In July 1949 aged three, mum and I took the bus to the Cottage Hospital, Eltham, South London, to have my tonsils removed. I had a small suitcase which contained the little blue and white striped flannel pyjamas as I mentioned my recent posting, a pair of plaid bobble slippers and my Teddy which wasn’t really a Teddy but a stuffed koala made from real koala fur with one glass eye. The koala would be forbidden today, and that is all I remember apart from endless meals of scrambled powdered egg, jelly and ice cream.

And that was my last hospital visit until this morning. Today, I shall be toddling off to another hospital with considerably more baggage as I’m off for a two week stay and my bag will contain a couple of books, iPhone and charger. iBook and charger and assorted CD’s. No longer possessing pyjamas, I shall take a collection of boxers and t-shirts. I do not have a dressing gown but I don’t care, as I have no intention of socializing in the cafeteria. Tracksuit pants will do for trips to the tuck shop.

This is the reason why my missives for the next few weeks may probably be confused and sporadic. I have tentatively put a few stories on automatic publishing but frankly my heart isn’t in it and I don’t want to disappoint my faithful readers with any padding about worming the cat or planting window boxes.

The good news is that my excess weight is literally dropping off although the diet is rather draconian and not recommended for those who just want to lose an inch or two off their bum.

Dear pals. I’ll tell you more when I am compos mentis and back to reality – or at least my version of reality - and after the men in green coats and bonnets have had a poke around in my giblets.

Ah, the joy of fish. Last night we ate turbot at a ridiculous price, but turbot so fresh, its next of kin had not yet been notified. Therefore the price was justified.

I love that programme on Sky TV about the most dangerous jobs in the world. I can leave the lumberjacks and ice road drivers to their tasks, but when it comes to fishermen, I am in awe. Men who go out in small boats in the most treacherous conditions to bring us back small fish, if they are lucky.

I don’t eat meat. Well, I don’t eat slices, roasts or chops. But I do enjoy liver, kidneys, mince, brain and trotters. Strange, a bit Hannibal the Cannibal isn’t it?

I love things from the sea, or our lake.

Fishing, no matter how big the boat or net, is still “The Hunt”. Not much in our food pile is hunted anymore. Cattle, pigs, sheep and poultry are raised in horrendous conditions. But fish, apart from the anaemic, farmed varieties, are hunted down by robust and hearty fishermen who work in the most awful weather to catch noble cod, hake, skate, haddock, sole and a whole family of white fish that has lived the wild life that a fish should, and flake beautifully from the bone – if properly cooked. I adore the sardine and herring too as I feel they oil my joints. A two-day bash on a diet of nothing but oysters, whelks, mussels, winkles and clams I find rejuvenating. But they must be consumed close to the sea for the sake of freshness and economy.

I live 700 kilometers from the sea, and the likelihood of getting a fresh piece of turbot is rare. But yesterday we found it. I won’t tell you where, because it may not be the same quality next time, and I don’t want to disappoint you.

If you live in this area, the Saturday market in Ferney or the Sunday market in Divonne have excellent fresh fish and shellfish. And if you are not sure about the cooking, just ask the fishmonger. If you are nice to him, he’ll cut your head off and throw in a lemon too, and a bunch of parsley.

It was exactly twenty five years ago today that I was sitting at the long bar in the Marbella Club wondering what to do with myself. The sun was shining and it was quite warm, but the hotel was eerily quiet. I was on forced rest while shooting a couple of commercials for SEAT cars. The previous evening the wardrobe mistress had overheard, during a drunken dinner at one of Puerto Banus’ flashier eateries, how much we were spending on models, directors, cameramen etc and had decided that what she was getting was not enough. She was right, it wasn’t enough and I could double the sum as she demanded, immediately. But too late, she had legged it in the night. These were the days before mobile ‘phones and Pilar had taken off into the hills with all the flat brimmed hats, bolero jackets, grey stripped pants, chaps and boots. She had even taken the authentic Andalusian saddles. Search parties were sent out and she was finally found agreeing to come back the next morning – for cash. Shooting would recommence on Stewart Granger’s beautiful estate. Stewart had just been run out of Spain for dubious property dealing and his concierge was not against putting a few pesetas in his back pocket by renting out the guvnors property. He and his wife also provided the twenty strong crew with a sumptuous lunch around the pool looking out over the valley to the sea. During my short siesta, I drifted off and thought of all those little starlets that had decorated the place in happier times.

But back to the Marbella Club bar.

“Telephone for Senor G” cried the bellboy as he passed through the almost empty bar ringing his little bell and carrying the blackboard high. “Call from Hollywood for Senor G”. I discretely called him over and pushed a coin into his green waistcoat pocket. The call was of no importance, but what was, was the reaction of my barstool neighbour. Omar Sharif, who was looking rather forlorn and had spent the afternoon alone shuffling cards and flipping beer mats. He looked me up and down, as you do; possibly wondering why this berk was getting calls from Tinsel Town when he wasn’t.

I felt a bit sorry for him with his hang-dog eyes and moved a few barstools closer.

“Cheer up Omar ol’mate” I said. “Give us that Funny Girl smile, or at least that Lawrence frown”. As he had his deck of cards with him, and was always a betting man, I suggested a hand or two with the loser paying the afternoon’s bar bill. He agreed, cut the cards and dealt the hand.

“Mrs. Bunn the Bakers Wife” he shouted excitedly and proudly snapped the card on the bar.

Fatter, granted, but I can see the changes. I’d always fancied myself in dark chocolate suede brogues, grey flannels and a blazer. But I drew the line at yellow cardigans with football buttons, Tatersall shirts and cravats with riding crops or golf club motifs. He wore these with cavalry twill trousers and Hush Puppy suede desert boots. And so did his mates, all of them, Fred, Tom, Dave, Alex, Big Dave, Irish Dave, Ted, Little Dave and Dave’s mate Dave from the other pub. To go for a Sunday pint with my Dad was like going to a casting session for a Daks catalogue or an audition for Last of the Summer Wine.

When I was six or seven I’d come home from school and swing on the gate for hours waiting for him to turn the corner in to our street. A tall man, always well dressed in a double-breasted suit and snap-brim Trilby. He wore shirts with starched collars and gold collar studs as befitted an accountant. He walked well; erect and proud, swinging his rolled copy of the Evening News as if it were a swagger stick.

Tonight I find myself pirating music from the Internet – he would never approve of that, even though the computer and the internet would have beguiled and amazed him. And I’m listening to his favourite songs. He wouldn’t mind that it was Rod Stewart* singing, he would enjoy each and every number, and he would have sung along annoyingly loudly, just as I’m doing. Thanks Dad.

*Rod Stewart: An American Songbook. 4 albums.

Dad. 1951