Saturday 29 April 11pm. Just
back from Electric. "It's like the last days of bloody
Pompeii..." Shazzer was drunken-political-bore-ing on. "After
Thatcher and all those shagging Tory sleazebags we had such hope for
Labour and now it's just the same: Cherie Blair's hair bills, cash for
peerages, released foreign criminals shooting everyone left, right and
centre, and the Deputy Prime Minister shagging anything in red leather
trousers. Why does this always happen in the end? 'Ere, shall we get
another bottle?" "Oh,
it's just because of celebrity," breathed Jude, airily.
"Politicians take the high moral ground when they're not in power
because nobody wants to sleep with them. Once they've been in a while,
everyone wants to shag them because they're famous, so they oblige.
'Ere, where's the bloody waiter?" "But
John Prescott's been sleeping with other people for years," I
pointed out. "And actually I've always found him quite
attractive." "Yurgh,
yurgh yurgh," yelled Shaz, miming vomiting. "Well...
if one had to sleep with a politician..." I said, defensively,
"I always thought he'd be quite a laugh." "OK,"
said Jude, "shag, marry, or push off a cliff: John Prescott, Tony
Blair or Charles Clarke?" "That's
ridiculous... too obvious," snapped Shazzer. "You have to pick
three where there's an element of dilemma: like Tony Blair, David
Cameron and Jeremy Paxman." "I
wouldn't like to push anyone off a cliff," I said, suddenly feeling
tearful. "And I'm not sure any of them would want to sleep with
me." "Oh,
for God's sakes, Bridget. Stop being so bloody... pregnant. Anyway, are
you looking forward to Tracey Prescott-Shagger's diary tomorrow, with
horny exposés of your pin-up?" "Actually,
I think the whole thing's very prurient," I said, hoity-toitily.
"People's private lives should be their own business. In Paris,
it's assumed that people have discreet extramarital liaisons in sheer
black stockings, and everyone is too adult to discuss or read about it.
The tabloids are turning into the British national trademark - like
snails in France or bullfighters in Spain." Sunday 30 April 7am. Goody!
Wonder if papers have come yet. Cannot wait to see diaries. Bank-holiday
treat! Will just nip downstairs and see. 7.05am. Not
there. 7.30am. Still
not there. Grrr. Still, not as bad as for Prescott, waiting for papers
to slip on to mat, trying to grab them before Pauline wakes up!! 7.45am. Will
just pop down again and... Gaah!
Was Daniel: "Jones. For
fuck's sakes. It's the middle of the bloody night. Lie down and go to
sleep." Humph. Is all right for him. Is not pregnant and thus can
sleep for hours while self is expected to lie motionless in manner of
log. 8am.
Hahaha. Have got papers now. 9am.
"It's weird! Weird! Tracey Prescott-Shagger did not seem
emotionally involved or vulnerable at all: instead, having sex
matter-of-factly in manner of dog or sheer-stockinged Frenchwoman. Is no
sense of 'Why hasn't the Deputy Prime Minister rung?/told me he loved
me?/promised to leave his wife? Why? Why?' Also has lorry-driver
boyfriend at home and seems just as interested as in whether various
other drivers/policemen might want to see her, as 'DPM'. Was much easier
to identify with old Sara Keays-type mistress: only having affair
because politician had promised to leave wife and make a life with her,
becoming bitter and devastated afterwards: not just breaking it off
because she 'didn't feel like having sex anymore'. Maybe, just as people
cannot be bothered to vote anymore, as feel too indifferent to
politicians, politicians' extramarital lovers have started to feel the
sa..." "Jones,
will you bloody well shut up about John Prescott and go to sleep,"
yelled Daniel. Rather rudely I thought. Anyway, he will have to get up
soon, as is hospital maternity tour. Really excited actually. 9pm. Humph.
Have always believed fervently in National Health, but as ran in late,
past grimy fire escapes and heating ducts, could sense Daniel was not
onside. "Do
you really want to give birth in a Victorian Gentleman's toilet?"
he muttered as we rushed along green-tiled, pipe-festooned, odd-smelling
corridors. "These
big NHS teaching hospitals give the best medical care!" I trilled,
in eerie, mindless echo of my mother. "Victorian
Gentleman's toilet in colonial Africa, more like," he whispered as
we slipped in at the back of the tour. "I've never seen so many
pregnant Muslims in my life. You'll end up getting a clitoridectomy.
Half the signs are in bloody Arabic." "Shut
up," I hissed. "Look!"
he read out, "'Drop-in Breast Clinic', 'the D-Cup Café'! - Ding
dong!! - 'Discount breast pumps'! There's a very lucrative little black
market in breast milk, you know, Jones. Don't look at me like that. I'll
give you 30 per cent. When did you ever hear of a cow that got 30 per
cent?" At
least he distracted me from heart-sinking depressingness. Realised had
been fantasising re: giving birth and being fussed over in fresh,
flower-filled room, or: not being chucked out of scruffy labour room
within hours of birth, surrounded by grim pipes, signs saying:
"Dirty utility sluices!", "Germs everywhere!" and
scary notices in foreign alphabets. Horrifyingly,
as we were looking at the "birthing pool", Daniel raised his
hand: "What happens if two mothers want to use the birthing pool at
the same time?" Oh God. "They
cannot. It is first come, first served," said the midwife. "Really?
Terrible pity." "Excuse
me," - a stressed-looking girl - "can you put aromatherapy oil
in the birthing pool?" "I'm
afraid not," said the midwife. "Not
even if it's totally natural?" "Nothing
that makes the pool slippery." "What
if it's organic?" Daniel joined in. "And additive-free?"
I kicked him. "I
think some people are being silly and rude," snapped the tense
girl. "Tofu?"
added Daniel, at which I dragged him outside. "Quite
right, Jones," he said, taking my waist as we ran. "Let's go.
NHS, my arse. If you must give birth, let's do it somewhere
attractive." |