Diary – 31 March 2016

I’d like this to have been one of those Spectator diaries that gives the ordinary reader a glimpse into the sort of party to which they’ll never be invited. Unfortunately, I’m never invited to those parties either; and even had I got the last-minute invitation to scoff Creme Eggs at Henry Kissinger’s Easter shindig, I’d have had to turn it down. My six-year-old daughter fooshed most gruesomely on Friday, and I was hanging out at the Whittington Hospital instead. Foosh is a medical acronym for the sort of injury you get when you Fall Onto Outstretched Hand. It’s common with drunks; and, as in this case, keen amateur acrobats with neither fear nor gymnastic talent. She took a header — or, more accurately, a hander — off a climbing frame and broke both radius and ulna. The big idiot. It had to be reset under general anaesthetic, which meant a night on the children’s ward for us both.