Good afternoon.
Oliver Twist is one of those defining stories - with the possible exception of A Tale of Two Cities, it is Dickens at his best and you've either read it, seen "Oliver!" the musical and/or the film and/or probably enjoyed one of the many, fine TV treatments . So when Faye, the Beautiful One who, as you know is in charge, said our lead story is a kind of "Oliver Twist" saga, all ears pricked up. When she said it made innocent criminals out of children as young as 4, having kidnapped them from eastern Europe, you could have heard a pin drop. You will be fixed at 6 and guided through the shock of it all by Glen, who in my mind is more an Artful Dodger than an Oliver.
Marcus, still recovering from his sacred Gooners trouncing at the hands of the Boys from White Hart Lane, vents his spleen on bus announcements. "Too many" you cried. "Here's the evidence", we reported a little while ago. "Not so", protested the blind of London who find them very helpful. TfL, who started it all, back pedalled and said it would pull many of them, only to annoy both the blind protestors and the fine-of-hearing who say there are still too many.
Marcus will wade in, Solomon-like, and threaten to chop the whole argument, metaphorically, in half.
He really is very grumpy.
Unlike the Big Boss who celebrated his birthday yesterday, at home. He brought cake in today which we all enjoyed. Except Faye. She must be a size 6 at the very most and is about to go on holiday to exotic, distant parts. She feared even a sliver of cake would diminish what, in my mind and her delightful husband's mind, flirts with perfection.
So I had two pieces. Hurrah.
I will plough on though, maybe less than animated on the bench, when we tell you about a story which sits somewhere between serious and hilarious. A huge pile of tarpaulins in Reigate, littered liberally with hay, hid an amazing thing. A thing that shouldn't have been there. Not a crooked man nor a horseman of the apocalypse - I can't tell you more save to say you will want to hear Damien's explanation of Reigate's Ructions.
Police dogs are often Alsatians. Alsatia is part of Germany even before Hitler got murderously confused about French Alsace-Lorraine. So, German police dogs would, of course, bark German. And not estuary Essex. Tell that to the Boys in Blue who patrol east of the City and north of the River. Raus raus rather than ruff ruff, I fear.
The mother of the lead singer of The Feeling has cerebral palsy and is in a wheel chair. I met her at a Scope charity event which he had kindly agreed to speak at. I know nothing of his music but I liked him a lot and was really impressed that one so young and so successful would not only remember his mum, but take time out of his meteoric rise to the top, to do something to help her and those who suffer like her. Lucy has been to talk to him about his music. I will listen to the tunes but will be thinking of his humanity. You can make your choice at 6 . Either way, he is a winner.
The London papers will, among other stories, retain an interest in Peter Hain's resignation, unless he changes his mind. Chrissie will, I trust, attempt to warm us up with a good weather forecast or believable spin about Spring.
Either will do.
Salma is taking Katie's place tonight and, early on, asked if she might start work, even today, on tomorrow's What Not To Miss. I pointed out it was Thursday and that she had done it last week. And the week before. She smiled that melting smile and I fear I caved in. Or maybe, after two slices of the Big Boss' cake, I was only capable of an involuntary grin. Who knows. She's doing it. But I still think there is a plot, ploy or piece of professional hanky-panky going on here.
See you at 6.
Alastair & Salma, the one to be watched... me thinks!
