MONDAY
Dave, give me strength! If I get one more phone call from Foxy asking me to write press releases about his trip to Afghanistan, I’m going to make an official complaint.
Thought DC looked v. handsome in his war casuals (Howies recycled polo shirt v. dashing). But Jed says we’ve been let down by sweat control. He’s been screaming at Nigel all day. (‘If I see one more bead someone is getting transferred to Ashcroft’s marginals team faster than they can say “general well being”!’)
It’s a difficult time. Everyone nervous about ambitious Mr Fox being so close to Dear Leader with all those guns and explosives about.
Dave’s ideas are not taking Helmand by storm either. He can’t seem to persuade them to grow organic vegetables instead of opium. Today a warlord tried to give him a caseload of his crop ‘for your Notting Hill dinner parties, Mr Dave! Yes, you like?’ Honestly, how rude! Of course Dave told him where to go. It’s illegal to bring vegetation through Customs.
TUESDAY
Can’t believe there isn’t A Bluffer’s Guide to the Middle East in the King’s Road branch of Waterstone’s. How will I cope? Thought we were pro-Israel. Now Mr Hague says we have to stand up to them. (Am I the only one to notice he hums between sentences?) Nigel says it’s all down to his new policy adviser from the Balkans. She’s extremely blonde and pretty and has a strict way of ordering him about. William can’t refuse her anything. Ffion is ffffffffurious.
Dangerous blondes everywhere. Dave’s sister-in-law — sorry, new ‘Correspondence Secretary’ — has everyone in her thrall. DD sidles up to say, ‘Hey, wanna work on the big issues?’ Poppy is inconsolable. Suggested we both dye our hair but this only made her cry more. ‘I want him to like me the way I am.’ You can’t help some people.
WEDNESDAY
Horrid education policy meeting with Mr Willetts and Mr Letwin. They don’t talk to each other so someone — we take it in turns, it’s such a horrible job — has to sit between them passing messages. ‘Tell David, if you would, that I want his interim report on my desk by Christmas, notwithstanding unforeseen complications which might, on balance…’ etc. ‘Tell Oliver I’ll consider his request in the fullness of time unless such complications, inasmuch as they are emergent…’ and so on. I haven’t been so trapped between boredom and bafflement since Daddy made me sit through Dido, Queen of Carthage at the Globe. Later heard terrible screaming noises coming from the Tranquillity Room. Was on tiptoes trying to see through the glass panel when Jed walked past, nodded approvingly and said, ‘Oliver’s been doing a lot of work on his anger.’
THURSDAY
Am back on ‘search for a star’. Only a few days to deadline and we haven’t got anything approaching a famous mayor. Just a heap of applications from undercover journalists, Victoria Boring and Warwick Lightweight.
Mr Norris v. smug. Rings to say, ‘Tell Dave I’m just so happy to be standing aside to make way for this fabulous new candidate you’ve got …who is it again?’ Er …
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