After £4 million of taxpayer’s money and eight months of celebrity hand-wringing (bar a few notable and worthy exceptions), democracy has finally triumphed: Leveson has got the press where many MPs have long wanted it, i.e. strapped to a chair having its teeth pulled, without anaesthetic. What was it that Laurence Olivier wanted to know? Oh yes: ‘Is it safe?’ Only if you’re a close personal friend of Hugh Grant, it seems. God help the rest of us. We’re waiting to hear Fleet Street’s response but so far, at least one publication has refused to submit to its punishment: this one. Last week’s NO cover was such an overdue display of cojones, I couldn’t resist tweeting a request: ‘Can you please produce a poster version of that NO cover for your readers? I want to stick it in my window.’ Lo and behold, the following day brought a large brown envelope, and in it a mounted proof. I am informed there are mugs in the pipeline.
That evening, it was the hub’s turn to do Question Time. I was too chicken to watch. I can watch him do almost anything — select committees, speeches at conference, Leveson, the Gay Gordons — but for some reason Question Time gives me the willies. My friend Tania, who normally watches for me and emails as the action unfolds, was not answering her phone, so I had to rely on Twitter for updates. Soon, Gove was trending — but it was not entirely clear why. All the people who hate him hated him more and all the people who love him loved him more. It was hopeless. In the end I had to ring him up myself and ask him. He was just getting the train home. ‘How did it go?’ I said. ‘Not too bad,’ he replied, and then we were cut off.
At dinner with our old friend Andrew Roberts and his super-glamorous wife Susan Gilchrist, Andrew regaled us with the intricacies of New York high society. Personally, I wouldn’t have the stomach for it (by which I mean it is neither flat nor sufficiently toned), but to Andrew a high-class drawing room is a challenge every bit as thrilling as the north face of the Eiger. He is working on a new biography of Napoleon Bonaparte, a subject with which his friends all agree he has a unique affinity. He even intends to travel to St Helena by boat for added authenticity. I can’t see Susan in an Empire line, though. She’s more of a McQueen girl.
Have you ever been to Westfield? It is a vision of hell, especially on a rainy Saturday afternoon. I was there with my nine-year-old daughter, in pursuit of a tracksuit that was neither pink nor flammable and which would not make her look like Honey Boo Boo. Our quest was not helped by the seething crowds of frenzied shoppers and the inane music. At the heart of this pit, the lair of the Beast, the epicentre of all evil: Sports Direct. The smell of sweat and damp Lycra as one ascends the Escalator of Doom is overpowering.
‘I don’t think I can do this,’ I say. ‘Neither can I,’ replies she, and we leave, swerving to avoid the deep-fried-dunking-caramel-pretzel lady, who proffers a tray of sample treats so sickly that I get a sugar high just from inhaling. In the Gilly Hicks shop, a young man in nothing but a pair of budgie-smugglers and flip flops chats to a gaggle of teenage girls. Outside it is snowing.
In the car park, we discover that our ticket has malfunctioned. For 40 terrifying minutes, we are trapped. I press the help button and have a conversation over the intercom with a man who, while enthusiastic, has only the most rudimentary grasp of English. ‘My ticket won’t work,’ I enunciate, in that voice that English people only ever use abroad. Behind me, a queue begins to form. ‘Hurry up, love,’ says a young man with his trousers around his knees. Wearily, we queue up at the so-called help desk. I explain my predicament to an actual person, who looks back at me with flat-eyed indifference. ‘That’s not my department,’ she says, shifting her bulk from one giant hip to the other. ‘Have you tried pressing the help button?’
In a parallel universe, having inserted the ticket into the woman’s mouth, given trouser-knee boy a massive wedgie and ram-raided our way out of Westfield, my daughter and I are being pursued by sirens along the A40. In reality we wait patiently until the ticket has clocked up another £2.50 worth of parking, pay, and make our way home. Later, I go up to bed to find her light still on. ‘I’m writing a book, mummy.’ And what’s it about, darling? ‘It’s about a boy who discovers he can fly,’ she says. ‘He takes his brother and they fly away to a land without bullies.’ I’d quite like to go with them.
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