"Take good notice of that patient," drawled Train. "He is recovering from repeated hospital infections, but he is also suffering from an interesting psychological condition. Can anyone guess its nature?" A small Chinese youth said, "Does he think that The Daily Express is a newspaper, sir?" When the laughter had died down, Train said indulgently, "Well done, Wang. Anyone else?" The students took it in turns to peer at my father. Eventually a black woman — who reminded me a little of my ex-wife Jo-Jo — said, "There are three portraits of William Hague in the room. Is he an obsessive?" Train said, "Well observed." He then spoke to the fat Englishman in the group. "Read the patient's notes and give me your diagnosis, Dr Worthington." Worthington's fat face creased in concentration. He read through my father's notes. Eventually he looked up and said, "The poor sod's delusional. He thinks Hague is going to be the next prime minister."
A defeated looking woman cleaner approached with a bucket of filthy water and a rancid mop. She was wearing a cheap nylon overall, emblazoned with the logo Priva Clean. She tried to go into my father's room before being stopped by Train, who ordered her to change the water in the bucket, and don sterile clothes. She whined, "I ain't got time. I gotta clean three more wards and an operatin' theatre before I knock off."
Saturday, May 26
Pandora has abandoned the electorate of Ashby-de-la-Zouch and gone to Hay-on-Wye to seek a private audience with ex-president Clinton. She packed what she called a Lewinsky frock.
She clearly has no morals whatsoever.
Come the revolution…
Saturday, June 2, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Glenn woke me early with the alarming news that Prince Charles had gone mad with a Kalashnikov and killed his entire family, "Cos of Camilla". I switched on Five Live and was reassured that the massacre had taken place in Kathmandu, and that (presumably) our own royals were safe and reasonably well.
Sunday, June 3
Pandora knocked on my door as I was washing up this morning. She placed a hand on my cheek and purred, "Can I count on your vote, as usual, sweetie?" I coldly informed her that I had become disillusioned due to her habit of breaking promises and that I intended to vote for the Socialist Alliance candidate, Abbo Palmer. She left her canvassers on the rain-lashed street and pushed her way into my kitchen, snarling, "What broken promises?"
I counted out the disappointments on my fingers. I was still wearing my yellow Marigolds at the time, so the effect may not have been as dramatic as I had intended. When I got to the last rubber digit I said, "Finally, Pandora, you promised to marry me as soon as we were 16 years of age and could afford the train fare to Gretna Green." I took out my wallet and produced the written evidence: a note she had scribbled in a double geography lesson more than 20 years ago. The sight of her childish, loopy, handwriting almost brought tears to my eyes.
Pandora scanned the note then turned it over. On the back was a graph showing the decline of Britain's manufacturing base under Thatcher. She murmured, "Interesting," then asked if she could have the note, as it meant so much to her. I replied, "Certainly not, I have kept this love note in my wallet, close to my heart for two decades. It reminds me of the time when we were 15 and rapturously in love." We were interrupted when a woman canvasser, in need of Immac for the upper lip and chin, knocked on the door and said, "The Newsnight camper van has just crashed into your car, Pandora. Jeremy Vine wants your insurance details."
Midnight
Pandora has just been interviewed on Newsnight, by an unusually deferential Jeremy Vine. The set consisted of the blown-up note. (On the graph side).
Apathy rules
Friday, June 8, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
I woke at 9.30 to find myself on the sofa. The television was showing Ffion's sad but brave face. Glenn was sitting on the floor slopping cornflakes on to the new Ikea rug. With his mouth full, he said, "Tory boy's doin' a runner, Dad." There was the smell of burnt toast, William came in with a plateful of buttered cinders, half of which fell on to the rug. I was too exhausted to shout and sank back on to the new Ikea tapestry cushions. I do not function well on two hours' sleep.
When I next woke, Tony and Cherie were in a small British car being driven to the palace. Glenn and William were still in their pyjamas eating fruit cocktail and the Häagen-Dazs ice cream that I keep for Sunday teatime use only. I croaked to Glenn, "Did Pandora get in?" A tiny cube of pineapple and a dribble of juice fell from the teaspoon he was wielding like a garden spade.
The rug now resembled a small municipal tip, the ethnic pattern could hardly be seen. Glenn swallowed, and, sounding alarmingly like Peter Snow, gabbled, "Yes, Dad, she got in with 23,431 votes, a majority of 8,157, tha's 52.06 % of the vote, but she's down a bit cos there were a swing to the Tories of 3.64 %. An there was a 65.79 % turnout, tha's a lot 'igher than the national average."
I was impressed with the boy's grasp of statistics. I may steer him towards a degree in mathematics. William brought me a cup of tepid tea and placed it on the rug. Thirty seconds later, the cup lay on its side, having been toppled by Glenn demonstrating a kick-boxing move.
Midday
I ordered the boys to get dressed for school. When I next woke it was four o'clock and the school day had ended. Glenn said, "My 'ead of year rang, Dad, he wanted to know why I ain't been to school. So I told 'im I 'ad to stay at 'ome to look after you, cos you wunt get off the settee."
I snapped back. "Couldn't you have invented a stomach upset or something?" Glenn said, "I jus' told the truth, Dad. Were I wrong?"
Since I'd been ranting about the dishonesty of politicians throughout the election campaign I didn't know how to answer the boy, so I feigned sleep.
Washed out
Thursday, June 14
Glenn asked what I do for a living today. I told him I was a writer. "I never see you do no writin'," he said accusingly. I told him that I am an unpublished writer, and explained that there was a conspiracy in the publishing industry to keep me out. He took the manuscript of my latest novel, Krog From Gork, to read in bed. I am enormously pleased that he is taking such an interest in my literary life.
Pamela Pigg has taken my advice and is going out with Alan Clarke, the amateur folk singer. She rang to tell me that their first date went «splendidly». He took her to The Friends tandoori restaurant. She said that Pandora was dining at an adjacent table with some metropolitans who were opining that Ann Widdecombe is the result of an experiment at Porton Down. Apparently, she escaped before the trials could be concluded. This explains a lot.