Not Actually Teatime

My mother called me at 7.30 this morning. No hardship; I was on the point of getting up anyway.

"Are we skipping tea this afternoon?" she asked in that slightly haughty, passive-aggressive manner she adopts when she wants to dominate.

I explained the situation.

A Ramble Down King's Parade And A Flash Of Self-Awareness

Rory Stewart reminds me of my best friend at Cambridge- who had absolutely no sense of humour and grinned all the time so that if you made a joke he couldn't be accused of missing it. I suspect the same is true of Rory. My friend (who is now dead) left a cache of theological writings on his website and this morning I read a paragraph or two with the express intention of disagreeing with every damn word. He used to bring out the imp in me. And still does. He thought I was trivial and I thought he was pompous and absurd- but I'd have trusted him with my life.

(actually I did- on a regular basis- because we played badminton once a week and he used to give me a ride to the courts on the back of his motor scooter and very nearly killed me once- by going into a skid on King's Parade- which would have been a highly distinguished place to die now I come to think of it.)

They say that thinking of a deceased person pings a bell in whatever chamber of the afterlife they're occupying and may prompt them to dive back down here to see what you're up to. If that's the case, David, and you're here now, I love you, man, but you were such a twit.

Back to Rory: If I were a conservative I'd be voting for him because actually I'd be voting for what I see in him of my dead friend. If my instinct is right then he's the polar opposite of Boris Johnson: serious where Boris is unserious, straight where Boris is twisty. So if my friend was just like Rory, does that mean I'm just like Boris? Oh dear- I'm afraid it may do- except that I have no ambition, not a scrap of it...