So blessed! Neither of us went anywhere near the old trout but thanks to Dorries we can babymoon for another two weeks, just Bozzie and me – and our little chick! – and forget Cobra. And the media liars. What total crap! As if my Bozzie would ruthlessly turn his back on a trusting young innocent, at least not until we can say Dilyn shat in the baby’s cot, which he probably will anyway. After No 10, Chevening is blissfully turd-free, Dil adores digging up the old maze, and Bozzie is quite determined to write his memoirs in the same place where he once carved “Fuck Gove” on the ancient library mantelpiece!
Bozzie won’t let me look, but I sneaked in while he was trailbiking round the parterre.
“Defying the Floods: in which I save a drowning mother and her twins.” It is such an incredible story. “The young matron’s sodden breasts pressed gratefully against my shoulder, as I forged relentlessly through a veritable Hellespont, bearing her wailing infants above the raging spume.” I had finished the bit where grateful villagers hoist their PM shoulder high - “regardless of my protests, loud huzzas rent the air” - and got on to Chapter 11, “Beating the Plague, Alone”, when Bozzie skidded into a kind of pit stop he’s built out of red boxes.
Bozzie (lurching forward): “Give me my fucking laptop.”
Me (holding up a warning water carafe): “Darling, will they really rename Bewdley Boridly, how super!”
B: “Well, modesty forbids, come on old girl, hand it over -”
Me (reading on): “ ‘How would I break it to Carrie? Dom, though no eugenicist, had serious doubts about her gene pool’… WHAT?”
B (coughing): “Help me loved one, I think I’m - aargh…”
As told to Catherine Bennett
