"And which candidate will you be voting for?"
"Um," I said, looking frantically out of the window for red signs on the lamp-posts. "Buck!"
"Go on then," he said. "Remember Mrs Pankhurst."
Honestly, who does he think he is - the three line whip or something? Obviously I am going to vote. Better get changed, though. I do not look very lefty in this.
8.45 p.m. Just back from polling station. "Do you have your voting card?" bossy whippersnapper asked. What voting card? That's what I want to know. Turned out I was not registered on any of their lists even though I have been paying poll tax for bloody years so have to go to another voting station. Just come back for A-Z.
9.30 p.m. Humph. Was not bloody well registered there either. Have to go to some library or other miles away. Mind you, is great being out on the streets tonight. We, the people, uniting for change. Yesssss! Wish had not worn platforms though. Wish, also, did not keep getting whiff of horrible smell on stairs every time I go out.
10.30 p.m. Cannot believe what has happened. I have let down Tony Blair and my country through no fault of my own. Turned out, although flat was on list, am not registered to vote, even though I had Community Charge book with me. Honestly, all that fuss about not having the vote if you don't pay your poll tax and turns out you do not have vote even if you do.
"Did you fill the form in last October- said self important baggage in ruffly-collared shirt and brooch, enjoying crazed moment of glory just because she happened to be in charge of table in voting station.
"Yes!" I lied. Obviously people who live in flats cannot be expected to open every boring brown envelope addressed "To The Occupant" which plops through the door. What if Buck loses by one vote then entire election lost by one seat? Will be my fault, my fault. Walk to Shazzer's from polling station was hideous walk of shame. Also cannot wear platforms now as feet too crippled so will look short.
2.30 a.m. Was blurbrill party. Tories. Outs. Out! OUT! Oops.
Friday 2 May
9st 3 (hu
rrah! Newborn New Labour pound first of new era).
8 a.m. Hurrah! Could not be more pleased about landslide. That will be one in eye for shaming Tory-Party Member mother and ex-boyfriend. Har har. Cannot wait to gloat. Cherie Blair is fantastic. You see, she too would probably not fit into tiny bikinis in communal changing rooms. She too has not got snooker-ball bottom yet somehow is able to obtain clothes that encompass bottom and still make her look like role model. Maybe Cherie will now use her influence over new Prime Minister, who will order all clothes shops to start producing clothes that will fit attractively over everyone's arses.
Worry, though, that New Labour will be like having a crush on someone, finally being able to go out with them and then when you have your first row it is cataclysmically awful. But then Tony Blair is the first Prime Minister I can completely imagine having voluntary sex with. Actually Shaz had a theory last night that the reason he and Cherie were always touching each other was not the spin doctors but that Cherie was becoming increasingly aroused as the landslides came in - the aphrodisiac of power or ... Ooh, telephone.
"Oh, hello, darling, guess what?" My mother.
"What?" I said smugly, preparing to gloat.
"We've won, darling. Isn't that marvellous! A landslide! Imagine!"
A cold shudder suddenly went over me. When we went to bed Peter Snow was striding marvellously but incomprehensibly about and it seemed pretty clear the swingometer was to Labour but ... Oh-oh. Maybe we misunderstood. We were a bit squiffy and nothing made any particular sense other than all the blue Tory buildings on the map of Britain being blown up. Or maybe something happened in the night and turned it back Tory. "And guess what?"
Is all my fault. Labour has lost and is all my fault. I and people like me who, as Tony Blair warned, had become complacent. Am not fit to call myself British citizen or woman. Doom. Dooooom.
"Bridget, are you listening to me?, "Yes," I whispered, mortified.
"We're having a Tony and Gordon Ladies' Night at the Rotary! Everyone's going to call each other by their first names and wear casual wear instead of ties. Merle Robertshaw's trying to put the kybosh on it because she says no one wants to come in slacks except the vicar, but actually Una and I think it's just because Percival's furious about the handguns. Then Wellington's going to give a speech. A black man speaking at the Rotary! Imagine! But you see that's the whole spirit of Labour, darling. Colours and ethical like Nelson Mandela. Geoffrey's been taking Wellington on little drives and showing him the pubs in Kettering. The other day they got stuck behind a Nelson Myers lorry full of scaffolding planks and we thought they'd had an accident!"
Trying not to think about the possible motivation behind Uncle Geoffrey's 'little drives' with Wellington, I said, "I thought you'd just had an election party with Wellington?"
"Oh no, actually, darling, Wellington decided he didn't want to do that. He said he didn't want to pollute our culture and have Una and I jumping over fires at parties instead of handing out vol-au-vents." I burst out laughing. "So anyway he wants to do this speech and raise some money for his jet-ski bike."
"What?" "A jet-ski, darling, You know? He wants to set up a little business on the beach instead of selling shells. He says the Rotary are bound to go for it because they're supporters of business. Anyway, must whizz! Una and I are taking him to get his colours done!"
Am assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance Who does not take responsibility for others' behaviour, only for own. Yes.
Saturday 3 May
9st 2, alcohol units 2 (standard health issue to avoid heart attacks), cigarettes 5 (v.g.), calories 1,800 (v.g.), Positive thoughts 4 (excellent).
8 p.m. Whole new positive mood. Sure everyone is being more courteous and giving under new Blair regime. Is surely clean sweep with broom sweeping out evils of Tory rule. Even feel different about Mark and Rebecca. Just because she is having a dinner party does not mean they are going out, does it? She is just being manipulative. Really, it is marvellous when one feels one has reached a plateau and everything just seems lovely. All things I used to think about not being attractive beyond a certain age are not true- Look at Helen Mirren and Francesca Annis.
8.30 p.m. Hmm, though. Is not very nice thought that dinner party is actually tonight. Think will read a bit of Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk. Is good to calm down. Cannot expect life always to turn out well and everyone needs to nourish their soul.