Iestyn Edwards is...what?

'What a creaky lift that was. But, let's remember, the hotel is originally ever so old.' As she pushed the buggy down the hotel corridor, the woman reassured her toddler. 'But it does look cute.' Not sounding as though she really believed herself. 'Oh, we go this way. There will be lots of people here this weekend, with the date. We mustn't forget our exercises, so we can have ourselves a bit of a cheat-treat.' From her build and the sportswear, I assumed the woman was a PT. 'You'll enjoy yourself. Ooh, brace yourself, Rico, a bit of manoeuvring...' She turned at the end of the corridor.  Rico wasn't a toddler.  It was a pug.  In its buggy.  'This is Rico. I'm Jill. He's a rescue pug. Fawn.' 'Iestyn. Variety turn. Sitting in the hotel lobby, like Miss Marple, watching the comings and goings.' 'I'm a peripatetic masseuse for top sports teams.'  I felt there was a dichotomy between Jill's physical imp...

In Tesco's deli section a kid was shrieking. Ermina, at the till, said it was because the parents overfed it.  ‘Children never hear “No”, these days, and they get very screechy in here,' she clarified.  Ermina, coming from a Seychelles shanty town, had never had supermarkets full stop. ‘Stalls by the side of the road at best. But feeling gratitude for anything and everything is the Lord’s blessing on us. It is most certainly not on the way, this child’s attitude, to being the person who first thing Sunday in Sunday out gives up their time unquestioningly and with no need of thanks to sweep the church steps.’ I asked Ermina, was she talking about herself? I could see her with a triumphal, praising, blessed sweep parting the dust like God did the Red Sea.  She said, ‘No, not me. I still have things I can do with my Sundays, thanks be to God. I go swimming in Brockley, have an ice cream. Sometimes going overground to Clapham Common to see what the trees are up to. It’s Betti...

I've walked out of an Airbnb. I tried, I really tried. To put up with being there. On and off for eleven days. I don't know why.  Well, I do. Trying to make things work, fearing reprisals, not sticking up for myself.  The Hosts and I are now in dispute, with Airbnb as referee.  (In the Are you f-ing blind or what, ref? sense.) To kick off (no football pun intended) the agent told me, 'I can't pass on your comments. That would count as personal advice.'  So, I passed them on myself: 'Robin, I have some reality checks for you on your listing.' It is in a luxurious block and has just been fully renovated to a high end before being listed.  'The block is not luxurious, it's basic.' [Even the block's management company laughed at the descriptor luxurious .] 'Stained, damp smelling industrial carpet, faded, scuffed and spotted magnolia paint. Throughout the flat itself are botched paint and plaster touch-ups.' The space comprises a one-bedr...

This afternoon I went upstairs from my Airbnb to ask whoever lived there would they mind if I had a singing lesson at some point this week. The woman that opened the door was in her seventies, with a wryly amused look; deep turquoise woollen pyjamas and matching slippers. Her hair was grey, side parted and up-combed-over.  Here is the transcript of her monologue: I can’t believe it’s Airbnb downstairs. I’ve been here twenty years, since I divorced my husband and the housing association found me this place. I wouldn’t want to be here, otherwise. But I’m from round here. There’s good places, of course, but also bad places. Ore. The Old Town is so overrated. All those...what are they called...artin...oh, is that it? I’ll know for next time. All that type of shops but still nobody picks up the dog shit.  Do you hear my tele? Because I go deaf of an evening. I can’t believe it’s Airbnb downstairs. I did see a fat woman in there. And a bloke coming in and out I never saw without a c...

We self-employed performers in the UK will be skin of teeth submitting our tax returns by 11.59 and fifty-nine seconds on January the thirty-first. But only if we're that anal and over-organised.  Now, one, don’t worry – the following won’t get over-naughty, just naughty enough – and two, it isn’t true. Though an actor in my year at Guildhall went into porn, which gave me the idea.  An HMRC pamphlet gave me some amusement one dullish day in Aldeburgh, Suffolk.  Q. Are you confused about what constitutes being self-employed as opposed to employed? For your own self-elucidation, we advise you to answer in writing the questions highlighted in the pamphlet with specific reference to your last completed paid employment. Your answers should be written in ink. A. Not blood, then? Q. Did you “A” instigate the work or were you “B” hired to do the work? A. B.    PS - maybe use numbers as well here? Letter on letter is a tad confusing.  Q.  If “B”, by whom were y...

Coochie, a late teen, in the pub wearing a lime green tracksuit ironed to cutting edges by his mother, needed to buy a new toaster.  He had never been left home alone before - clearly had never done anything for himself at home before - and his mother had gone on holiday.  Making breakfast for the first time ever, he had spread butter and jam on the bread before putting it in the toaster.  'How was I to know? That's how it always is on my plate.'

Other than the word ‘unique’ used over ten times, a digest of this week’s feedback from my talk My Tutu Went AWOL contains the word ‘hilarious’ five times, ‘laughs’ four and ‘hysterical’ once. On Wednesday I stood with a male member of the Welwyn U3a, in his most unsmiling late-fifties, watching the future talks programme in perpetual motion on the screen at the front of the hall. ‘That one about bomb disposal has sold thirty-seven more tickets more than you have,’ he told me. ‘The history of plague pits twenty-six. The murder case forensic officer nineteen. I think the bomb disposal woman was so far ahead because in her blurb she said she had suffered some failures.’ Oh.