Archive for June, 2007

I only went out to get a sandwich

Wednesday, June 27th, 2007

And I came back with a whole new Prime Minister.

Now, I did spend a few possibly delusional months, some time ago, announcing that I thought Gordon Brown could well be a good PM. I am no longer nearly so sanguine, partly because Brown tried to tax my underpaid little arse off – see the bit about scrapping the 10p rate? – and partly because I’m not entirely sure our marvellous fiery economy is layable at Mr Brown’s feet (I’m thinking, economies bounce up and down in cycles, don’t they? Well, make sure you’re chancellor on the up-bounce (and run away to Number 10 before it goes splat, the which splat you can then blame on the current Chancellor/ global warming/ the Tories)), and in any case, I feel a little jaded about an economy that prevents me from ever buying a house anywhere at all in the British Isles. And as you can see, discussing the Economy, stupidly, turns me into Bernard Levin. I promise to lock all the parentheses away in their drawer for the rest of the post.

Anyway, there was some cause for schadenfreude. I can’t be the only one who danced up and down in the street on hearing that Patricia Hewitt has resigned. I can only assume she resigned now because she knew Brown is not so much of a flaming eejit as to keep her on, and she may as well jump with some fluttering rag of attempted dignity clutched about her rather than be picked up by the foot and wrist and flung into the middle-distance. If only the silly bitch had had somewhat more dignity and buggered off in April. What am I talking about? I’ll allow Aphra to explain.

And I see that the departing Mr Blair is being wrapped in olive-branches, loaded into a giant catapult and fired at the Middle East. I was about to get good and cynical about that. But in Sierra Leone they see him as a hero. Northern Ireland also seems to have gone rather well. Nevertheless, Iraq is an unspeakable hell-hole somewhat of his own creating, which makes the whole thing soap-opera interesting, don’t you think?

Not too shabby a burst of developments for a quick sandwich-related absence, eh? Tuna, thanks for asking.

I missed you guys

Monday, June 25th, 2007

And to think I left you all with that delightful image of me comparing carrots to pavement star-fish. Ah, well.

How are you all? I’m, well, somewhat traumatised by my own innards, I suppose. I’m still waiting for surgery, or even a date for surgery (the NHS being delightfully vague about these things unless your leg has fallen right off). And every time I went back to the doctors’ for a check-up, they found something else wrong with me, which got a little dispiriting. I then lost my head completely and attempted to keep up a façade of being the Biggest Strongest Jolly Green Giant in Christendom at work, which meant I’d get home in a shaky, tetchy, puppy-kicking state of mind. We don’t have a puppy. Which was frustrating, me, roaming the parks at sunset, looking for unattended puppies to boot into the lake, while the husband patiently did all the washing-up and then called me home with an alpenhorn at feeding time. It is even possible I got a little depressed [A little depressed? That was a little depressed? God spare us all from seeing you moderately depressed, then - Ed].

Well, we shall draw a veil over my brief sojourn in the Miry Slough of Despond [Not nearly as bad as Slough itself]. In the end, despite being physically no better, and in fact deeply irritated to find that I was Officially Worse Than They Thought, my Stiff Upper Lip and I had rather a bad falling out, I cried for hours, and embarrassingly I feel a good deal better for it.

So I’ve come back.

It doesn’t hurt in the least that I have purchased yet another notebook to add to The Ziggurat of Lost Plots:

Book tower.jpg

Though this is the notebook to end all notebooks. Friends, meet The New Girl. Any day now, I will stop licking her possessively.

The New Girl