It has not been a very exciting day, but I suppose excitement isn’t everything. I am quite sure that Angela Rayner would swap in a heartbeat.
I have not been miserably trying to understand my taxation affairs. I leave all of that sort of thing to the accountant, who understands it on my behalf and simply sends me an invoice occasionally. That way I can be as clueless as I like and feel reasonably confident that HMRC are not going to come round and shout at me.
I do not quite see why she did not do that, I might write to her and suggest it. My accountant does not live very far away from her, quite close to one of her houses at any rate, and he is very reasonably priced. He could save her a very lot of looking bravely misguided in front of the newspaper photographers.
I was impressed at the way she was able to arrange her face into that expression. I might have a go myself, it is a handy one to have in your repertoire when you don’t want to be in trouble for something.
I have not been worrying about my taxation affairs today. Today I have been to see the lady charlatan.
I mean Chiropractor, of course.
She did some painful prodding and poking, there were some clicks and some grinding noises, and I was allowed to stagger to my feet. My shoulder has not got better but she says that it will take several more sessions and some exercises before it does that.
I am hopeful that she is right.
I have been doing the exercises that she has given me, although without much enthusiasm, obviously because they are exercises, which are far from being my favourite occupation. Also they look ridiculous and therefore cannot be done to enliven otherwise dull occupations. There is a limit to the amount of wagging about that you can do when, for example, you are between customers in the taxi or waiting patiently in the queue at Booths.
I went to Booths on my way back. They have run out of lettuce. This is a serious issue, we only have one left and we use them at the rate of at least one, and sometimes two, every day. This is not because I like lettuce but because they give me the illusion of eating something, although from a calorific point of view, clearly I am not.
They have had no lettuce all week, perhaps there is an international lettuce-farming crisis. We once had a guinea pig with a fondness for lettuce. It was called Stumpy because of a genetic misfortune, and lived in the kitchen. It liked lettuce so much that it would rush out of its little guinea-pig house and squeak, noisily and irritatingly, every time somebody opened the fridge. It would not be shut up by anything other than lettuce, which it consumed joyously, in enormous quantities, although I do not think it was on a diet.
I have been obliged to be sparing with the quantities of lettuce in tonight’s picnic. It is a larger-than-usual picnic, because I am pleased to report that Mark is home.
I have barely spoken to him yet. He arrived about an hour ago, and is now in his taxi, eating his minimally lettuced sandwich.
I am sure there will be an opportunity to catch up in a little while, although I had better get on with it because he is only home for a week.
In the meantime, I am still reading my book about Lucy Letby.
It is a gloomy, if riveting read, and I am sorry to say that I am only halfway through but nevertheless convinced that she Dun It.
I am going to go away and find out more.
