Alison's Diary

Nov 16 2008

MONDAY

Dynamite Di calls to tell me about yesterday, when she was at a celebration for Olympic legend George Kerr's wedding anniversary. At the do she met a lovely wee girl called Olivia, who is only six. "Oh, you have wonderful hair," Di cooed at her luscious locks. Someone then informed Di her grandpa is top hairdresser Charlie Miller, right. At this point Dynamite leaps up and says to the wee girl: "Your grandma Jan has the most fantastic legs." In fact, the glamorous gran's pins are so fabulous Dynamite even took a photo of the languorous legs. Olivia didn't bat an eyelid at Dynamite's gushing praise, saying: "Oh yes, my gran is the funkiest gran in the world." What a lovely thing for her to say. By the time I get to that stage I am sure that any grandchild I have will be saying: "Oh my granny Alison is the hairiest gran in the land."

TUESDAY

My old pal Will Whitehorn, right, president of Virgin Galactic, is up in Scotland to talk about space travel at the Hospitality Industry Trust lunch. Afterwards we met for a drink and he told me about a guy who attended one of his presentations down south. He asked Will a few specific questions, including one about what the upper age limit might be. "Why?" asked Will. "You are but a spring chicken." The guy laughed and revealed he was thinking about buying a ticket - at a cost of a cool £100,000 - for his mum who is in her 80s. It's a shame Les Dawson isn't around - he would have a field day with the idea of fulfilling the dream of many men by sending their mothers-in-law into orbit. In this case I am assured the guy is doing it for all the right reasons.

WEDNESDAY

It seems no one is going anywhere for Christmas or New Year this year. Everyone is staying close to home and not spending much. For a change, I am really looking forward to Hogmanay. I'll be tucked up on the couch, stoking up the fire - actually it is a gas fire but that doesn't sound the same - and putting a massive stew on while waiting to be firstfooted. This appeals far more than traipsing the cold hills of the frozen north and sleeping in lumpy beds if we go visiting. The problem is I have been talking about my plans so much that loads of folk will be popping in on Hogmanay. In fact, I think I'm having a party. Better stock up on drams and shortie. There's a title for my next book, My Big Mouth And I, written in the Betty Ford Clinic. Well, the crowd coming are not exactly the temperance society.

THURSDAY

I've been trying to go to the gym over the past two weeks and, against the odds, I've gotten a grip of my lethargy and exercised. So imagine my dismay when I weighed myself this morning and found I have put on 2lb. Horrified, grumpy and disillusioned, I put on my ill-fitting tracksuit and go down to the gym for some more action. The gym has just got a power plate, which is apparently fantastic for getting rid of cellulite. I vow to stand on it for hours if I do nothing else. My face is tripping me and I confess to my trainer PK about my weight gain. He tells me that it will take a while for any weight loss to register. I also hear the old chesnut about muscle weighing more than fat. By God, at this weight I must have muscles like Popeye. Well, I do like olive oil. I listen to the reassuring words and decide I will persevere with my exercise regime. Bingo flaps, watch out. Your days are definitely numbered.

FRIDAY

Hosted the Spinal Injuries Scotland Winter Dinner Dance at The Thistle Hotel in Glasgow. What a great night and we raised more than £49,000. We got a donation of two days at Silverstone from the Ferrari GT Racing Team Scuderia Ecosse. It included sitting in the pit during a race plus full hospitality. It's hard to be auctioneer and a bidder but I was tempted to try. It finally went for £2200. Entertainment was from the fabulous Siren, a classical girl band who supported Mark Ronson at Glastonbury this year, and a great act called Rough Cut made up of kitchen porters from Glasgow's Southern General hospital.

SATURDAY

Get a call from my friend Fiona, who had defrosted her freezer and found something her brother had given her ages ago from his farm in Perthshire. "It looks like lamb. I'm making it for lunch. Coming over?" Food? Rhetorical question really. Off I went. A couple of glasses later we sit down to eat. "This isn't lamb," I observed. She forgot to mention that as the meat defrosted and she began cooking, it became apparent it was actually venison. We thoroughly enjoyed it with mint jelly and a half-hundredweight of tatties. Fat of stomach and swilling with red wine, I sashayed home to watch The X Factor - come on Alexandra, right. Off to the gym tomorrow - the past few days are protruding from my tum. Yes, Christmas is coming and Alison is getting fat. This is my new mantra to keep me on the straight and narrow.