Monday
Tricky times. I’ve got two statements to work on and they’re virtually interchangeable. Am worried Dave will end up urging the FSA to investigate the despicable conduct of Labour peers while calling for City fat cats to be suspended from the House of Lords. Possibly there is some overlap so it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Nevertheless would rather get it right so am off to the Austerity Room for a bit of Fiscal Meditation before I start drafting…
Oh dear. Ken was in there, smoking a big fat cigar, his feet up on the BrightHouse coffee table. He was in v jolly mood, pointing to the posters on the walls and laughing: ‘What’s all this nonsense about babies being born in debt? It’s absolutely ridiculous!’ I set him straight, of course. Told him Britain was facing its worse recession in living memory. ‘Poppycock! It’s not that bad, for heaven’s sake. Cigar?’ Tried to tell him we aren’t allowed to smoke — anywhere, even at home — but before I could get to the end of the sentence he’d shut his eyes and fallen asleep and was trailing ash all over the floor.
Tuesday
Super coverage in the Sun for Dave’s new policy on UFOs. He had to be careful of course. He could only say he was convinced the earth had been visited by aliens. He couldn’t say how he knows — nanu nanu! Over a v jolly lunch at the Italian across the road, Wonky Tom told me he wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t have more of them. Says Mr Grayling has a strange glassy look in his eyes. I said I didn’t think he could be one, he’s too friendly.
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