Out of the Partridge Canon

1997 September
Monday 22

Today I received a hamper from Fern Britton.

"Wey aye Mister Partridge", Michael said, bringing the package to my room. "Canny that, like".

Except it was un-canny. (Not "uncanny"; rather it was not-"canny", as in the Geordie sense.) It was a culinary surprise, yes, though not a pleasant one. My multi-month sojourn (or "stay") at Linton Travel Tavern had thus far yielded no culinary surprises (even a thrice-weekly rotating menu can get somewhat predictable); but what in the heck am I supposed to do with dried pasta, balsamic vinegar, and a set of steak knives in a hotel room? I suppose you could boil the pasta using the tea-and-coffee-making-facilities, but I would stop short at heating up the sauce in a Corby Trouser Press. I did. (It's only the Corby 3000 series; I wager the Corby Executive would not "spoil the broth", or sauce.)

I'll give the steak knives to Carol as a housewarming present. Technically it is my house (and she never did properly move out), but with her and her sex partner living there now it seems churlish not to gratify her my small onus. That's if she doesn't take the knives to mean I want to horrifically murder them both, like something from an Alfred Hancock film. The balsamic vinegar I'll give to Dave Clifton. I'll tell him it's a dessert wine. The prank won't stretch much further than his reading of the label - but I'm sure I won't forget the look of disappointment on his face. I'm laughing now just thinking about it.

It's all my assistant's fault.

"But Alan, when you gave me the memo I did ask who 'F.B.' was".

She ruddy well didn't. Transparently attempting to acquit herself she fired back this gem verbatim: "I left a message for you at reception, and you didn't get back to me", then she claimed she couldn't get through to either of my business phones. (I'm upgrading from an Ericsson GH337 to a Motorola StarTAC. It has a very futuristic name and high-tech clamshell design, I can imagine Captain Kirk calling his doctor on that. It has a silent vibration alert function, which can be very irritating when you miss an urgent call - unless it's from Bill Oddie - and I don't see that ever catching on.)

She did know I was writing a letter to an alluring female BBC presenter, I told Lynn as much to her aged face, ipso facto how could she mix up Fiona Bruce with Fern Britton?! One of whom presented such pieces of televisual history as Diana: The Nation's Farewell, and Election 97. The other does Ready Steady Cook. It doesn't take a rocket genius to work out who I'd have for dinner.

An immeasurable load of my time was wasted on said letter to the sexy sophisticated Fiona Bruce. I pored my load over it. Very nearly I pulled an all-nighter - a tough decision to make when you have a show to do at 4.30am.

I've got to stop abbreviating people's names. This is just like that time I faxed Anneka Rice a congratulations on her new baby. Then Anne Robinson called me back genuinely panicking that she'd birthed a child in one of her frequent blackouts. Maybe I'll gift the balsamic vinegar to Anne instead, as a sort of wino-equivalent nicotine patch. Obviously I won't tell her it's a dessert wine - she'd very likely have me on Watchdog.