SATURDAY
Phonecalls to Dorset police: 235. Nights without sleep: 3. Double espressos: 25. Where is Dave’s pass?!!?!? We applied two months ago for-heaven’s-to-Betsy-Duncan-Smith’s-sake. Chief constable most unhelpful. ‘How do we know your so-called Mr Cameron’s not an al-Qa’eda sleeper cell, eh? Eh?’ Why would they do this? Am starting to feel nervous. I mean, how well do we really know Dave? Nigel says this is the caffeine talking. But, seriously, you can’t be too careful, can you?
SUNDAY
It’s here! DD rang the chief constable and threatened to ‘give him an interview without biscuits’ (?). Now it’s just 3,000 other members of the party, including yours truly, who have to queue. Spent entire day at the refugee, sorry, ‘reception’ centre. Was horrific.
Police showing mercy to no one. Poor Mr Lansley slept in his car last night and woke up to find it clamped, with a little sticker saying, ‘Vote Labour’. This afternoon entire shadow Cabinet forced to join the unofficial ‘do you know who I am?’ queue. Cops are adamant they don’t know who any of us are. (I know this is lie because one of them whispered ‘look, there’s the Man from Atlantis’ when Mr Redwood walked past with the nice blonde lady who translates for him.)
MONDAY
V hungover. Finally got pass, but am now mortified about my goof yesterday over McCain Welcoming Party. How was I to know Senator Lindsey Graham wasn’t his wife? All that time organising a Spouses’ Programme. Dave, or Osama as we now amusingly call him, was v cross. Still, at least I’m not the only one gaffing. Gideon has made things v difficult by calling Gordon autistic. Nigel says it was good, as Blair Bible says we should ‘say what we mean’ (Gould, p.
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