DIARY OF A NOTTING HILL NOBODY
MONDAY Am contemplating a serious hissy fit. On phone this morning briefing Dave’s family speech, dutifully telling a v. rude journalist that ‘this is all about traditional Tory values’, when suddenly I hear Poppy on the other line, in full mockney accent, saying: ‘Yeah, that’s right, this spells the end of traditional Tory values.’ This is outrageous! Why is it me who gets lumped with the boring ‘core’ briefing whilst Poppy gets to spin the opposite line about tax breaks for gays?! Is it because she wears drainpipe jeans to the office? I can be daring and street too, actually. Beneath this perfect blow-dry there’s a liberal slacker just fighting to get out. I want a piece of the modernising action! In fact, am going to tell Nigel right now that next time we do energy, I want to be on the side that briefs for renewables not nuclear. And when the economy comes round again, he can get someone else to dish out the dud line on tax cuts that gets shot down the next day. Oh yes.
TUESDAY Some fun at last. Am on mayoral search, making long list of celebrities who might not be too insulted if we begged them to be our candidate. So far I’ve got: Frank Lampard, Jamie Oliver, Michael Portillo, Alan Sugar, Sharon Osbourne, Madonna, Colonel Tim Collins and Nancy Dell’Olio. Celebrity Jack, who runs the mayoral search unit, says list needs fine-tuning. Madonna and Alan Sugar fine, but Portillo would flip his lid if you asked him to help the Tory party. Later on, Mr Maude shuffled up to my desk and told me that Miguel had already said no.
WEDNESDAY Nozza came in to see Dave today and threw quite a lot of weight about. As a consequence, there’s a big dent in one of the Philippe Starck pod chairs. All very un-metrosexual: ‘I’m the only beast in this jungle big enough to take on Red Ken and you know it, sonny.... ’ Dave told him he was welcome to apply, and we’d send him an application form. Then he told Jack to send him two copies of the page where you have to declare any personal or business embarrassments in your past. Ouch.
THURSDAY Have solved riddle of strange disappearance of Jed. Got lost looking for the prayer-room (it’s lovely for a quick nap), barged into wrong office, and he was sitting on floor surrounded by huge mass of paper and felt-tip pens. At first I thought I’d found a crèche. Realising it was the strategic comms office, I apologised and went to leave but he shouted, ‘Hey, you! Girl! Sit down!’ and stuck a picture of a blue horse in my face: ‘What does this make you feel?’ I said, ‘Confused’, which was true. ‘Hmm. I thought so.’ Then he showed me a picture of a whale with a top hat on and a revolting severed foot. ‘It’s Sam’s ankle. See, there’s the little tattoo. No good? Probably better just to stick with the dolphin on its own.’ Was in there for two hours. He wouldn’t let me go until I promised him that his drawing of a lion with a daffodil in its mouth made me feel ‘modern, yet safe’. Feel I should tell somebody. They may be able to get him some help.
tamzin.lightwater@spectator.co.uk
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