My goodness, I have been so completely captivated by the shocking adventures happening in Downing St, reported, with guaranteed reliability, by the august Daily Telegraph and several over-excited taxi customers, that I almost forgot to write in these pages until this very minute, when it is almost too late.
Not to worry. My day has not been nearly as exciting as our beloved leader’s day. I just took Oliver to the orthodontist. I did not spend the first part of the day thinking up excuses for employing a known rascally knave, and the second part wondering where all my gang had buzzed off to. He seems to have spent the evening getting takeaway dinners delivered, and asking round the cleaning staff to see if anybody fancied volunteering for a new job, either in the cash office or first aid.
I suspect he does not have the smallest intention of resigning. I think that even if the Queen stuck her oar in and said: you or me, one of us has got to go, mate, he would be on the phone to Meghan in California, explaining that a new job vacancy had come up and how was she fixed?
On the whole I think we had a better time at the orthodontist, about which Oliver was very brave, although it did not look at all nice, and he has got an appointment to have two of his teeth taken out in a couple of weeks.
We did not just do the orthodontist. Oliver is going to Canada at the end of the summer, for which he needed to be injected against bat flu. This is still the case even if you have had it, it is that rare sort of illness for which immunity does not confer immunity, at least as far as the Canadian Government is concerned.
Today we took him for an injection, because fortuitously the NHS centre is right next to the orthodontist, in the old shop which used to sell birthday cards.
I sent him in, but my general confidence in the whole set-up was not improved by ear-piercing shrieks, screaming and begging coming from the injection room. I was surprised by this, because I had understood the whole scheme to be voluntary, habeas corpus and all that sort of thing.
It was not Oliver screaming, as I am sure you have guessed. It was some other muppet who had gone in for the injection but then been overcome by the horror of it at the last minute.
Ho hum.
I think that was the total adventure content of my day, apart from the usual dog-emptying activities, and also giving Roger Poopy a haircut.
He did not like this and pretended, unconvincingly, to be dead.
I imagine the NHS wish that people would do that when faced with unwelcome medical procedures.
Enough. I am off home to go to bed.
