We're going to be seeing Odi and the kids tomorrow so I've been sorting through our stockpile of toys for suitable gifts. I buy a lot of toys- very much as they take my fancy- and then distribute them as needed. This raid on on the cupboard will leave it almost bare so I'm going to have to start buying again.
I find it a little shocking (even now, at my age, after all that's gone down) that the leader of the Labour party should be a millionnaire. And so, it seems, does he- which is why he opted to be photographed not in his best but in his second best kitchen. Of course the ruse was tumbled.
Cue hollow laughter.
How will I vote in the coming election? I don't know. Will I even vote at all? I suppose I will, out of habit and a mid-20th century respect (which I can't entirely shake) for the electoral process. I'm not going to agonize over it. We're now living in a constituency where the Tory will win no matter what.
Our politics is broken. I think it always was. And by always I do mean always. The Devils Whore- which I have been watching with pleasure and instruction over this past couple of days- deals with the galant futility of trying to build a heaven on earth. You depose a bloody tyrant called King Charles and- after God only knows how much bloodshed and destruction- you find yourself annointing a bloody tyrant called King Oliver.
Only you don't call him King, you call him Lord Protector- because you don't want to acknowledge to yourself or to the world quite what it is you've done. Just as Ed Miliband doesn't want to acknowledge just how splendid his kitchen is.