nowhere to park your car even if you have one. The very idea of a congestion charge is impossible for Americans to comprehend. That’s next on our list of jobs to do: teach Max to drive. He was thrilled to discover that it’s impossible to stall an automatic. I drive up to see him every other day to take food parcels and clean washing. He’s loving having the time to just be and write.

However, he had a horrible wake up call yesterday when the septic tank overflowed, causing a heinous back up in the toilets. That’s country living and being a Plus One for you - life is grand one minute and a shit show the next.

China Lilac

2008-01-27T05:31:00.000-08:00

A most excellent evening with Julia, Lori and Joan to celebrate the launch of Julia’s latest CD, ‘China Blue’, at Rustic Canyon on Wilshire and 11th. Superb food. It’s been available for download (the album, not the restaurant) for over a week, but on Tuesday we had the actual hard copy in our hands.

Although a printing error on the first run made part of the cover lilac rather than blue, Julia did not allow this to dampen her joy and has decided to think of these 1000 as collectors’ items. She bought us China Blue candles from her favorite store, Topanga Homegrown, as thank you gifts for being with her through thick and thin. Mostly thin, as she’s been on a strict diet in preparation for her trip to the Philippines where she is called ‘The Jewel of Pop Jazz.’

She also has gigs coming up in February in LA at The Roxy and Bimbo’s in San Fran. There’s one in Santa Barbara as well, if the Philippines is too far for you. The MD of Novatunes told me Julia is by far their biggest-selling artist, that she is their Beatles.

Lori and Joan are trying to convince me to go to San Fran, especially as the flights are just $100 return. It was so good to see them. Before we had husbands, boyfriends and Marley Rose, we used to go out most weeks with them. You could measure how close we were by the fact that there were eight (a world record) photos with me in them on their fridge, but now there’s only one. I give them a lot of stick about that.

My son, Max, will be here by then so he might come with me to San Francisco. Max moves in with Colin and me into our one-bedroomed apartment on January 30. Colin is a saint. Mia only just left and has decided she wants to move here permanently as well. Gulp. Now we have to convince the INS that she, too, is an alien of extraordinary ability. I’m going to leave it a while before I tell Colin that Mum and Dad are coming for three weeks in April. They’ll be staying just along the corridor in Linda Penny’s apartment.

All in all a happy week, although I managed to offend Julia by declining her invitation to attend an ‘evening of singing, poetry and incantations’ with her in Topanga. I told her she lost me at poetry, but she is a goodly soul who likes to support all creative events and artists, and felt I had rushed to judge, indeed had been a tad cruel in dismissing anyone who felt the need to incant as not being worthy of my patronage. For my own part, I was worried that Julia had gone native, that I’d lost my dear sister to the dwindling bastion of hippiedom that is Topanga. So I was quite relieved when I heard later that she ducked out soon after one of her singer friends had done her stint and never got round to the incantations.

And I’m back in Julia’s good books after looking after Marley all day while she shopped for the Philippines trip. Marley was a delight and talks up a storm now. When Julia came to collect her, the three of us played hide and seek. They gave me a standing ovation after I hid outside on the balcony in the pouring rain. They had absolutely no idea. Possibly my finest hour.

Starry, starry steak

2008-01-13T12:04:00.000-08:00

Our pal Roger Friedman, who writes for fox.com on all things showbiz, is in town for the Golden Globes. He is wonderfully indiscreet and knows everyone who’s anyone in Tinseltown, but still found time to meet Julia and me for dinner at Ago – pronounced ah-go. Not ago, as in long time ago. No, it’s not that obvious. Geoffreys in Malibu is pronounced joffreys and Axe on Abbot Kinney is pronounced ash-ay. I shall spare you the details of the problems those ridiculous (and blatantly wrong) pronunciations have caused me over the years.

Ago is one of Hollywood’s hottest spots to see and be seen. People certainly don’t go to be heard – it’s so crowded you have to scream to get your point across. Or for the food, expensive though it is. I arrived first, then Julia’s manager, Lori, and her girlfriend, Joan. Just to be clear, Joan is Lori’s girlfriend, not Julia’s. Julia was late, claiming that it’s impossible to get anywhere by 7.30pm since she had a child and, anyway, she had to wait for Arthur to get in from work to baby-sit.

So Lori, Joan and I enjoyed a glass or two of wine as we waited for our table. I had already noticed the tall, gorgeous (albeit slightly slutty in an expensive kind of way) young woman waiting at the bar. Joan was convinced she was a hooker. Surely not, I cried. In such a classy place? Joan scoffed at my naivete.

Later, Julia caught the ‘lady’ (pointing to her face after a man who asked her if her ample breasts were real) saying: “Honey, it’s all fake.” Gotta love that honesty. Anyway, the lady with the fake face and tits ate dinner with two rich-looking, middle-aged businessmen, at which point Joan rested her case.

Roger had invited Richard Perry along. He’s a famed record producer who has produced albums for such divas as Barbra Streisand and Chaka Khan, among many others. Roger was late as he had been to a taping of ‘The Jimmy Kimmel Show’. His pal Wyclef Jean was singing on it. Roger reported in his column next day that Wyclef’s fellow former Fugee, Lauren Hill, is broke. Her last album sold 10 million copies in an era when people actually bought CDs. Another reminder, as if we needed one, that it’s hard to sustain a singing career, let alone earn enough to retire on.

Back to Ago, named after its chef. The food was terrible, but being English I didn’t say anything. My chicken was dry, the roast potatoes weren’t bad, but the spinach was just a dollop of plain old overcooked leaves. Richard Perry wasn’t happy with his steak (rare not medium rare, he claimed) so Lori swapped with him. He still wasn’t happy but, since we had already waited until 9.30pm to be served, decided against sending it back – he didn’t want to wait any longer for a new steak. Thank God. I’d never send a steak back for fear the chef would spit on it (or worse), flop it back on the grill then send the same one back. I sampled Joan’s steak. It was as dry as my chicken and she had filet, which is hard to fuck up.

As the waiter took the plates away, Richard asked him to tell Ago that the steak was the worst he’d had there all year. Brave man. The chocolate soufflé was still to come. It ended up being nice, though.

Richard was the first to leave. He was going on to meet Steve Bing. Roger went off with a copy of Julia’s new CD, China Blue, (the photograph above, is from the CD cover) and will hopefully give it a rave review. He has championed Julia for years.

He’s going to Cannes for the film festival in May, so Julia and I agreed to meet up with him there. We’ll be there for ‘The making of PLUS ONE, starring Kate Winslet, Cate Blanchett and George Clooney in the story of a Hollywood Nobody’. Mary McGuckian will be shooting the ‘making of’ movie (a sort of mockumentary) during Cannes using the festival as a backdrop. Julia and I may even have cameos playing ourselves. More on this later.

Exciting times. And about bloody time too. When I got home after dinner at Ago, I went straight to the fridge, pulled out a handful (20 cents’ worth) of organic mixed baby greens purchased from Ralphs, plonked them on a plate and said to Colin: “That’ll be $12.”

FOILED AGAIN!

2008-01-11T05:52:00.000-08:00

One of the reasons I moved to Los Angeles from England eight years ago is that I had more of a chance of meeting George Clooney if I lived in the same country as him.

George doesn’t want kids and I don’t (alright, can’t) have any more so, apart from the fact he likes his women half my age and four sizes smaller than me, we are a match made in heaven.

Actually, I have met George albeit briefly and very tenuously. He said, “Hello, Claire.” To me! We were introduced after a screening of one of his movies as he was just getting into his Limo but the chance to sit down and chat with him keeps eluding me.

So I have seen George up close and in the flesh and can confirm that he is beyond handsome and all men should look like him. I’m not completely shallow. He is smart and funny as well.

I almost had dinner with George last year. It wasn’t as cozy and romantic as it sounds. There were at least 500 other people there, but it still counted as having dinner with Gorgeous George.

My chum, Sheran, had invited me to go as her Plus One to a PEN (Poets, Editors and Novelists) event honoring George for his screenwriting skills on Good Night, and Good Luck.

Sheran knows his co-writer, Grant Heslov, and was convinced she could get me introduced to George when she said hello to Grant who, one could assume, would be seated next to the world's sexiest writing partner.

But George was a “no show.” He was too busy saving refugees in Darfur to accept the PEN award in person. It was worse for Grant Heslov as he had to keep apologizing for not being George Clooney.

So you can imagine my frustration that The Golden Globes, organized by the Hollywood Foreign Press, were cancelled because I was going as a friend’s Plus One and George was nominated for Michael Clayton. He was certain to be there at Hollywood’s second most glamorous and prestigious event of the year. I write for the press about Hollywood and I’m foreign so I’m sure I could have found something to talk to him about.

Does anyone know anyone who needs a Plus One for the Academy Awards?

Help!

2007-11-08T01:23:00.001-08:00

I hate to name drop… but pull up a chair. Last night, I stood two feet from a Beatle and shook hands, and chatted with, a Beatle widow. I thank you.

I went with Julia (as her Plus One – just like the good old days) to see a screening of The Beatles film, Help! It’s the new, all singing all new color, new sound, hi def version of the best Beatle film that was first released in 1965. Ringo Starr introduced the movie and George’s widow, Olivia, who was absolutely charming and delightful, agreed with me that their son, Dani, is George’s spitting image.

There was a host of other celebs there and I met them all (in no particular order of importance): Jeff Lyn, Dave Stewart, Victoria Tennant (the first Mrs. Steve Martin) and Sally Kellerman who played Hotlips in the movie version of M.A.S.H. Julia knows her from when they both sang at Oh What A Pair a few years back and stayed in contact. Sally came to my birthday party that year. It was a big thrill to have her, Tracey Ullman, Julia, Billie Myers and a number of other great singers who you’ve never heard of, sing me happy birthday. I think we have it on tape somewhere but I’ve noticed we never replay any family event we tape so I’m not sure why we bother. Julia has actually lost the tape of Colin and my wedding.

Sally was thrilled to see Julia and invited us to her show at Genghis Cohen next Tuesday (Nov 13th) where she will be signing one of Julia’s songs.

Julia and I had a great time. Highlight for me was Julia being convinced that the Titanic director James Cameron was there but I couldn’t see him. She said: “Over there talking to the man with the green tie.” It was Cameron Crowe, who directed Almost Famous. Her brain has gone since she had a baby.

It was a thrill for her that so many people knew who she is. Brian and Rusty, who play with Paul McCartney and anyone else who can afford them, admired Julia’s chiffon blouse. Brian said it was a “whisper” of a shirt. But he’s not gay. I’ve seen him with a gorgeous girl at events before. He also said he was very familiar with Julia’s music which quite made Julia’s night.

One lady stopped Julia in the street to admire her coat and they whiled away several minutes waiting for the lights to change, discussing its exquisite embroidery. The kind lady clearly felt she had to pay me a compliment and said I looked “nice” as well. It reminded me of the time Julia and I went into Betsy Jackson on Main Street and the sales assistant gushed over the outfit Julia was wearing from that year’s collection. Feeling she ought to say something complimentary to me, she thought for a moment and the best she could come up with was: “and you look very comfortable.”

A bit about Help! The songs were/are great. The sound was great. And it was wonderful seeing The Beatles at their peak looking so young and, well, still alive. We must never forget that there are only two of those precious icons left. The screening was switched at the last minute from Paramount Studios in support of The Writers Guild who are (is?) on strike and The Samuel Goldwyn Theatre didn’t have the facility to show it in Hi Def but the color was definitely enhanced so the DVD makes a worthy addition to any Beatles fan’s collection. And it’s quite funny. In places.

Keeping with the music theme, Julia has a new album coming out on November 17th on Nova Tunes, a new web record shop that’s being launched on the same day. It’s an album of original jazz songs that she has written and it is AMAZING! Really. No one, I repeat, NO ONE, has written jazz songs this good since Cole Porter. She has a week to come up with the running order and decide on a title. The dilemma is that there is one cover on the album (isn’t it quaint that I still call them albums?) of the Michael McDonald song I Keep Forgetting with, wait for it, the great man himself singing backing vocals. It is incredible but is more smooth jazz and not really in keeping with the other songs so should it go at the beginning, as it’s so show stopping, or at the end because it’s not really the same vibe as the other songs which are spectacular in their own way?

This dilemma is keeping Julia awake at night. The good news is that some great shots came out of the photo shoot for the CD cover but days have been spent mulling over them. It took me 30 seconds to select the best four.

I’ll let you know what it’s going to be called as soon as the decision has been made. My choice is China Blue, after one of the tracks. We’ll see.

Feathering My Nest

2007-10-26T03:10:00.000-07:00

Diane left on the Tuesday and my daughter, Mia, arrived the next day. Just enough time to grab a shower, wash the sheets, tidy up and do a food shop. Not that there was much tidying to do as Diane is a low-maintenance guest—the best kind. Mia isn’t as tidy as Diane, but is most welcome, nonetheless. We’re having a wonderful mother/daughter bonding time.

Mia and I play tennis every day, then swim in the pool. I am so proud of myself that I’ve only had one minor nag about her smoking cigarettes and drinking Diet Coke. “Not enough for you that I’ve stopped drinking and doing drugs, eh?” she replied. Progress not perfection, as they say in 12-step programs. It’s been frustrating, indeed irritating (for me), that Mia is allergic to something in the apartment. Frustrating because I took such care that the couch and bed linen are feather-free (the worst allergen). Irritating because you’d have to be a saint not to be at least mildly bothered by someone constantly sneezing, sniffing and blowing their nose in your space (although I notice that I haven’t been as bothered by it as I was when she was growing up). Out of compassion for her discomfort, I begged her to take an anti-histamine. “It’s a good drug, honest,” I said. Mia suggested the cushions might be duck feather. “No way,” I said, “this is a feather-free zone.” She wasn’t convinced so I unzipped the cover dramatically and pulled out the cushion. And with it, a few duck feathers. Oops. They’ve been banished to our bedroom. The only bedroom.

I have a plan for Christmas when both Max and Mia will be here. Max will sleep on the couch and Mia on the chaise-longue. It’ll only be for a few days. A chum is going to France for Christmas, so Max and Mia can stay in her apartment up the road. So lucky. Then I noticed that Mia also sneezes when she sits on the chaise-longue. She swapped places with Colin at telly time. He also started sneezing and sniffing. What is it with people and their allergies? This is maddening. There are absolutely no feathers in the chaise. It’s exactly the same as the couch. Now I sit there, because I’m the only one it doesn’t make sneeze. Which is going to create a problem at Christmas. The chaise is short, so Max and his 6’4” frame won’t be able to sleep on it.

The high drama of the last few days has been the fires in Malibu Canyon. Sister Julia lives in the next canyon, Topanga, and was evacuated. In keeping with our great family luck, a friend has a spare house in Santa Monica that Julia, Arthur, Marley and Muttley could stay at, because there’s no room at our inn. Although at one time I thought they would be staying here and we had a plan for two blow-up mattresses with Muttley on the balcony. I felt like I was starring in A Family At War.

There was enough time for her to pack a small bag and some crucial documents: passports, the deeds to the house and proof of car ownership. Julia said she didn’t care about possessions and doesn’t have any valuables as she doesn’t wear jewelry. The next day, I suggested she might like to get her guitars, her gold discs and photo albums. Arthur promptly went off to get them just as the authorities decided it was safe for residents to return, so they all went back.

Mia and I just did a happy dance. Max’s visa has come through. He can live here for three years, longer if he can get another American company to sponsor him, or a nice American lady to marry him—preferably one with a trust fund. Mia is so happy for him, but says the day he leaves England will be a dark one for her. I had hoped he’d be here for Thanksgiving, though he says he won’t be able to get his act together before Christmas. It looks like he’ll travel here with Mia in December and never leave. Gulp. He said that, while waiting for his visa to come through (bearing in mind there’s always a chance the application would be rejected), he felt like he was in a queue waiting for his life to begin. He has a wonderful way with words. He once wrote to Colin thanking him for being the captain of my heart. Love that boy. I must stop calling him a boy. He’s a man. 28.

Max was leaving his local pub the other night when the barmaid called out: “Good night, Julian.” He paused and wondered why she had called him Julian. “Because that’s your name,” she said. When he first started going there he was asked if Max was short for anything. He replied (thinking this was amusing): “Julian.” He checked and it seems everyone there thinks he’s called Julian. I’m not sure how well he’s going to fit into American society. Yanks aren't famous for their grasp of irony.

Viva Las Vegas

2007-10-17T16:21:00.000-07:00

I drove from Los Angeles to Las Vegas to meet with Mary McGuckian, who has optioned Plus One. I decided to drive and not fly as I've driven there before on a girls' road trip and had a great time, probably because I wasn't driving. On my first drive there with my sister, Julia, her manager Lori and Lori's girlfriend, Joan, our first bet had been how long would it take us to get there? Four hours and 28 minutes was the answer and I won the $40 in the kitty. No wonder I have such fond memories.

Husband Colin and Julia both thought I was making a terrible mistake in driving there on my own, as I am prone to getting lost, but I had Mapquested it and was supremely confident. I telephoned Colin every 20 minutes and shouted: “Bored.” It’s one long, tedious road and none of my radio stations worked. I only got lost twice. I’ll wager thousands of people before me have ended up in Barstow en route to Vegas from Los Angeles. That was stressful enough, but not as stressful as being lost in Vegas itself and gagging for a pee. I pulled into the hotel with the pirate theme and made full use of their facilities before being pointed in the direction of the Renaissance Hotel.

Mary McG was thoroughly immersed in shooting her latest movie about couples going to Vegas in search of IVF, or A.R.T. in Las Vegas, as it will be called. As the producer, director and writer, she had much to deal with, including an issue with the Teamsters’ union that threatened to shut down production for some minor confusion with the drivers. You don’t mess around with those Teamsters or you could wake up with a horse's head in your bed, but Mary handled everything with great aplomb and serenity and quickly defused the situation. The cast and crew were also mad, crazy busy, so there was much hanging around for me with nothing to do but admire these people who work 18-hour days without complaint. Mary was working 20-hour days. I kid you not.

She had 40 seconds to talk with me in between takes and invited me to run with her from the production office up to room 1503 where they were shooting the next scene. Enough time for her to ask me what I thought about her idea to make two films, one a film about the making of Plus One, a sort of mockumentary (if you will), with the actors playing the parts of the producers, etc., that would start shooting in Cannes next May. Then the actual film based on Plus One. Sounds like an excellent plan. Does that mean two checks for me?

We could have discussed it over the phone, but I’m glad I went all that way to hear it from her lips and see for myself that Mary McGuckian is the real deal. Look out for her film Intervention, due for release in November.

There's been little chance to enjoy quality time with myself before having to find further gainful employment, as I caught a heinous gastric flu from Colin just before my friend, Diane, flew in from the UK for a 10-day flying visit. I shall spare the gory details. Suffice to say, a high fever and much toilet paper was involved.

If you're still reading, you have Diane to thank for this blog ending sooner rather than later. Diane is something of a blog whiz (www.dianealdred.com) and has advised me that my previous missives have been way too long and infrequent. She says readers quickly lose interest and move on to something else.

She also advised using photographs to spice things up. To this end, here is a photo of my feet after Diane and I enjoyed manicures, pedicures and massages at The Four Seasons Beauty Spa, courtesy of Diane’s ex-husband.

I could write another 800 words on our perfect day of pampering, but I wouldn’t want you to lose interest.

Dinner with George

2007-01-02T12:05:00.000-08:00

I’ve always said to my children that once my memory goes they have my full permission to smother me with a pillow. I hadn’t expected to be so forgetful quite so soon.

I was having lunch with someone I didn’t know well enough to ask them to hold on a minute while I wrote down word for word what they had just said that was so hilarious. I made a mental note to remember what had me weeping with laughter into my corn chowder as soon as the lunch was over, so I could use it in a future article or book. I prefer to think of it as homage rather than plagiarism or theft.

When I got to my car and fumbled for a scrap of paper, I’d be damned if I could recall what was so funny. We could spend hours debating whether the fact that I can’t remember and there is no record of it means that it was never said at all, in the same way that one can wonder if a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one there to hear it, does that mean it didn’t make a sound? But we don’t have the time.

To ensure I am never again responsible for such an enormous loss to humor, I have resolved to always carry a notebook and to shamelessly insist that all acquaintances, friends and family members repeat anything remotely amusing they might say or do in my presence, even if it means interrupting their flow.

Luckily, husband Colin can always be relied on to remember everything he says that might be construed as interesting or witty, so I don’t feel pressured to make notes as we go along.

As I was reading the newspaper, I said to him: “What can be done about all the ignorance and apathy in the world?”

He replied: “I don’t know and I don’t care.” I know he was trying to be funny because he laughed heartily, as he does whenever he says something he thinks is clever or jokey.

“I’ve told you before that genuinely witty people don’t laugh at their own gags. What was that other funny thing you said the other day?”

Quick as a flash, he said: “I do.” And he didn’t laugh.

Poor Colin. Ever since he learned that I was going out to dinner with my fantasy boyfriend, George Clooney, he’s been feeling terribly vulnerable.

See how I just slipped that into the conversation? It’s not as cozy and romantic as it sounds. There’ll be at least 500 other people there, but it still counts as having dinner with Gorgeous George.

My chum, Sheran, has invited me to go as her Plus One to a PEN (Poets, Editors and Novelists) event honoring George for his screenwriting skills on Good Night, and Good Luck.

Sheran knows his co-writer, Grant Heslov, and is convinced she can get me introduced to George when she says hello to Grant who, one can assume, will be seated next to the world's sexiest writing partner.

I’ve tried to explain to Colin that George prefers his women half my age and at least four sizes smaller so he shouldn’t worry, but he’s certain George will fall for me and sweep me off my feet.

Colin watched me suspiciously as I slathered Veet hair removal cream over my legs in preparation for my date. “You don’t go to this trouble for me,” he said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I do my legs once a fortnight, whether they need it or not.”

“You might want to do something about the nasal hair while you’re at it.” Harsh. But true. Getting older is no fun at all.

At least Colin, or George, hadn’t seen me plucking the witchy hair out of my chin only moments earlier. That’s three this week. That’s practically a beard.

It didn’t say otherwise on the tube, so I liberally dabbed Veet up my hooter with a cotton bud.

I felt guilty as I drove to The Beverly Hills Hotel because I had the car cleaned, only in case George followed me out at the end of the evening to get my number and I didn’t want him to see I had a filthy car. It’s bad enough that it’s a PT Cruiser, not a sexy Porsche.

I have more guilt to get off my chest. Not only did I buy a new dress for my date with George (red, so I’ll stick out in the crowd), I lasted half a day on a 10-day master cleanse to get me in peak shape. If I’d known about the lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper cleanse before I married Colin I would have tried it then and slimmed down for my husband before the wedding. Honest I would.

I should have put my glasses on to read the ingredients, as then I’d have known that it’s an eighth of a teaspoon of cayenne pepper and not a half. I may give it another go in the New Year. If Beyonce can do it for two weeks to lose weight for Dreamgirls, then surely I can last two days.

I checked I had my notebook in my handbag, in case George said anything worth writing down when I met him (like his phone number) and sashayed into the banqueting hall. I searched the room as nonchalantly as I could. No sign of George.

Blimey, writers are a scruffy bunch. I found Sheran and we took our seats in the magnificent dining room. There’s no easy way to say this, but I can confirm that assumption is the mother of all fuck-ups. Note to self: just because you get given an award doesn’t mean you have to show up collect it. I had been stood up. George was a no-show. Well, not exactly a no-show, as I’m sure he got an assistant to send his apologies to the organizers while he was busy saving the world in China.

It’s taken me seven years in LA to get even this close to a date with George. At this rate, I’ll be 70 before it finally happens.

I sat through about 15 awards and couldn’t face the remaining 25, as my nose kept running and people were looking at me suspiciously like I was a coke addict, so I made an early exit. Another note to self: don't use Veet to remove nasal hair, it makes your nose run uncontrollably. I got home in time for Colin and I to snuggle up together on the sofa and watch re-runs of Frasier. That’s true love right there. Who needs George Clooney? Apart from the refugees in Darfur.

Barking Mad

2006-11-08T09:13:00.000-08:00

There are parts of Los Angeles that seem like heaven. Think of all those elegant houses in the Palisades, the cool funkiness of Venice and the rustic charm of Topanga Canyon. But they all have one thing in common that, to my ears, make them seem like hell. Every tick of the clock, day or night, is punctuated by a bark, woof or yap.

I’ve spent the last two years technically homeless in Hollywood, house- and dog-sitting for various friends in some pretty amazing houses. So when Plus One gets optioned for a million dollars (don’t tell anyone, but I’ll take half a million) and I’m in a position to buy my own home, I should know the best areas.

What I’ve learned is that you might think you’ve found your dream home, but just when you’re settled comfortably to read a magazine, write a chapter of your latest book, gaze at the fabulous view, meditate, nap or just—as I love to do—savor the silence, someone’s dog will start barking, setting off all the other local mutts in a choke chain reaction. It’s enough to try the patience of a saint, even Francis of Assisi.

I’ve become quite fond of Julia’s dog, Muttley, but I still don’t want to own one. Or, nightmare of nightmares, live next door to one. When husband Colin and I were recommended Mariners Village in Marina Del Rey as a good place to rent an apartment, their No Dogs policy was a massive plus for me. It is not, as son Max describes it, a retirement community, nor, as Colin thinks, an Hawaiian holiday camp trapped in the 1970s. You be the judge: www.marinersvillage.com.

So imagine my devastation when, as Colin and I sipped wine on our balcony, marveled at our happiness and gazed across the stunning courtyard with its gently gurgling water feature, a neighbor (a bachelor for sure) started whooping and a-hollering during Monday night football. Lucky for him there wasn’t a gun to hand. Instead, we decided on the Tuesday night to sit on the balcony and talk in slightly raised voices about Sad Football Guy. Funnily enough, he’s quietened down since then.

It seems the apartment above is used exclusively for torrid trysts. We can hear every moan, groan, gasp and rattle of the headboard. I thought it was an earthquake the first time I heard them and ran for cover. While this has totally put me off the idea of ever having sex again for fear of being overheard, Colin seems to be inspired and views the cacophonous copulation as a challenge. I can’t go into too much detail as my parents and children are still alive.

It’s said that moving house is right up there on the stress-o-meter with the death of a loved one or divorce. Two months in, Colin and I are still enjoying married life, although there have been a few tense moments—especially in Ikea. Colin hates Ikea. We couldn’t agree on a sofa or dining chairs. I finally agreed that he may be right and we opted for his—more expensive—choices. And we spent big bucks on a decent bed, which I haven't regretted in the slightest.

He didn’t like any of my paintings that I’ve been storing since Julia and I stopped living together (so she could shack up with Arthur, the Armenian acupuncturist). So we’ve started our own art collection that we can’t afford.

I agreed that I would only buy the bare essentials for the kitchen. I had to concede, as I unpacked my latest purchases from Crate & Barrel, that a caviar dish, mortar and pestle, and ramekins are not exactly essential.

Colin thinks it was obsessive-compulsive to spray WD40 on all the squeaky gates in Mariners Village. Over-functioning maybe, but certainly not OCD—that’s crazy behavior. I guarantee other residents will wonder why no one thought of it before. Colin doesn’t think they were bothered by it in the first place, otherwise they would have done something about it. Bollocks.

If he was starting to annoy me this weekend with his criticism (OCD!), my love and respect for my husband knew no bounds by Saturday night. Saturday morning, he accompanied me to the Buttercup furniture emporium on Venice, where I begged him to agree that we should have the coffee table that cost $500 over our budget. And the antique Chinese piece for the television to sit on. “If it makes you happy,” he said, “but I think they’re too big for the room.”

How we struggled up to our second floor apartment with them. We got them in the car in the first place because two blokes helped us. As we wiped the sweat from our brows and looked at them once they were in position in the apartment, I said, in a classic Little Britain moment: “I don’t like them.”

So we took the unbelievably heavy items down to the car again and Colin took them back to the store for a refund. God bless America and her “no questions asked” money-back guarantee. He didn’t complain, roll his eyes, or say: “I told you so.”

Then, because we couldn’t fit both me and the furniture into the car this time (we don’t know why, OK? That’s just the way it was), Colin had to do the Trader Joe food shop alone on the way back. There was a lot of it, as we were having friends over for Sunday brunch. “Our life is one long dinner party,” he moaned as we unpacked. Enough with the criticism.

This morning, as I was towel-drying my hair, I asked Colin, not at all in a nagging or controlling tone, if he was going to shave before he got in the shower. He said huffily: “Are you going to shave under your arms?” And mumbled something about being married to a Frenchwoman.

At the time of writing, I want you to know, dear reader, that my pits are hair-free. My legs are a bit fuzzy, though. Marriage is one big compromise.