Monkey Nipples, Chinese and Somerset.

I thought I was being so clever getting into work at 8am with the plan to work my behind off and then skip out the door again at 3pm. This must have been glaringly obvious to the boss when I opened the office door and whispered "Oh...monkey nipples" as I saw found him sat behind his desk.
He could have signed the letters and left knowing full well that we all had work to do but instead he sat there loudly reading from his stack of newspapers and occasionally adding to my to-do list.

 
At 4pm, after throwing seventeen rolled up bits of paper into my hair and eventually boring even himself, he left.

It was dark by the time I got home Monday night. In fact I am writing this on the floor of my living room. Chinese take away on one side, wine and cigarette on the other. Next door my flatmate appears to be 'trying something new' with his girlfiend. I do believe that's the polite term for it anyway.

The boss is opening a new football pitch in the constituency this weekend and I really should be writing the five minute speech that he's asked for. I'm thinking up bad puns to use in between mouthfuls of noodles and smoke. Greasy, tarry goodness...

Posts have been thin on the ground recently due to my brilliant idea of getting all the important work done and completed before the end of the first week in August. Thus ensuring that I spend the rest of recess, drunk on the Terrace. There I shall lounge like an Somerset MP!

Of course when I had the chance, I wrote one or two posts for Total Politics. Don't worry, you won't find anything analytical or cerebral from me as per usual. Posts are here and here.

 Anyway, toodles and goodnight! Let's all keep our fingers crossed for those growth figures, shall we?

Across Westminster the scene is pretty much...

The hacks are coming out of the walls!

Walk Away or Stick My Arm In?

If I could change one thing on the Westminster Estate, apart from a bar which allows smoking, it would be to have most post boxes. There are quite a few sprinkled about the place in dark corners and corridors but more would helpful. 

In case any of my dear readers haven't been on the Estate then let me describe a parliamentary postbox to you - small brown, wooden boxes with a slit on the top and a gold plaque which says either 'External' or 'Internal'. There's never enough of the latter around and sometimes I will put all the internals to one side for when I have to take something down to the Chamber. There's an internal box between the Speaker's chair and Dave's office. I don't recommend doing this when the division bell rings.

Anyway, I was dropping off a bundle of envelopes in the external box only to then remember that each of the the forty odd letters were meant to have a second page enclosed. Disaster! I had a choice: put the last few in the box and walk away whistling or try to pull them out and run back to the office. I went with the second option but only because the postie had been and gone only moments before I had arrived. Mine were the only letters in there so it should have been easy...

Ten minutes later I still had my arm in the box, jammed at the elbow as I had reached for the last b*stard cream envelope. 

I thank my lucky stars that the policeman who happened upon me was one of the nice ones who between giggles helped me escape.

“You're doing a fine job,” he said as he twisted my arm slighted to make more room.

“Yes, I should have been a bloody vet!” He was still laughing as I walked away embarrassed.

Toodles.

Basil Brush and the Green Fairy

I was recalled back to the mothership at the weekend. It's nice to visit everyone once in a while so long as I know I can leave at any time.

This wasn't one of those occasions. I can't help think my mothers motivation for hosting my cousin's engagement party was simply a psychological attack on my single status.

I made every effort to speak with my family, especially the old ones. By my fifth glass of wine and third great aunt I was pointedly told that I was “bitter beyond my years.” This resulted in me spending the rest of the evening snarling at the children and flirting with every non related man in attendance. My mother looked like a lemon had been inserted in her by the time I declared “the foxes f*cking on the front lawn are more entertaining than you people!”

I strolled into work with a skip in my step Monday morning. After all I'm not Jeremy Hunt and I have no reason not to look forward to what the day had in store for me.

“Bad show Dave.” My bosses muttered as he returned to the office after Hunt's statement. I can see why the PM didn't come to the House. Everyone was going to be demanding an opinionated comment on the whole affair and Jezza is the only man who can't give one.

I was unaffected by his performance really. Some have commented that he did well, others have said that he killed any chance of being a contender for the leadership. If the latter is the case then the only winner today was George 'The Submarine' Osborne.

I picked up a discarded House of Commons research paper in a committee corridor. On the eighth page of Economic Indicators someone had scrawled the words WE ARE ALL F*CKED. Some people are so negative.

On a totally non related subject – do any of my dear readers know if Michael Gove plans to share his order from Total Absinthe with colleagues? I should hope so since it was delivered to the House of Commons...

I do so want to live in a world where our front benchers come to PMQs giggling with the green fairy.

Good night x

I like my men pretty and silent!

On Wednesday I struck a tourist with my handbag. It's not something I'm proud of to be honest as the tourist in question could be technically described as a child. Okay... it was a child of about ten but if I say "please get out of the way, I'm in a hurry" and the brat just laughs and proceeds to kick at my shoes then I am going to get angry.

The reason for my haste was over on the Green giving an interview about phone hacking. There's nothing quite like sitting in a very boring meeting in PCH only then to get a text message saying Hugh Grant is on the Green looking f*ckable! I made my excuses and slipped out of the meeting with my knickers in a twist (may as well call a spade a horny spade) but the distance and traffic worked against me despite being a vision in red.

Dear Hugh...I love you. I think we would work well together as I'm half your age and very rarely sober. Call me!

National Lampoon's Portcullis House

This post was written on the back of a scrap piece of paper whilst people watching in Portcullis House, or PCH to my Westminster brethren, and drinking coffee from the Debate. Rock and roll.

Monday should have been an easy day. The boss was out of the office all day and Rachel was in so I wasn't planning on talking to anyone on the phone unless I really had to. I didn't count on the boss's association having a collective breakdown, the boss screaming at me down the phone because he was lost, or a foot high stack of paperwork falling from the cabinet and losing it's order. Sure, it landed on Rachel and she 'didn't feel safe in the office' anymore but it's muggins here who had to sort it all out!

So I decided to spend some time out of the office. Rachel was left with orders to answer the phone and take messages, only texting me if there was an emergency i.e. it looked like the boss was going to get arrested, have the whip removed or he was mentioned in a post by Guido Fawkes.

Portcullis House is far too shiny and nice for me. You're don't often see the Old Boys walking and socialising around here as it lacks dark corners and shady alcoves. It just isn't right!

If you want to conduct your meetings under a tree with running water in the background might I recommend p*ssing off to St James' Park.

At some point I will get around to describing the different types of people who work in Westminster but that's a post for another day...

Toodles.

Ed's Sick In The Head?

The helicopters only stopped hovering over Westminster at 5pm on Thursday. When my fluey shivers turned to the sweats and the office window had to be opened, it was like a scene from The Swarm. Michael Caine would not have put up with that crap.

I have a terrible feeling that I may have become confused whilst writing a few emails today and signed them off 'with hugs'. Overdosing on cough sweets and lemsip is not condusive to a well run political office.

I know what you're thinking and that's filthy!

Speaking of sounding ridiculously congested - however strange and messed up I may have been feeling for the last few days I am doing a heck of a lot better than Ed Miliband. Just when we thought Labour couldn't find a weirder leader... See here

Once again I am sorry for being quiet. If I'm not at work and just huddled in a snotty ball at home then there's not much to write about or be able to write. I know who gave me this cold flu HELL and I will get my revenge on him. Mark my words! I really must learn better restraint when presented with a cute young man. Especially if he starts with "...sorry if I sneeze on you". School boy error Felicity!

Toodles xx