Read Online Diary of an Unsmug Married by Polly James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Polly James
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go home to visit his family.
He gives his address as the bail hostel on Seymour Road. For God’s sake, what is this country coming to when we put traumatised refugees up in places like that? Dad would approve though – as long as the refugees weren’t young and attractive. And Thai, of course.
I block that thought for the rest of surgery, after which The Boss heads for the Oprah room to do an interview with a reporter from the local paper. (We normally use this room when Andrew needs a lie-down after a particularly hard-drinking lunch, as it contains a comfy couch and is soundproof enough to dull the sound of snoring, but this is one of the rare occasions when it’s being used for its proper purpose.)
Leaving Andrew unsupervised during an interview is a bit of a risk, to say the least – so Greg and I keep our ears pressed to the door as a precautionary measure, only to hear Andrew say that he’s had enough of the red-ink letters, and has decided to ‘speak out’.
In response to the reporter’s murmurs of encouragement, he continues: ‘I refuse to be intimidated and will not be prevented from opening my mail, which consists of important letters from constituents.’
Local vox pops later applaud his courage. The Boss doesn’t open his letters. I do.
SATURDAY, 12 JUNE
Gah. It’s supermarket surgery this morning, and this one is as bad as usual. Constituents who have nothing whatsoever to complain about – which is why they don’t bother to contact the office during the week – spot The Boss sitting under his banner in Tesco’s foyer when they walk past on their way to buy groceries.
As soon as they recognise him, they start racking their brains in an attempt to dredge up a minor irritation to talk to him about, purely to be seen by their neighbours in the company of an MP, however unkempt and hungover said MP may look.
So, today, we are presented with complaints about: uneven pavements; puddles at the end of driveways; overgrown hedges; and litter. Each one will require me to write a letter to whichever is the most relevant agency, and to send a copy to the constituent – together with a covering letter saying how nice it was to meet them (which it often wasn’t, if I’m being honest).
Then, when we eventually receive replies from the County or Town Councils, they’ll be sent out with another personalised covering letter. And so on, and so on, ad infinitum.
What with the weather we’ve been having, there are four hazardous puddle complaints alone; not to mention all the beer-toting, polyester-clad, World Cup-crazed constituents who just want their photographs taken with The Boss – who insisted on wearing an England shirt this morning.
There has to be more to life than this, not that I’m suicidal, of course – unlike The Boss. Taking me home at lunchtime, he drives even more erratically than he usually does.
‘Are you still drunk?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I have a lot on my mind.’
I somehow doubt that, but I know a cue when I hear one. ‘What’s the matter, Andrew?’
‘Do you think I’m too trusting for my own good?’ he asks.
‘Um, I don’t know,’ I say. God knows where this conversation is going and, more to the point, is Andrew looking where he is going? I do wish he’d keep his eyes on the road.
‘I think those shits in the local Party are out to get me again,’ he says. ‘I was set up at GC fn5 last night. Oops.’
He steers the car off the inconsiderate stretch of pavement that has had the temerity to get in his way; and then continues:
‘Bastards wanted me to confirm that, now we’re finally in opposition, I can – at last – be relied upon to toe the Party line. Outrageous. I think I may have to take steps to deal with them. I’m sure that swine Peter Carew is angling to steal my seat.’
I don’t quite know what to say to this. The Boss has recurrent bouts of paranoia anyway – like all the politicians I’ve ever met – but he doesn’t
He gives his address as the bail hostel on Seymour Road. For God’s sake, what is this country coming to when we put traumatised refugees up in places like that? Dad would approve though – as long as the refugees weren’t young and attractive. And Thai, of course.
I block that thought for the rest of surgery, after which The Boss heads for the Oprah room to do an interview with a reporter from the local paper. (We normally use this room when Andrew needs a lie-down after a particularly hard-drinking lunch, as it contains a comfy couch and is soundproof enough to dull the sound of snoring, but this is one of the rare occasions when it’s being used for its proper purpose.)
Leaving Andrew unsupervised during an interview is a bit of a risk, to say the least – so Greg and I keep our ears pressed to the door as a precautionary measure, only to hear Andrew say that he’s had enough of the red-ink letters, and has decided to ‘speak out’.
In response to the reporter’s murmurs of encouragement, he continues: ‘I refuse to be intimidated and will not be prevented from opening my mail, which consists of important letters from constituents.’
Local vox pops later applaud his courage. The Boss doesn’t open his letters. I do.
SATURDAY, 12 JUNE
Gah. It’s supermarket surgery this morning, and this one is as bad as usual. Constituents who have nothing whatsoever to complain about – which is why they don’t bother to contact the office during the week – spot The Boss sitting under his banner in Tesco’s foyer when they walk past on their way to buy groceries.
As soon as they recognise him, they start racking their brains in an attempt to dredge up a minor irritation to talk to him about, purely to be seen by their neighbours in the company of an MP, however unkempt and hungover said MP may look.
So, today, we are presented with complaints about: uneven pavements; puddles at the end of driveways; overgrown hedges; and litter. Each one will require me to write a letter to whichever is the most relevant agency, and to send a copy to the constituent – together with a covering letter saying how nice it was to meet them (which it often wasn’t, if I’m being honest).
Then, when we eventually receive replies from the County or Town Councils, they’ll be sent out with another personalised covering letter. And so on, and so on, ad infinitum.
What with the weather we’ve been having, there are four hazardous puddle complaints alone; not to mention all the beer-toting, polyester-clad, World Cup-crazed constituents who just want their photographs taken with The Boss – who insisted on wearing an England shirt this morning.
There has to be more to life than this, not that I’m suicidal, of course – unlike The Boss. Taking me home at lunchtime, he drives even more erratically than he usually does.
‘Are you still drunk?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I have a lot on my mind.’
I somehow doubt that, but I know a cue when I hear one. ‘What’s the matter, Andrew?’
‘Do you think I’m too trusting for my own good?’ he asks.
‘Um, I don’t know,’ I say. God knows where this conversation is going and, more to the point, is Andrew looking where he is going? I do wish he’d keep his eyes on the road.
‘I think those shits in the local Party are out to get me again,’ he says. ‘I was set up at GC fn5 last night. Oops.’
He steers the car off the inconsiderate stretch of pavement that has had the temerity to get in his way; and then continues:
‘Bastards wanted me to confirm that, now we’re finally in opposition, I can – at last – be relied upon to toe the Party line. Outrageous. I think I may have to take steps to deal with them. I’m sure that swine Peter Carew is angling to steal my seat.’
I don’t quite know what to say to this. The Boss has recurrent bouts of paranoia anyway – like all the politicians I’ve ever met – but he doesn’t
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