Quite a lot has happened since I last wrote, not least of which is the news that we have a new Prime Minister.
As far as I can gather we didn’t actually elect him because his team didn’t score enough points to win the game. I understand 326 points were the goal (really important people call them seats, not points but hey, potato patata).
Nor it seems, did we elect the Deputy Prime Minister whose team got the least points of all. Team Brown who got the second to most points, or second to least if you are a glass is half empty type of person, apparently lost the game altogether which is a coincidence because the country seems to have simultaneously and altogether lost the plot.
On Tuesday night, when it all kicked off, I was helping Annabelle learn lines for her upcoming stage debut in our local community theatre. She has eight lines which appear to be seven lines too many as I spent the evening frantically flicking backwards and forwards through the script trying to figure out where we were. It eventually dawned on me that she was inventing her own lines which explains my confusion. Anyway, on the subject of making it up as you go along, back to the election.
My TV was on mute and in my defence I was preoccupied so all I managed to catch was Mr, Mrs and the two little Brown’s emerge from number 10 in their best bib and tucker and make off, presumably for a quiet family dinner at Pizza Hut.
The next time I looked at the TV, David Cameron had darted, quick as a flash, up Downing Street, sprinted into number 10 and slammed the door behind him. Using the age old ‘yaa boo sucks’ defence he appears to be dead set on staying there and has invited the third-place-also-ran team to join the Pimm’s Party, as they embark on a fresh bout of selling the family silver out through the tradesman’s entrance.
One can only guess at the high-jinks, roguish pranks and tomfoolery that those mischievous little monkeys are up to behind that venerable door but one thing is certain, their pencils are being sharpened in order to re write the pesky rule book that currently gives ‘High Street Britain’ a cat in hells chance of ever getting the buggers out again.
I keep asking random people what the Margerat Thatcher has just happened but nobody seems to have an answer, so if you want to know where I am, I will be over here on the edge of my seat waiting for a heads up.