The Collector

Mr Gainsborough-Roberts' full length black coat was emblazoned with a sequinned image of the legendary blonde. The eccentric sixty-something-year-old also wore a faded blue tie and waistcoat from which the screen siren pouted seductively. He digressed endlessly as he sipped his 11am glass of white wine. “Well I used to collect posters from the cinema from about the age of seven,” his upper class accent and tongue rolling blended his answers into a posh inaudible mumble. But the real collection started with a £15,000 dress. Now, eighteen years later, he has the world's largest genuine collection of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia. Costumes, folded hap haphazardly in acid free tissue paper, had been stuffed into drawers in uninhabited rooms at his Jersey home. Outfits, jewellery, shoes and photographs from the too short life of the glitzy fifties show stopper mingled with Elvis' ring and Audrey's make-up set. A life size wax work model made by Madame Tussauds stands in his kitchen. In the next room, the iconic red sequinned dress from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes had been tried on by the Monroe lookalike who wiggled across the carpet leaving a trail of jewels behind her for the PR girls to pick up. Now, thanks to the six feet tall white haired collector, it was on display - carefully fitted around a specially made mannequin. The cocktail dress Monroe wore in Some Like It Hot and the Niagara “wiggle dress” were gems in the fanatic's unrivalled collection. Backstage photographs taken by Eve Arnold during the filming of The Misfits were also laid out behind the glass. A legend born from her untimely death and her unhappy life.

Whisky Mac

The ninety five year old from Surrey set a new backstroke world record. Mr Harrison swum to victory despite having undergone two spinal operations in four years, the last of which was six months ago. The fastest elderly swimmer to compete in the race, he puts his speedy sportsmanship down to Whisky Mac. Two thirds whisky and one third green ginger wine. I'm not quite sure how the regular warming tipple helps Mr Harrison's coordination but no doubt it eases any age related aches and pains. I was introduced to Whisky Mac whilst on a Dartmoor escape. Moorland gave way to woodland as the path narrowed and steepened. A stream ran through the trees and daffodils had randomly set down roots in amongst the ferns. We spotted the fire from the stone cottage before we saw it - breakfast cereals and milk were laid out on the wooden table in the late morning sunshine adding to the feeling of escapism. “Hello, hello” we shouted as we entered the dark cottage, our enthusiasm momentarily shattering the peace. The others had arrived the night before and lit the fire, left a pile of walking boots in the porch and unpacked boxes of food delivered to the door by wheelbarrow. After an outdoor breakfast we headed towards the moor. Dry bracken cracked beneath our feet as we followed our own path up the hill. Reaching the top we drank in the view suddenly appreciating what was on our doorstep. Reclined against rocks at the foot of Bowman's Nose in the early afternoon sunshine, our faces up to the sun, we passed the home made cocktail around as, resting in a comfortable silence between bursts of walking.

Flowers

She came into the room and disarmed me with flowers. Her instant, constant chatter was verging on nervousness and had I not known her grief that's what I would have mistaken it for. The photographer arrived early again. She was anxious to accommodate him and generously offered to buy him a drink even though the newspaper was footing the lunch bill. Her answers to the quick fire questions hinted at an inability to make decisions and my shorthand spread down the page like ancient Egyptian script. It was a simple question about her favourite clothes shop which drew a sad response. “Since Helen died I haven't really enjoyed shopping. She was a really good shopper. That's been a big loss. Going back to clothes shopping has been hard and does not seem very important any more – and it's not after the loss of a family member.” A promising young actress Helen died in a Boxing Day car crash. When her brothers and father went to see the mangled vehicle they decided to turn their heart-breaking loss into something positive and the foundation was born. The arrival of food allowed for a brief breath of air and my thoughts momentarily wondered to another family and another painful loss. Prescription drugs attempted to numb his mother's pain and she wandered soullessly into each subsequent hour. For a second she looked up at this stranger in her living room, just a few days after the death of her youngest child. “I don't mean to be rude, but why are you here?” I regret not being honest. Instead of saying, “I don't know, I find this intrusive and difficult and I'm sorry your son has died.” I told her it was to write a tribute to her son because friends, teachers and past acquaintances had called the paper with the news. The truth was I had searched the archives, phoned friends and teachers and past acquaintances. I had accessed the electoral role and I knew where they lived and what their jobs were before I arrived. With Helen's mum time had healed some of the wounds like a scar you gradually get used to or a limb you learn to live without. When the plates had been cleared away and the bill paid she put the flowers into a wet tissue and wrapped them in a plastic bag, “Helen would never go to lunch without bringing flowers,” she said.

Allotments and armchairs

Last month a small leather armchair sold for £19million. The twentieth century chair designed by Scottish-Irish Art Deco designer Eileen Gray was sold by Christie's for a record breaking, not to mention recession busting, sum. The crinkly muddy brown leather is framed by two ornate horns resulting in a menacing looking 'dragon's armchair' despite its' 24 inch height. Selling for six times its' original estimate, this affliction on all tasteful furniture, counted among its' previous owners the late fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent. Upholstered in natural hand antiqued water buffalo hide the sprung back is encased in Mongolian horsehair. One could politely describe it as an eccentric vintage piece – no doubt similar credentials to the new owner – but nineteen million pounds? Can you imagine adding such a museum piece to your insurance? They'd think you'd gone mad. Anyone who dared to sit on it would probably be taken outside and shot by the butler. Determined to obtain the fashionable heights of shabby chic, I opted for a stripped-down, budget version of Gray's masterpiece. The two miss-matching yellow pine chairs cost me a mere £20. Sally and I had hunted through Steptoe's yard and been victorious. Delighted with my buy and armed with a sander I began to peel away the high shine in order to carry-out my own DIY shabby chic. As the used-to-be varnish and dust floated into Sally's coffee I could see the potential already. Shabby chic, I have discovered, incorporates any badly painted (usually white) reclaimed wooden furniture which wouldn't look out of place in a French boudoir. These worn looking wardrobes, dressing tables and mirrors are like a Plain Jane in fancy dress. My bargain chairs are however destined for my kitchen and not the bedroom. Once I have defaced them with forget-me-knot blue paint cracked with a blow torch, they will be transformed into reputable shabby chic items. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Mole and his girlfriend were turning over the soil and portioning off his newly acquired allotment. After what seemed an eternity at number three on the waiting list he had finally got his own plot of land. I was busily relaying the types of vegetables planned for the allotment when Sally said: “It must be an age thing.” Sat outside happily sanding down the chairs whilst drinking tea, I queried “what, you mean allotments and armchairs?"

Ashes to ...

Apparently there is life after the inferno – and not just in the spiritual sense. Cremation always seemed so much more civilised than a coffin burial; rather than decaying in a box, cremation offers a cleaner, express exit from the world of the living. This was until I discovered the creepy underworld of cremation. Scattering remains over a cliff top during an emotional tribute is simply passé. Ashes, on the other hand, can be mixed in with virtually anything. There are literally hundreds of companies effectively waiting in the wings of the funeral parlour ready to sell you back your relative as soon as the music stops playing. When the day finally arrives – and I sincerely hope it is way in the future when my own health starts to ail – I don’t want my dear mother melted down into a cat and placed on the mantelpiece. The problem is other people don’t mind having grandpa Bill made into a spitfire, or heaven forbid, a mug. Can you imagine the look on the face of an unsuspecting guest when you reveal to them they are in fact supping from aunt Nerys? Environmentalists can even send their dearly departed out into the ocean in the form of a moulded Reef Ball. Slumped over a bar at the wake, conversations would run something like this: "Sorry to hear about your dad." "Oh don’t worry; he’s at the bottom of the Atlantic helping build up deteriorating coral reefs and creating a new marine environment off the coast of Florida."

Thinner?

Incense burnt slowly creating pockets of mist with the low lighting, which subtly invited us to relax among the various Asian artefacts. Acoustic versions of songs made famous by back-in-the-day crooners, merged into one in the background whilst we sat ticking boxes. The check list was endless. Have you got verrucas, heart problems, breathing difficulties, pains, diabetes - an aversion to strangers? Lulled into a false sense of security and happily ticking away at the 'no' boxes, the final inquiry glared out from the questionnaire like a bar of Green and Blacks when you're on a diet. What would you like to change about your body? What a clanger. After 21 years of friendship we often find ourselves finishing off one another's sentences or in this case speaking in unison; “thinner?” we queried. All this for a massage? Signing our lives away and absolving the spa from any responsibility should we experience a sudden velocity towards the floor. The last time I had a massage was in India after five days trekking in the Himalayas and several near head-on collisions on the journey through Rajasthan. Two tiny Indian women with leathered faces and rough hands prepared the room. There was no preamble, no questionnaire. A few minutes later I heard Jen's voice from the other side of the curtain. "Have you got any clothes on?" she asked, a note of slight discomfort in her voice. "Well,” I replied, “she's dressing me in a paper loin cloth, does that count?" There is after all, something to be said for English conservatism and box ticking.