Mummy is all wrapped up

“THERE may trouble aheadBut while there's moonlight and music and love and romanceLets face the music and dance.”Irving Berlin, who knew a bit about the theatre, said that.

“THERE may trouble ahead

But while there's moonlight and music and love and romance

Lets face the music and dance.”

Irving Berlin, who knew a bit about the theatre, said that.

I am now preparing for my next stage appearance-in early October in Felixstowe for those interested-and, I think it's fair to say, tempers are fraying and moods are anxious as the performance draws near.

At the last rehearsal, after a particularly demanding routine during which I have to move in strict time to the music of Abba with fellow IODS actor Stephanie-the-diva, I was approached by one of those at the helm.

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“James, there's something I want to ask you,” said the affable director.

“Yes,” I replied intrigued.

“Would you like to be the mummy in the 1970s comedy section called “Bernie and Derek” part of the show?” he asked.

“Well I suppose so,” I replied, gracefully accepting the tragic and now undisputable fact that my amateur dramatic career will never include a romantic lead.

“Well we need someone and there isn't anyone else. Will you do it?” James, who clearly wasn't in the mood for stroking my ego, asked.

“I will. But what's my motivation?” I replied, artistically.

“An all-you-can-eat-Chinese buffet and three pints of lager on the Friday night after the show,” he replied, in a voice which I felt was just a smidgen sardonic.

Then, as he scuttled away to hold an emergency conference with the not-to-be-crossed-choreographer-and-IODS-stalwart-Margaret, he added: “You have to walk out of a sarcophagus and say a line. And oh…” he went on “You also need to be in the Egyptian sand dance.”

So it appears, dear readers, I am to make my debut on the stage at the Spa Pavilion dressed in sheets and bandages, looking particularly healthy for someone who died three thousand years ago, telling fellow thespians to expect imminent death for disturbing the tomb of ancient pharaohs.

There may be teardrops ahead, but as I'm learning this week anything can happen in this business we call show.

WHY did the summer go so quickly? Was it something that I said?

Though I can't stand the rain against my windows bringing back sweet memories, there is something reassuring about the change of season.

All of a sudden it was GCSE results time, and any minute now it will be back to school, autumn and the modern prolonged Christmas will be rearing its increasingly ugly head.

It doesn't seem that long ago I was 16 and opening a brown envelope to find I'd scraped a GCSE in chemistry- grade D.

I never was a high achiever but I can remember it's not sensible to mix potassium with water - though I'm not sure why.

Back then policemen were old, and council tax was not something I thought or even cared about.

In less than a month I'll be 31. I am at an age where I shan't be celebrating.

I was outraged at the discovery that Suffolk County Council was - until recently- spending £400-a-day of taxpayers' hard-earned cash on buffet lunches, tea and biscuits and refreshments during internal meetings.

It hasn't been revealed how long this £144,000-a-year habit was going on, before council's press officers - arguably themselves an expensive luxury - issued a self-congratulatory press release patting the organisation on the back for helping fill a £24 million budget deficit by denying themselves a slice of quiche and a spot of cheese and pickle.

It's not often that council stories get me excited but I have to say, dear readers, this level of spin is an example I feel is my duty to point out.

The council was eager to point out, under the banner “Budget savings on track” that “The first accepted idea is to stop providing refreshments and lunches for internal meetings across the council, which will save about £12,000 a month.”

At first an incredulous Evening Star newsroom thought it was a typing error.

I don't know about you, but I do not pay taxes for anyone to eat egg mayonnaise sandwiches. I certainly do not want to encourage these often excessive “internal meetings” when people should be working instead of talking about working, and why can't these people, who enjoy all the other benefits of the gravy train that has become modern local government, buy their own lunch like everyone else?

Why should a pensioner or anyone else for that matter, who is forced to pay what has become crippling council tax, be expected to buy them a spot of lunch? It's not right.

According to the press release the woman in charge, councillor Jane Storey was in fact pleased at the savings.

She added: “Undoubtedly it is very hard while we make changes, but it is clear that we have to do things differently now."

You certainly do.

I am a smoker, I'm not a smoker, I am a smoker, I'm not a smoker.

I am on and off, off and on the fags more than I care to admit at the moment.

Denying myself a hedonistic pleasure has never been that easy for me and smoking is proving nigh on impossible.

I know it's nasty, dangerous, silly and unpleasant but still I carry on. I'm very attached to smoking it seems but at the same time I do want to stop.

At the moment I am giving up once every ten days - can any one offer any advice to keep me off the dreaded weed?

Has anyone got any tips? Pen me a missive do.

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