I have lived under 11 prime ministers. I was counting them on my fingers in bed last night. At first I made it ten, but then I realised I'd forgotten Sir Alec Douglas Home (which is easily done). You know what? I was at school briefly with a distant relative of Sir Alec's. At least I suppose they were related: they were both Scottish nobilty and both had Douglas in their hyphenated surnames, so surely they were cousins? Anyway, my man's name was Lord Patrick Douglas Hamilton- and he was charming, dithery and lank-haired and kept a duelling pistol in his locker. My sort-of-friend D- who liked to think he was an aristo too- was desperately jealous of Lord Patrick and tormented him to the point where he threw up his hands and left our school and got himself educated privately instead. What a shame! D is now a mighty international banker (you don't know how tempted I was to substitute a "w" for the "b") and Lord Patrick.....
Well, I just Googled him and am happy to report he's still alive. He shows up in an online studbook called Descendants of William the Conqueror and his entry reads
Birth: 1950 Christening: Death: * Burial: Cause of Death: AFN #:
Isn't that grim? The grave gapes for him. A virtual prize will be awarded to anyone who can plausibly explain what AFN# means.
The only other fragment of information I can find is that his ex-wife- Lady Lulu- is now married to Mathew Benson the seriously wealthy, Oxford chum of current Tory leader David Cameron.
Which brings us back to where we started- more or less.
So- prime ministers: What was I saying? Ah, yes. A new one is coronated today. Which raises my score to 12.
And that's all I'm saying. I won't rail or mock. Tomorrow maybe, but not today. Blair has gone. Savour the moment. And where there's death there's hope...