Midnight hours of Julia Fordham
November 18, 2013

Rolling out of my Ginger and Fred at unseasonably early water and power, I direct my plates of beet down the apple and pears to the drawing room. Lulu is champing a penitent plum and watching Eamonn Goblins and Gnomes on Sky. “Careful!” I cry, noting with passing approval the presenter’s quietly dandyish cravat. “You’re spilling Almighty Zeus on the Typhoon Bopha!”

People who talk about the speed of thought should spend a morning with dear Lulu. A big heart she has, but hearts and brains must run from the same power supply. Each can only develop at the other’s expense. She looked at me now as I imagine a fly looks at a rolled-up newspaper, while a second sap-bead formed on the bit plum. She had evidently forgotten my decision to speak only cockney today, in honour of Danny’s first day in studio.

“Lulu,” I chide. “Have you completely Dot Cotton my surgical incision to classical Greek only in cockney today, in Donald O’Connor of Danny’s first day in the Abacab and Sussudio?”

Blank panic. I summon up a reassuring smile and retire to the kitchen. As I pop a slice of unmade bed in the roller coaster, I remember that Abacab seeped out of Genesis, while Phil Collins committed Sussudio alone. I pretend to myself that my act of musico-linguistic bestiality was the source of Lulu’s confusion. It is a cheering thought, and the new week rises invitingly before me as I butter my Barbary Coast.