Dilyn the dog’s Downing Street diary (as told to Rod Liddle)

I heard them rowing again this morning, look you. I had just completed my first dump of the day in Allegra Stratton’s handbag when I heard their voices spiralling upwards, the Man and the Woman. They’re not in a good place right now, which is fine by me. A plague on both their houses. Mimsy, woke Carrie, who purchased me under the mistaken impression I was a Peke who would lie gently across her bloody lap all day. And that shambling albino wreck, kind of half-dog half-man, who apparently runs the country, when his wife lets him. Money seemed to be at the heart of their disagreement — it often is. She likes spending it, he is somewhat averse, especially on stuff like furnishings: she complains, in a shrill manner, about the taste of the previous occupier who appears to have been a man named John Lewis. Carrie bought an opulent rug recently for some humongous sum, a ghastly emerald and gold creation handwoven by impecunious navvies from the Maghreb.