Monday
Mrs Hannan on the phone again, wanting to know when she can have her husband back. Told her to hold the line while I asked Nigel who stopped Twittering just long enough to shake his head in a v grim way and make a sign with his finger across his throat. Not sure what this means but I’m guessing it doesn’t mean Mr H is going home any time soon. Reassured her we would have him back when he’s finished his ‘advanced media training’ with Gary. But from the noises I hear coming from Training Room A I wouldn’t hold my breath. If you ask me, he got off lightly. I think it’s terrible of our people to complain about the NHS. I’ve had nothing but good experiences, like the time I had my tonsils out. I was in a lovely room overlooking Wimpole Street and they served me the most delicious tomato soup. All the nurses came to say goodbye while Daddy was settling the bill. It couldn’t have been nicer.
Tuesday
Oh dear. Rich pollution levels through the roof. Little Al Duncan flying back from Bali first class, despite our v precise orders to travel Ryanair and be held up with ordinary holidaymakers in budget airline hell, leading to moving interview on Sky. To make matters worse, Mr Howard is refusing to renounce all profits from his mining company digging up £7 billion worth of gold in Mongolia. Talk about picky! Plus we get word from a certain frontbencher that he’s in line for a £10 million pound bonus from a disgusting horrible bank, of all things. Jed says he may have to activate an emergency re-brand and is talking about all sorts of drastic stuff including the most brutal haircut ever for Dave and a savage reduction in the amount of helicopter and private jet flights he is allowed to take to something like less than ten a month — ouch!
Wednesday
Nerves getting v fraught. Gary stormed into the hub this afternoon shouting about his electrodes not holding a charge. ‘Who’s been messing with them? Eh? Was it you, wonky boy?’ Poor Tom. Relations with Gary have not been the same since he caught him attaching the little clips to his trouser legs ‘just to see what it feels like’. Jed having another panic. Not sure our position on ‘sex encounter workers’ holds water. Do we support lap dancing or don’t we? On the one hand, what red-blooded Conservative male has not enjoyed a visit to Mr Stringfellow’s brilliantly enterprising club with its super fish and chip suppers and hardworking Latvian dancing girls who should be given every opportunity to make their fortune in this country? On the other hand, it’s not v nice. Or is it? We just can’t decide. Compassionate politics can be like that. I don’t have time to think about it now. I’ve got to hack into the computer and rewrite my CV. Need to replace GCSEs in modern dance, equine management and drama therapy with Advanced Maths or Rocket Science or something Mr Gove will think is clever.
Thursday
Am sick of digging the dirt on Terry Waite. The man’s practically a saint. But apparently it’s a dead cert he’s said or done something dodgy at some point and it’s my job to find it before he gets too carried away with the idea of finishing off Mr Duncan. That’s our job, according to Gary, who’s got people meeting him as he comes out of the VIP lounge at Heathrow. Training Room B all rigged up and ready to go!
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