Townes Van Zandt. Boris Johnson. Thursday 20th March 2008

‘ There’s nothing I ain’t tried,

Fast living, slow suicide.’

I love Townes Van Zandt.

Last time I saw Boris Johnson he was sitting in a Routemaster bus campaigning madly for the job as London’s Mayor. 

The first time I saw him I was walking Evil round the park at 7 am. 

I was quite alone and it was only just getting light when, suddenly, out of the trees by the tennis courts, burst a man in a vividly red bobble hat teamed with baggy shorts and a flappy T shirt. ‘Help!’ I thought loudly to myself ‘A loony.’ As the loony ran past me I saw that it was Boris Johnson.

The next time I saw him, he was touching each bollard at the edge of the park as he ran past in an attractively obsessive compulsive manner and the  very next time, he nodded to me as if to say  ‘Hello.’ 

I could see our relationship becoming more serious.

I like Boris Johnson very much. I think Boris is very attractive. 

I began to choose my dog walking outfits with more care. I trained Evil to trip runneres up by getting right under their feet. 

I was biding my time. 

Then I read Boris’s book ‘Have I Got Views For You.’ so as to sound intelligent and informed as I helped him back to his house after his ‘accident’ and I realised that he is a  Tory. 

Oh well.

 My mother rang. 'Have you and John made up ?' she said.

 ''Yes.' I replied.

 ' How ?' she asked ' How did you make up ? One minute you're getting divorced and the next, you're all fine and dandy. How does that happen ? '

 ' Well, the usual really..' I sighed ' Ennui.'

 ' En nuit ? Do you mean au lit ? ' she asked.

 'No.' I said ' Absolutely not ! Why are we speaking in French ? '

 ' You started it.' she said.

 I am having problems with the idea of going to live in the country. 

 In The Sun this morning I read that all provincial town centres are over run with marauding yobbos high on a cocktail of alcopops and skunk and that they will kick you to death as soon as look at you. 

 I read that there is no point thinking you can live in a nice isolated farmhouse either, because one morning you will wake up to find your back garden has been asphalted over, that three hundred gypsies have moved in and that, when not busy taking over the village school, they will be enthusiastically burning rubber tyres under your bedroom window and leaving hangmen's nooses on your front lawn.

  According to The Sun there won't be a damn thing you can do about it because Gordon Brown has sold all our Human Rights to Germany. 

 Perhaps we should just stay here after all.

 I am very worried about the Credit Crunch. I don't know what it is, but I keep having an overwhelming urge to take all our money out of the bank and hide it under the bed. 

 John says we shouldn't worry. 

 Paul says his father has probably lost all his money in the Credit Crunch but no one will know for ages because he's died. 

 I am going to phone Barclays and check how our money is doing.

Friday 21st March 2008. Good Friday

‘ If that’s a Good Fiday, I wouldn’t want a bad one. ‘ John Hegley wrote that.

Saturday 22nd March 2008. Easter Saturday. 

I was right about March. It has snowed and snowed.

‘What’s the point of snow that just falls down wthout settling ?’ asks Maisie.

What’s the point of snow in March at all ? Snow is for December and January. 

It is for crunchy, starry walks back from midnight mass, for snowball fights on Parliament Hill during the Christmas holidays, for ice slides on pavements in the sodium glow of the street lights .... and for ski ing, obviously.

We were fed up so we took Sylvie and Maisie to see Spiderwick in Islington.

Half way through the film, hoodies burst into the cinema through the fire escape and we had stereo entertainment.

‘ Can’t you see the goblins ?’ said Freddy Highmore to his sister.

‘ I need a wank. ‘ said a hoody.

‘ I’m going to eat your face off.’ said  Mulgarath the ogre.

‘ I wear shin pads to church.’ said a hoody.

‘ Don’t be so rude.’ said a dad.

‘ My dad’s a Jew.’ said a hoody.

You get that in Islington, it’s what the Sun calls ‘Broken Britain.’ I expect they’d been drinking alcopops.

Afterwards, we went to Ottolenghi and bought broccoli for Abigail’s Easter lunch. 

Abigail is much better.

Sylvie went home and now John and me are getting divorced again. I don’t see why we can’t have a normal arguement without divorce, but we are the masters of escalation, it’s why we got married and had children in the first place, most people would have just lived together for a bit.