Airport

They didn’t see each other at first. Even though they were only sat a few seats apart. Miriam Lambert was reading, occasionally she look up at the clock on the board above the departure gate, see that it still read ‘delayed’ and return to her novel.

James Shelley could not be describe as patient, if he’d been younger who would have been placing to and fro, muttering profanities. But having reached to the age that no one would hazard a guess at, and having been presented with his first grandchild, James sat still. He settled for the occasional muttered obscurities and hoped that was convincing the young woman and her son across from him, that he was crazy.

The airport longue was nearly empty few people it seemed were that keen to be travelling. But James was heading to Athens for his only daughter’s wedding; it was his first trip abroad for years. There was something uncomfortable about coming up to London, and Heathrow was just as bad. A confusing slow tube hardly helped make the experience enjoyable.

Miriam raised her eyes again; she glances over her shoulder this time, perhaps looking for a flight attendant. She’s catches James’ eye and smiles, “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” she says as she looks back over the seat.

“Yes, absurd.” James looks back down at his hands. For some reason he felt shy. There was something about her accent, the lilt of her ‘rs’, that reminded him of a girl he use to know. He’s not hundred per cent certain, its been years – “Miriam?”

She’s shocked as she looks up. James walks around the back-to-back seats so that he’s on her row. He walks quickly up to her. She wears glasses now. Her hair is fair, she’s finally a blonde. She gets to her feet, “James it’s you?”

He thinks he should hug her, or maybe kiss her check. He stretches out his hand to shake hers. “Yes it is.”

She takes his hand and hugs him. She wishes that she had put more effort into dressing this afternoon. She steps back and smiles awkwardly, “It has been far too long.”

They sit next to each other.

“How are Elizabeth and the children?”

“Elizabeth died six years, it would have been this November.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t hear about it. I would have come to the service if I had.”

“It was very quiet.”

Miriam sits back further in the seat. She didn’t ever imagine she would see James again, but now she did it was rather nice, awkward of course, but somehow comforting. A reminder of a long time ago, “And the children, how are they?” She doesn’t know their names, or even they genders. But it’s the done thing to ask after people’s offspring.

“They’re well. David and his wife had a baby, so I’m a grandfather now.”

“Congratulations. That’s wonderful news.”

“I wish they’d move to the country it would be so much better for little Lucas.”

“Emmm.”

“They are all already out in Athens though. Off to see Cathy’s wedding. She’s my youngest.”

Miriam thinks about saying congratulations again, but it just seems repetitive.

James keeps talking, “I saw your article a few weeks ago. It must have been an amazing sight to witness all these men being freed in Libya.”

“It was amazing, to be honest I was surprised they sent me,” Miriam smiles at the recollection, “I was the only woman there. ”

“It was a good article.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve kept a few of your articles from over the years. I can’t remember how many, but I’ve still got a few.”

“You can’t be as bad as Susan, she’s kept everything I ever written.”

James stood and grabbed his bags from the seat he had left a few minutes ago. Miriam wished she had remembered that Susan and James never got on.

“She’s well then?”

“She’s a doctor of philosophy at ULC and she married a few years after we…. They have a son called Noah.”

He sits down, next to her again.

*

Miriam – September 1961. I’ve only had four serious romantic relationships in my life. The first was with James. We only fought badly at the end. The fights that were the worst he never fought with me, but with my sister. Susan was feminist, quite ardent about it. She’d go on marches, and one time my mother had to fetch her from a police cell. Susan never thought I should marry James. He wasn’t good enough, or clever enough or perhaps it was because he didn’t agree with everything she said.

The first time I met James I was only sixteen. I attended Colby’s Girls School in Warwickshire. Susan had left for Oxford to do her BA; it was the first dance that I had ever been to, without my big sister. The school, which was, single-sex had invited the local boy comp for the social. Lucy Vince, Elizabeth Waters and I had spent the best part of both Friday and Saturday getting our dresses ready. Lucy’s was blue, and daringly strapless. Eliza’s was bright pink, and the skirt stuck out. Mine was far more conservative; I’d felt dowdy next to them.

The hall was far lovelier than it normally looked. All the chairs had been stacked and hidden in the doors at the end. The podium featured an actual band. There was a table at the far end overflowing with every type of cake that they younger girls could think of. Eliza who’d been assigned catering duty went to check the food.

“Are you sure I look alright?” I said to Lucy as they had walked down the steeps from our room. I fiddled with the lace of my overskirt.

“Yes fine.” Lucy wasn’t even concentrating; she marched towards the nearest boy not noticing that she left me stranded by the door. I slipped outside.

I fumbled with the purse and pull out one of the cigarettes that had been smuggled into my dorm. Lots of the girls coughed when they smoked, but I was a natural, I could even get it to go through her nostrils.

“Hello cigs.” I turned to the voice, expecting to see someone who looked a bit like my little brother, Simon, but he wasn’t like that. He was much older than Simon, older than me.

“Oh –” he went from looking very cool, almost like a film star, to being flustered. “I’m sorry I thought you were somebody else.”

*

“I’m sorry you and Susan never got along.”

“It was hardly your fault.”

“I know but perhaps I well…”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

*

James – June 1963. I hadn’t intended to propose to her. I’d been seeing Miriam for nearly two years, while I trained to become an electrical. It was today that her results had come in that largest paper envelope. Part of me wanted them to be bad, so she couldn’t leave. But she’d gotten in Oxford, just like her sister. She’d wanted to read French, literature and philosophy and history and all I knew about the French was that they smelt of cheese, ate garden insects, and we’d beaten them at Waterloo. Miriam said she wasn’t going to be studying any of this. I was certain that if she left she’d meet the sort of men that my father worked in London, the ones who drove Jaguars, and still wore large hats and voted Conservative. Not that I voted. I just knew – I could picture one of those lanky intellectual types drifting past Miriam as she fussed over her book list. He’d get this gleam in his eye and look and see that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and then he swoop in and marry her.

She was doing what she normally did when she was excited, her voice grew animated and she moved quickly, circling me as I sat on the sty that bordered the school grounds. Her big blue unbuttonable skirt kept brushing past my legs.

I jumped off the sty, “Cigs?” The nickname I’d mistakenly used for her, had stuck and I won’t tell her whom it had been originally intended for. She was still talking and moving, listing people I’d never heard of. I grabbed her by the arms, and turned her towards me. I should have gone done on one knee I suppose but our picket blanket was yards away and there was only mud on the ground were we were standing. “I don’t want you to go. I want you to stay here, with me – will you marry me?”

*

“Where are you living now?”

“I’m still in London, but I live in Wandsworth now. It is much bigger place than,” she was thinking of the last time she saw James, in that flat in Peckham just before they signed the papers. He’d seemed so offended that she’d prefer a place like that to him and Willow House. That was the last time they had spoken. They did the paper work via their lawyers. Miriam’s lawyer had been a Ms Alden; Susan had insisted that she be a woman.

“You won’t recognize The Willow anymore. Elizabeth made so many changes after everything that happened.”

“Your nana wouldn’t have been pleased.”

He laughed, “I haven’t thought about her for years.”

“She always hated me.”

“No.”

“She did.”

“I suppose so.”

*

Miriam – August 1963. I was standing around greeting the guests as they arrived from the Church, in the front door of James’ Willow House. James’s nana stood behind me, whispering the names of the people I didn’t know, which was kind for her.

She had been the one to raise James, because his mother had been killed in the blitz when he was two, and his father worked as a doctor in London. He didn’t have any siblings. On the whole I hated his nana. She deaf in one ear, but it was never the same one; I swear she’d switch them to wind me up. She didn’t like me to wear trousers. And she was convinced the only reason James was marrying me was because I was pregnant. Which was I wasn’t. We hadn’t even slept together yet.

When James had told her the news she’d pretend to be happy, until he’d gone to the larder to fetch champagne, then she jumped from her chair and scurried forward.

“How soon before you show?”
At first I hadn’t understood her, well not until she’d pressed her hand up against my abdomen. Her nails had dug in.

She moved inside the house when she saw my family approaching.

“Mother.” She kissed me, a mixture of lily of the valley scent and talcum power, and a hat that was shaped like a box sat on her head. She held onto the back of my little brother’s shirt collar. “So proud,” she said near my ear. In her heart she was conservative, she thought my sister was strange, and embarrassing, and she thought I was doing the right thing, even if James wasn’t Jewish. My brother wriggled and nudged my dress; she made a pursing noise with her lips and dragged him off.

My sister approached next. She wore red. Sometimes I found myself agreeing with my mother’s opinion. “Susan –” I asked her to be my bridesmaid, but she hadn’t made it down for the fittings, she said she’d been too busy. “I’m so glad you came.” I hugged her. She’d written to me, when I had come home and told the family that I wasn’t going to go to Oxford. No I had said; I was going to marry my lover and live in the countryside. Susan sent me a book written by Friednan and told me to read it. I think my mother must have found it because I never saw it again. Susan didn’t like James. She thought he was ‘Mellors’ type and I had asked her what that was, she said perhaps it was better that I wasn’t coming to Oxford if I didn’t know any D.H Lawrence.

“I like your dress.” She reached out and lifted one of the pleats of the skirt. She slowly traced the pattern of the lace, “This was grandma’s wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” I broke away from her, “Father.” I hurried across the lawn towards my papa. I would have liked to think I was his favourite. I use to think this, but when I told him I was marrying James, well he hadn’t been pleased. He hadn’t been disappointed either, and he just hadn’t said much. And it had become rather noticeable in our Surrey home. But he had walked me down the aisle.

“Papa –”

“I was talking to James, here, and I think we can help fund a little trip away for you too. You tell her all about it,” he patted James on the shoulder and walked past me to my sister. He put his arm around her waist and neither of them looked back at me. I was left alone in the garden with my husband.

“Jimmie-”

“He said he’d pay for us to go to the lakes for ten days. That’s pretty generous isn’t it?”

He looked down at me, and saw that my eyes were running. “Come on,” he’d taken my hand and we’d gone for a walk, across several fields and down to the duck pond, leaving all our guests and family in what I suppose was now our living room. I finally told him that I felt I let my father down, that my sister thought I was a fool and I wouldn’t be able to see the rest of them again. And despite all this I wanted them to approve of me.

I got snot on his collar.

“I’m your family now. But of course you’re going to see them again. And they can visit us. And we’ll go and see them. It’s all going to be wonderful.”

*

“I wonder how much longer we’ll be delayed.”

“It’s just daft isn’t?”

*

James – December 1963. Our first Christmas together was far from perfect. Miriam hadn’t ever celebrated it before. Nana refused to understand this, when anyone said, as much to her she’d just mutter; “Preposterous.” And then as if to prove her wrong, Miriam burnt the turkey and the potatoes. Nana watched from the sidelines, occasionally pointing out minutes later what exactly Miriam had done wrong. My father sat in the living room and pretended that he couldn’t hear a thing. Miriam wasn’t happy. It was then, that I went to my father and asked him to take nana back with him to London when he left. He agreed. I don’t think I ever saw Miriam look quite so pleased.

They left at six, after nana had packed; I waved them off from the driveway. I expected to find Miriam in the kitchen tidying but instead she sat on the floor, writing on a scrap of paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Making a list of all the things we can do now that the nana is gone.”

I sat down next to her, “How many are you up to?”

“The one where we can have sex in any room of the house.”

“I knew there would be positives.”

Miriam lent forward to add another point to the list. She’d taken off the heavy jumper that my father had brought her for Christmas, and underneath she wore a mint coloured dress with buttons up the back. Her neck is arched as she bends over to write. I edged closer. I wanted to undo the buttons at the back of the dress. Her hand is resting on my knee, but I can feel it through the material. It feels like no one has touched my skin for months. I stare at the back of her neck. Her hairline is not completely smooth, there are curls or stray bits of hair that dip down; one even reaches below the collar, close to that button that I could undo so easily. I curl one of my hands around her waist, I can feel the muscles of her stomach; she is warm against my hand. She leans back against me, having dropped the paper. I tug at the collar of her dress, so that I can kiss her neck.

“Jimmie,” she likes to be kissed, right behind the lobe of her ear.

I can see her bra strap, my hand feels awkward as I undo the buttons after all my fingers are pressed between her back and my chest, but finally the material gives and I can push it down her body.

*

“I read it actually.”

“Which one?”

“It must have been a recent one…”

“Parkland? That was probably it; it’s my newest one. What did you think?”

James reached into the bag at his feet, for a second Miriam hoped he might have her book in his bag. Instead he pulled out notebook. “It’s written in here somewhere.” He flicked through the pages searching. “You always said you’d get something published.”

*

Miriam – January 1966.

“Here you go,” I smooth down James’ hair. And then swat at his shoulders. He’s not mussed but it gives me something to do with my hands. This is my first funeral. I can’t quite believe that I’ve never been to one before, but I guess this makes me lucky. James looks like he might cry. I’m quite impressed that he hasn’t. I thought that when his father called to let us know that nana had passed on, he had less shed a tear. She wanted to be buried in the family lot, in the nearby Church. That’s where we are now.

It’s strange. I never liked all those years ago when we lived together, but recently we had been getting on a little better. She almost seemed to approve of me.

“I’m scared.” I look up at my husband.

“What? Why?”

“They’ll be judging me. All her friends or the people who knew her.”

I take his hand, and push them down into the groves. “I won’t let go, I promise.”

*

“So how old is baby Lucas then?”

*

James – November 1967. I found a bizarre book that Miriam got sent for her birthday, some feminist rant. I wish her sister would stop sending them. For starters she never puts enough stamps on which means I have to the post office to collect them, and secondly they make Miriam cry. She cries far more than she use. At first I thought perhaps she was pregnant but she says not. She even cried when I found some of her favourite chocolates and got them sent down from London. I encourage her to spend time back at the school, one her school chums – Elizabeth Waters, has taken up a post there, I know they were close when she was younger. I’ve had to travel a lot recently, the weather means that everyone’s electricity is dying so I’m constantly on call. But I know its not my job’s fault entirely, she never use to mind if I travelled.

*

“Is there a continent you’re never been to?”

“Well I never made it to the South Pole.”

“Best place then?”

“Lisbon I would say.”

“Why?”

“It’s the right sort of temperature.”

“That’s not a reason to like somewhere.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever been to Moscow or the Sahara.”

*

Miriam – March 1968. I’ve not been to London in years. I just drive in the car when I want to visit my family, but I’m on the train now to visit Susan. Off to see my sick sister in glamorous London or at least that’s how I imagine it.

She meets me at the platform, even though she’s meant to be sick. “Otherwise you’d get lost.” We don’t look much alike. I think she looks a little like a tramp at a funeral; she’s wearing black dungarees and her hair is shorter than James’. She says I look ‘stiff’.

Her flat is on a quiet street, in Peckham. She’s living with a married man – a painter. He’s very messy, and therefore so is the flat. “If he doesn’t tidy it, then I’m not going to.”

She leaves me on the sofa and emerges several minutes later, “Lets go out.”

“But I thought you were ill?”

“There’s a party tonight which you cannot miss. You need to meet Fiona and Paul. And I know you’ll like…”

She drags me to a ‘do’ in Soho, where everyone is dressed like her. I tug at the edge of my overlong skirt. When I first walked in, I was convinced that I would be nervous but I’m not. There are more people than I’ve seen in year. They are talking, really talking and although I’m too nervous to approach any of them, as I walk past, I hear them discuss the things I see in the paper – and things I don’t know about.

I move on to the next group. They’re talking about women’s literature. The next couple are kissing, let up against the wall.

They talk about sex, and homosexuality and things that James and I would never talk about.

I feel a little awkward but in a good way.

*

“You mentioned your sister, she’s well?”

“Due to be a grandmother in a month.”

*

James – May 1968. I can’t wait for her any longer. She’ll call every week and say that she’s coming home, but she doesn’t. I’m worried, and I’m going to fetch her, I’ve got flowers in the back. Everything will be fine when we get back to The Willow.

Peckham is squalid. I got Susan’s address off my mother-in-law. A fat middle-aged bloke whose hair sticks up in quiffs and who when I glance down at his feet is wearing sandals, opens the door. The room is filled with loud music even though it’s midday.

“Where’s my wife?”

The man looks confused.

“Susan?”

“No Miriam.”

“Oh her…She’s out.” He gives me the directions to where he thinks she is. I spend the next four hours trailing round London looking for her. The flowers have wilted when I get back to Peckham.

I go back to the flat. This time Susan answers the door; she tries to close it in my face. I push through. “Where is she?”

“Get out. I want you to leave.”

“I’ll wait for her.”

“I’ll get Marcello to throw you out.”

Marcello who is sat on a cushion on the floor makes no move to make me leave. I sit on the sofa.

Susan huffs dramatically, and walks further into the flat, Miriam appears a few minutes later.

Her hair is cut to her ears. She’s wearing trousers, and make up. I stand and offer her the flowers. They are her favourites.

She starts crying.

*

“I going to get a coffee, do you some?”

“No tea please.”

“Milky, right?”

“That’s right.”

*

Miriam – September 1968. I am back at Willow House. I miss Susan. I miss London. I miss the talks I went to. I miss the people I met. I miss George the man who said when I showed him my writing that I should try and get published. I even miss Marcello.

London might not be perfect, but its tainted Willow House, I don’t like the village anymore. The people, the women who use to be my friends I find dull, and their conservations tedious.

I ask myself why I came here nearly every day. It’s because I love James. It was because I was pregnant. A week ago I had a miscarriage. I sat on the edge of my bed and cried. My face was wet, my jumper soaked but suddenly I stopped, I tried to make myself cry again and I couldn’t. I felt pleased.

I feel relieved.

I feel free.

I can’t stay here with him and feel this way.

*

“That’s our call.”

“Yes.” He grabs the bags, including Miriam’s.

“Don’t worry I’ll take that.” She stretches out her hand.

He smiles, “Its fine, I’ve got it.” He sees her hand as she pulls her coat tighter around herself. “So how long have you been married?”

“I met Louis, ten years when I was in Crete. We got married… I guess nearly seven years ago. I’m sorry I didn’t…”

“Congratulations.”

“Here let me take the bag.”

“Cigs, I’ve got it.”

“Jimmie –”

He puts down her bag. He nods at Miriam and walks past her, to where the flight is boarding. Cathy had told him not to sit at the back of the plane; it wasn’t good for turbulence. He picks the seat by the loo, and hopes Miriam wouldn’t need to pee. He fishes out his wallet, the one he’d been going through so that he could show Miriam the photos of his family. The wedding shot. His first child. His only baby girl. All of five of them – the Shelleys. Then lots of later shots - one Christmas in the 80s, a graduation, a party, a wedding. All those little plastic sheaths are filled. He got rid of the photos of Miriam years ago.

A flight attendant walks past. “Excuse me, do you have a copy of the Times?”

“Yes, sir.” She hands him a paper from the stack against the wall of the loo.

He started to flick through the pages, one after the other. There is the news, current affairs, politics, business, and then finally opinion. Something on the religious controversy of condoms in Africa, written by some bloke or rather. Below that a commentary about the upcoming royal wedding – Miriam wouldn’t have written anything so dippy. He turns the page.

Why did she have to get married?

It’s her views on the reform bill in the US. He leans forward. The flight attendant is out of earshot. He tilts the page and slowly tears her picture out. The edges are uneven, and there is a slight rip near her shoulder. He wonders if he should slip her picture into one of the sheaths, but any that he picks it would be as if he were replacing one of those memories – or worse that person. In the end he puts her picture into his breast pocket, and tries to think about his daughter’s wedding.

Double Standards

I see the argument that women should be allowed to wear what they want, I truly believe in your body, your choice. But I do begin to wonder why so many want to look like prostitutes. I am referring chiefly to the performances that I have just witnessed in X Factor, but I suppose it could be used for a more general statement about female fashion.

Now back to the clothes, or lack thereof. First off, it has to be cold. And lets be on honest it cannot be that comfortable.

I’m not saying don’t wear short dresses, skirts, shorts if you like them – that’s great. But how comfortable can you be if everyone makes judgments, or comments on your appearance, which are hardly complimentary?

So what’s the appeal?

It is hardly free choice if you are doing because your boyfriend likes you to wear it. Nor is it empowering, if we as women feel like we have to look like the women who are meant to be our role models. But what we should bare in mind is the fact that these women, and more importantly their managers know sex sells. So they promote their stars in such a way.

Thus this; one force us – as normal people to look like we are trying to sell something? We aren’t promoting our music… but we can look like we are selling ourselves, oh what fun. (I am not a fan or going in the opposite direction and wearing a tent, I am hoping simply there is a middle ground between skanky and covered, where femininity exists.)

Surely we are meant to feel empowered, taking off as many as clothes does not by its very definition encourage equality – after all, I certainly don’t find it attractive when a man bends over and flashes me his pants. Frankly it’s a bit rank.

This seems a bit of a double standard truth be told. Not that I want to see Robbie Williams strip again…

Baby

“I’m very sorry Mrs Levitt…” I know the speal the doctor will recite, I have heard many times before.

I look away from the doctor and at my wife. She too has heard the speech, more times than I image she’d want to, but she still cries. Every time.

Both her hands go up to cradle her face, and she rocks forward in the chair. I know her mouth is open behind her hand, and she’s silently yelling.

I put my arm around her back and say, “It’s going to be okay.”

God I’m useless. And I’m vain too. I know all the meaningful cards and films and books, will tell you that love transcends looks, and its true. I wouldn’t have married Jane if she hadn’t been amazing. If she hadn’t understood the rules of rugby, or because she didn’t care what I bought her for Valentine’s day, just as long as I remembered. Because she impressed my family. Because she could stand my family. Because she liked the sea and picnics and thought politics was stupid. Because she requires a nurse’s uniform for her actual job. Because when we argue, I know will shout but afterwards when everything is back to normal, the argument won’t matter.

She had, or has still the dirtiest sense of humour, and can turn the most innocent of statements into a come on. I married because I love her, but I won’t lie and say the physical isn’t included in at least some of the equation. I mean you have to look at this person for the rest of your life; you don’t go out of your way to date Jabba the hut.

Not that I’m saying Jane looks like Jabba – but she is bigger than she ever use to be. Her face is swollen past her delicate cheekbones. Puffy around her eyes. I think sometimes her lips have got smaller. Her tummy is swollen and her breasts loll to either side of her chest even when she wears a bra. She doesn’t even have a baby yet and already she looks like she has had six. It’s the hormones she pumping into herself night and day, that have changed her beyond recognition. But it’s the lack of success that has really ruined her.

She lifts her hands. I’m watching her not from where I sit on one the chairs next to her; instead perhaps I am a fly on the wall, or something that stares at both of us. I revolt myself. I use to be fit, a pilot for the RAF, I worked out. Now I teach at the nearby comp, I’ve not seen a gym in months, and Jane is not the only one whose been injecting themselves to try and conceive.

I sound shallow. I have a job, a wife, a house, my health, I am lucky. I was happy. Now my days and nights revolve around unsuccessfully trying to knock my wife up. Sounds fun, right? The constant sex? Well it use to be; now its scheduled, regulated… and I have to close my eyes to make love to her.

It’s not just the physical, Jane use to be happy. She’s a nurse; she’s got dozens of friends and a great family. You could see she was happy. Now she ignores our dog, won’t speak to any of her friends and argues… with everyone. All the time.

I suggested adoption a few months back and you should have seen her face, it was as if I had offered to kill. I can’t understand, I think adoption would be good. I mean the UK has the highest rate in Europe of teen pregnancies, not all of those hussies are going to be keeping their offspring. I had a daydream that I could walk along a street in one of those council estates with a wheelbarrow and a shovel, scooping up little fat babies who’d been dumped outside. I could push the wheelbarrow all the way back to our little terraced cottage, and present Jane with my findings. “Here,” I could announce, “I can’t make you babies, but look what I can give you.”

It’s a stupid fantasy but I did go and collect some adoption papers when Jane and I had a fight about how little I cared. I wanted to prove I did.

I kept them hidden for a suitable time to present them to her. But I’d overheard a conservation with her sister, Megan. “You see, I actually want something of my blood to continue,” this was a few months back when Meg and Jane were still talking, “you understand what I mean. For the actual thing to grow inside you, to feel it. To know its yours’.”

Meg had agreed, after all she knew it ways far safer to go along with Jane. But I thought it was crap. There are kids at my school, who I care about, there are my nieces and nephew who I love… you raise a child and it’s yours’. I binned the adoption papers.

We can’t walk past a baby shop with her crying. A buggy goes past and my hand that she is holding will tighten until it hurts. She won’t visit her friends because seven months ago, Tracey, a woman she’s known for nearly twenty years announced she was pregnant with her second baby. Jane told me she wanted to slap her…. “It’s not fair. Why does she get another one? What the hell have I done wrong?” We left Tracey’s.

I feel like a failure. I don’t even know what for. We are sat in a doctor’s office, like so many others we have sat in before, and discussed treatment. White walls, a desk, chairs, and decorative awards upon the bland paint. This doctor is female, and young and I notice a photograph of a baby on the desk, I hope Jane doesn’t see it. The baby is white and pink and fat. I use to joke that all babies looked a bit like Winston Churchill; sometimes I still think they do. The idea of the treatment working seems beyond possible and I now cannot imagine one of the doctors saying we are successful. I think I would cry.

I want to make her happy. Even now. I or the fat guy I am staring at from across the room is pale, pasty looking – he’s getting a double chin. He wears unfortunate sweaters. And I know that he doesn’t really want a baby anymore.

Elizabeth's Death

February 1603. Richmond Palace

Eleanor Harwich, Lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth

We arrived two days ago to what I have heard said is the Queen’s favourite palace. It is not the slightest bit like Greenwich, where we have been in residence for winter. I think Greenwich is far more beautiful. At Greenwich there are gardens that stretch for miles either side, so that the smells from the river do not reach you. But the Queen is bored of London, so she has demanded we come up here. I miss my father and brother who get to stay at court. My lady mother; tells me it is a privilege to be included in this exclusive party. She says it will improve my marriage prospects, but if I am away from all the men how am I to meet any eligible ones?

I cannot understand why the Queen likes Richmond, it is small and homely and there are no gentlemen in attendance, so there is no music or dancing. There is, I suppose a few doctors and men I don’t recongise who keep trying to see her Majesty. She tells us to bar the door, and refuses to let any of them examine or talk to her. They go away looking angry, I like to the one to tell them that, ‘the Queen is not receiving today.’

We sit in this bedroom of hers’. Everything is gray is her room, but that is probably because my mother and Mistress Susan Lindley have sealed up the windows, and pulled the drapes down so that very little light comes through. The Queen commands me to read to her, and I am given the Bible. She likes the Old Testament stories. I would rather read poetry to her, but my mother says that this is too fanciful and that it improves my thoughts to read the Bible.

When evening comes we are all commanded to sleep in the Queen’s chamber. We lay down pillows and blankets on the floor and try and rest. Anne Otterly snores, worse than any man I’ve ever known.

On the fifth day, the Queen get only get from her bed to the nearby chair. She will not leave it, and instead stares straight a head pretending we are not there.

My mother and the older ladies spend most of their time huddled at her feet or fetching what they think she might like. It is cold here, and even with the drapes to keep out the wind, I am still blocked nosed and sniffy. I sit by the fire and pretend I know how to maintain it.

I overhead Anne and Jane talking as I was on my way to fetch more blankets, they said the Queen is dying. I don’t believe them, Jane is an awful liar, and it is blasphemy to talk of her death.

March 1603. Edinburgh Castle, Scotland

Prince Charles, son of King James the sixth of Scotland.

Henry my elder brother won’t let me into his room. He’s stolen the wooden sword I was given as a present, even though he has perfectly good sword of his own. There’s no one else about, and Henry does not care if I cry, so I sit and rest against the door. I must have slept, because suddenly there are adults everywhere. They all yell, and call to each other and are carrying boxes or chests or food. I cry out loudly and one of the maids sees me.

“There you are, your grace.” She stops before me, bends so that are heads are to one another’s, and offers me her hand. I stand and take it.

She leads me through packed halls, full of the men and women who spend their days with his majesty. I know the way down the passages she takes, but no one is paying attention to where they step. People are drinking, eating, dancing and I can hear music. The maid takes me back to the nursery. It is empty.

I find my boat in the chest at the foot of my bed and set up a battle scene. I beat the French and then the Spanish. I am almost defeated when I attack the Irish. The noises of people talking continue, and then through their voices I hear my brother.

Henry comes into our room he is followed by our nurse. She closes the door, but I see musicians gathering to play music. There will be a party, which is strange during lent. I hide the boat, and put the pirates and soldiers back in the chest. Henry is nine and thinks that dolls are for girls.

“Where is my sword?” I march up to him. I wish I were taller.

“You can have it back. I do not want it.” he hands me the sword. “Charles,” he’s close to me and he says in a very quiet voice, “do you know that one day I shall be king of England?”

An Actress

“…. Oh dear you must remember him: he was such a quaint little thing – terribly sweet. Must have been no more than 12 or so… oh I’m so annoyed I cannot recall his name. He played Pip opposite me…. Oh it must have been fifty years ago. Well before your time.

Now where was I? Oh yes, Estelle. She was one of my favourite parts. Beautiful, although I wasn’t considered the greatest beauty of the age – no that was Cynthia – but I – I properly shouldn’t say this – but I was better. That’s what the director told me anyway. I was the best Estelle he’d ever seen. Dear old Hengis, we were all so fond of him, and he knew how to take care of his actors…

We got on so well, that he cast me as Esmeralda in the hunchback, way back in ’63. We toured with that, all over Europe. I saw places that most people in England had forgotten even existed. But they were all so welcoming. I never meant a nasty communist…. Where was I?

Colin that was it – the boy who played Pip! I wonder what happened to him?

After we returned from Europe well, that’s when the film offers started coming in. My agent was flooded with them, at least that’s what he told me – such a darling, that man, I send a card every year to his widow, but she’s a nasty sort… never writes back.

Yes I might not have been quite up there with the Emmas and Cynthias of the world, but as Lancing said the directors still wanted me. Directors like Hengis to start with, and then well, you know the list…. I suppose my favourite would have to have been Duncal… he had such flare, but also delicacy. He was a true artist. Not like these phoney directors nowadays who rely on making things explore and hacking people up…. I still read the papers… I think it’s a crying shame that so few people go to the theatre any more, they’d all much rather sit and stare at the TV. I’m certain it rots your brain. But the stories they tell, and the women who act in them, I am quite sure that in my day none of them – none of us, actresses had to be that ill looking. I know some of us were thin, and you wouldn’t think to look at me now, that I could have been described as slender, but I was…. There are the photos – there up on the wall to prove it…. Do you see them?

Now you remember that I worked with Flowers, oh he had such naughty fun. He cast me alongside Garret for my first Shakespeare on the West End…. Garret and I had a long talk about how we should construct our Romeo and Juliet… we sometimes quite disagreed with Flowers. He could be frightfully stubborn. But still it was a success. It launched the career, although she was a little over the hill by that point, of Judy Brent…. Straight after she got the TV show, the one that made her such a big name. But she was a comic actress, not the type who really needed youth and beauty on her side. But she did her job, what we all do this for, you know, to bring entertainment and interest… to brighten what might have been a dull day, and maybe make the audience think. That’s what Osborn always said. Terrifying man. Of course, he so famous now, for all of those terribly long historical films…. but I remember him when he wasn’t nearly as big as he finally got. In his funny little bowler hat that he always wore around the theatre and how he use to shout… even at people like Stephen Jones… or Eddie Brent. Dear old Eddie – do you want to know a secret – Eddie was always a sweet boy- such a flirt, I’m certain you’ve heard some of the rumours. Well he asked me, it would have almost been insulting if he hadn’t. I said no, of course…. I was seeing Anthony Taigne at that point – he was the most marvellous Faustus that you ever saw. I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing such a thing. But I suppose its very flattering and at my age it’s very nice to remember all the compliments that you received….

I always knew I wanted to be an actress… well I suppose that’s not strictly true… I wanted to be so many things when I was little girl. A lawyer, or a doctor, or even a teacher…. I suppose I wanted to do something good, but then I thought what could be better that being all of those things? And I got to be every one of them. That’s the beautiful thing about being an actress you can be everything….and been able to convince them that it was true… although I suppose none of it really was…. But it is the greatest show ever, and if you do it really well then people remember. I’m sure they remember…”

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER….

“Excuse me. My name is Alexander Gibbs; I’m here to interview the actress Victoria Jones. I’m sorry I’m a little late the traffic was awful.”

“That’s quite alright. This way please.”

“So I’m not going to be interrupting her, am I? I don’t want to disturb her if it’s inconvenient.”

“Disturb Vicky? I don’t think so. She’s been here longer than I have. And I’ve been here nearly ten years. Don’t think she’s had more than four or five visitors in that all time. Poor dear, she’ll appreciate the company.”

“What about her family?”

“She hasn’t got any. No husband, no kids.”

“Friends then?”

“Not any that’ll visit anymore. Here we are, I hope you get what you came for.”

****

In the end my editor didn’t want the story. He said who cared about Miss Jones? She was a relic from the past that hadn’t really done enough to be worthy of mention, for all her allusions of glamour. That if she discovered something or seen the arrival of something or just been more or something, then maybe someone who remember her now, as it was she was just better forgotten…

Lunch

I’m late, and officially out of the time period in which you could claim to be fashionable. This is just late. Its not my fault, Rupert my husband somehow managed to brake the washing machine, then Megan the nanny was delayed with her train, and then to cap it all, Cathy my four year old said she didn’t want to go to school. All of this made me late. Most people you can explain this to… most of my friends, family and colleagues understand that having a family, a house and a job aren’t the easiest things to make run smoothly – Helene Hayward is not someone who understands this. Somehow she manages all of these three and, as I round the corner of Garrick Street I see she also manages to be prompt.

I enter the exclusive restaurant and pray the staff don’t ask me to leave. Helene looks vaguely like a Hitchcock Blonde and a fashion editor combined. She smiles broadly when she sees me and kisses my check. You may wonder why a woman such as this wants or needs a friend like me. I use to say that it was because we’d known each other on and off for years, since we did community theatre together aged eight (she played Titania, the fairy queen I played Thisbe, the guy in drag. Perhaps that sums up our relationship.) Her family owned the theatre, in fact her father; the Hon. Clive Hayward was probably the reason that theatres and shows still went on in London, if not the UK. Helene and I had drifted a lot when we’d reached our early 20s, we’d gone to universities at either end of the country… of course we’d both gotten top grades but she’d had a family place at Cambridge, and I’d went to Durham instead. After we said goodbye at 18, I’d not seen her for seven or so years, other than the occasional letter. I’d gone and taught in Australia for four years (that’s where I met Rupert) but when I got back to England there she’d been deputy editor in her uncle’s publishing business. We were bridesmaids at each other’s weddings. Through he last ten years of husbands, jobs, children, housing… we’d stayed in touch. But I could now admit, as I compared her caramel colored suit against the once pressed now sadly crimpled white shirt dress that I was wearing, that the reason why she wanted me as a friend, was because I made her look good. That may sound unnecessarily mean, but as I’ve got older and I’ve learnt more, I can see things more clearly – I believe I can see Helene for what she is.

“Oh it’s been an age. What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll have what you’re having.” The waiter was back in a moment with a g and t. I smiled. She’s still talking “- Leopold is such a darling boy, and so bright-” (she has two sons) “and he’s taking after his father…”

I nod and listen. And then we discuss my kids. I agree with her, when she says she’d like our boys to meet up, although since she lives in South Ken and I live in Langdon in Kent I can’t imagine this happening any time soon.

The waiter returns and we place our order. The restaurant (she always chooses where we eat) is beginning to fill up. A smart couple in their mid forties walks past our table. The woman’s large handbag nudges Helene’s chair and she turns and shifts it out of their way. I’m too busy admiring the woman’s lovely dress to pay attention, but when I look back at Helene she is whiter than white. And looks like she might throw up (I’ve only seen her do this once when we were fourteen and stole her father’s whiskey.)

“What’s the matter?”

She’s turned back to the table and is staring down at it. Her hands, which rest either side of her plate, are shaking.

“Are you ill?”

“Shhh.” Her voice is both shrill and quiet so that only I hear it. “I have to leave. Now.”

“Okay.” I glance back at the couple they are sitting two rows away. The woman doesn’t appear to notice us, but I see the man glance more than once at Helene almost as if he were trying to remember her. I look back at Helene but she’s gone. She’s got up and ran from the restaurant. I find the waiter and settle up. When I get outside, I see her BMW, is waiting for me. I climb in, certain the Helene must be having an affair. If you saw Sal you probably wouldn’t blame her.

She’s still white, shaking and now she’s started crying.

“What’s going on? Who was that? Helene….” I pat her hand. I really cannot handle her crying, just because I’m not use to it. “Are you cheating on Sal?”

“God I wish it were that simple.” She takes her hands off the striving wheel and turns towards me. “Please promise me that what I tell you next – you – you won’t repeat.”

“I promise.”

“That man inside he was one my johnnies.” Her fingers have laced through mine and she’s crying even more.

I frown, “Ehh?” I don’t know the expression that she just used.

Her face scrunches up, lines, tears, make up mashed together. She could be all of 16 again. “I never told anyone who didn’t already know … But you weren’t there…I didn’t want to say…” There are more tears, it is like watching one of my pupils whose cheated on a test and been caught, but this could she be that she’s ill, dying…. She takes a deep breath. “I slept with that man in there, years ago –”

“So he’s an ex. God the number of times I’ve-”

“No he’s not an ex. We never were an item. He paid me…”

“What the f-” I know wouldn’t be helpful but if you could pick someone to tell you that they‘d once been paid for sex, you wouldn’t have chosen Helene. She wouldn’t have even gotten on the list. She smiles very faintly at my interruption.

“He wasn’t the only one. He just stuck out, because he was the first one to hit me. He chipped my tooth.” She starts crying again.

“But your family –” They may have been snobby and overly privileged but they cared, especially her mum Grace.

“They tried to help at first, but I was hooked, and they realized the tough love was the only thing that was going to work. It did eventually,” she grabbed my hand once more, “look at me, Rachel, I’m better.”

I stare at her, wondering what made her do it, “What were you addicted to?”

She’s stopped crying. She opens her handbag and begins to wipe away the mess. “Smack.” She daps on some more make up, does her eyes and lips, and once again is the haughty prim London princess. She turns on the ignition. “Lets go get a drink.”

I nod, unable to disagree.

“I really need you not to tell anyone about this. Sal knows, but imagine if the parents council or worse….” Her voice is back to its clipped perfection, and I hope that I never see her cry again. She isn’t the friend I thought she was. And I don’t know with this pleases me or not, and don’t want to think about the kind of person I would be if it did.

I’ve had a fantasy and potential fear for the last few years. It is that a stern looking adult is going to walk in, and explain that –

1) That I am doing everything wrong

2) That the world really works like this &…

3) STOP! You’ve just a child; go back and play with your dolls and stop for the love of God, pretending you know what you are doing.

Perhaps part of me fears that I am just not grown up enough but I don’t this is that uncommon. I was convinced for example, that the first time I took the pill – a great brass band would appear followed by the aforementioned adult who would say, “Do you know you’re taking CONCEPTION? DO YOU? DO YOU? Very well, now you are a woman.” (The judgement glance the chemist use to give me, doesn’t count.)

I fairness if I’d been using it for sex this might have been more appropriate but since it was just for acne, I feel a certain opportunity has passed me by. I suppose what I am searching for, is a rite of passage that will make me feel ready for the absolutely insane world in which we live in.

This might explain why I have chosen to indulge in a fantasy that perhaps underlines my immaturity. I have decided that rather than slog my guts out on the job market with little or no gain and go to Italy instead. To eat ice cream, pasta, risotto. To go the Uffizi and stare at some of the world’s most beautiful paintings. To flirt with cute Italian chaps. I will work as a waitress, tutor, guide, and I’ll be doing in a warm climate, without the London tube system. You may say that I am being foolish, but you can’t say that it doesn’t sound like brilliant fun, and an experience of a lifetime?

It may be childish and potentially Julia-Eat-Pray-Love-ish (if I were to pass up James Franco I would be insane), but can you honestly tell me that you are looking forward to working in a country that treats us the way our government is acting towards us?

Frankly I have reached a point that this ‘adult’ of my fears, begins to look more like a stupid prig, who has decided that this is how HE wants things done, and I realize that actually, no he is wrong. Just because someone tells you something, you have to question it and see why they are saying what they say, or how would we ever learn anything?

I am no longer a believer in the saying, ‘If life gives you lemons…etc’ in response I am going to say, “throw back the lemons and go and drink some wine.” And I fully intend to do so, in Italy.

Career, or the like...

It is reaching the point where ideally I would know what I wanted to do. I should have picked a job and gone for it. This is not the case.

I certainly know that I couldn't be a doctor. Eck, I am too wimpy. Ditto career as a solider, spy or therapist. I won't be able to have a job in the music industry because I'm tone deaf. But none of these have really ever bothered me. I haven't felt I'm missing out. And I always believed I'd stumble upon, or just find the dream job. I'm studying English at Exeter, and I love it. Utterly and completely. (Maybe less when I get a lousy grade on a paper). But I am starting to seeing that what I considered brilliant about doing an English degree, its openness, flexibility, shades of history, theology, social science not to mention books, plays and poetry... doesn't mean I can step right into a job. As easily as if I were doing business management or law. (not that those degrees are easy!)

But none of my degree has as yet prepared me for a job. Not one. MA here I come!

Satc

It’s a shame that the first review of a film I’ve written is this one. After all there are so many good and wonderful movies out there, but SATC 2 drove me so potty I have to write about it. But I don’t really regard it as a film (more as just tripe) so therefore lets say, it’s a comment on a film, rather than a review.

I find it difficult to pinpoint the exact place or thing that bothers me most about this ‘film’. I think it would have to be the expectation. A lot of people, including my friends had really been looking forward to seeing this, for some reason they weren’t warned off by the first film. Or the TV series. That’s a joke; the TV series was good, enjoyable and shocking, but somehow relevant. (Okay not that relevant, I’m not in my 30s, desperately underweight or living in NYC…. But relatable in as much as it combined wishful thinking i.e. those shoes and some sense of realism, dating really is a awkward as they sometimes show it to be.)

What therefore bugs me is this. The expectation that the second ‘film’ would be good was a lingering but faint possibility. There was still a possibility it could be watchable.

I’m not saying I could have made a better film. Because actually I know I could have. For the simple reason a five year old could have made a better film, on a smaller budget and probably been less offensive.

After all these women are meant to be role models. My god, the character of Carrie is an insult to the term feminist let alone the word woman. At one point I swear she acts no older than the aforementioned five year old. Her immaturity and lack of awareness is practically sickening. She also has to be a masochist (not the shoes this time) her relationship with Big far from being one of those great old fashioned romances (see Casablanca, Brief Encounter, The End of the Affair) which the writer is so clearly trying to achieve. Instead you wonder how two ‘adults’ could have reached a point where one they thought their beheavour was acceptable and two felt it was alright to be treated the way they treat each other.

Sadly it extends past their relationship and onto the centre stage. The opening scene – where the script writer decides its high time we insulted the concept of gay marriage and homosexuality in general. That done, incredibly successfully, the writer and characters decide that the East’s turn to be mocked, insulted and shown what Western civilisation is all about (what I think it concluded was, Western civilisation is all about fashion and the right to wear it, oh and gesturing wildly about how great sex is.)

Truly tragically this is done in the most self righteous manner as if to say that yes, democracy and freedom and, in fact the whole of feminism really was invented so that we as women could just be more upfront about sex and wear pretty things. Isn’t that just a bit narrowing?

After all this film could have had such an impact. It is one of the few very successful series, films etc that features women over the age of forty. Rather than trying desperately to look like they are still twenty, isn’t there anything more interesting for these women to be doing and more importantly saying?

Furthermore, by deciding that the main character, Carrie would not have children they are diverting expectations and the general norm of heroines. Which I think is great. But what they fail to do is show any justifiable reason why she would choose not to reproduce… and instead of defending a perfecting legitimate lifestyle choice; it appears the only reason that she doesn’t want to have children is because, then where would she put her shoes?

Deciding not to have a child, is a legitimate decision and it would be nice if Hollywood or films could recognise this and stop betraying the individuals who decide against the norm, as selfish bores. This would have been possible perhaps if only Carrie actually had a life that extended beyond the shoes, rather than letting them define everything about her.

Friday

A list -

* Passport (just find one that will allow me to leave the country)... or really anything that can prove who I am to those who are important...

* Print tickets (i.e. go to the library, since the possibility of a printer working inside this house is remote)

* Clean out trash from room (this may take longer than expected)

* Cry hysterically over horrid, sunless, lonely and miserable summer 'holiday' (check, I've done this already! Go me!)

* Obsess about weight

* Ditto with vile skin

* Wrap Jenny's present - find nunfield on a map. Check it is nunfield I am meant to be going to...

* Talk to dad, about 'holiday'

* Listen to father shout at me about poor skills with passport

* If sunny go for a walk. Only possible if I can convince terminally lazy little brother to go with me.

* Count my blessings. Or buy a book. Whichever will cheer me up faster.

Heartbreak

Over the last few weeks I have watched friends,acquaintances, and my dearest girlfriends split up from their lovers/partners/boyfriends.

Let me just I have had my fair share of tears/moans to listen to and hankies to hand out.

All in all I feel rather annoyed and frankly dismissive of the whole process. My utter anger is generally directed towards the utter creeps that have made my dear friends suffer.

Why do people go through this? Because as I am witnessing first hand it isn't fun... not even the creeps that really claim to enjoy this (at least I hope not.)

So it really worth it? The sad fact is that even through the tears, ruined plans and general sadness, they all seemed convinced that the pain they feel validates their feelings, that it means something.

Which is a comfort I suppose. But frankly, couldn't you get the same comfort from a corny rom-com.

We as a group of pathetic crying females (and the occasional male) have been sadly tricked. Yes grand passion, true love probably is worth hysteria, tears and all the tissues in the world. But these early relationships they are built on drama, shared universities or the ability to knock back shots.

Or the fact that your chosen partner would have slept with you. I know this is a generalisation, but in this case it is true.

At this age what on earth do we know? This is the first 'real' brush we have had with love/romance/sex (or a mixture of the 3), but is it real?

Is it worth the tears? Years from now, we will (I hope) look back and laugh. I mean that is what we do already with teenage romances, we dismiss them because now we know better.

I do not for a moment dismiss the pain that they feel, I am well aware that they are suffering - and wish I had the power to snap my fingers and make it vanish.

Failing that the power to remind them that six months from now things will be better.

Or if that didn't work, then the ability to remove their ex-beloved to outer Mongolian so at least they didn't have to see them!

Tips for happiness

Have discovered an important element that makes one, especially extremely happy.

It is the miracle of sunshine. No clouds. No rain. No wonder people spend so long wanting to go on holiday it is the vague possibility of just seeing the sun, and remembering how happy it can make one.

My other new (and old) tips for a wonderful -

1. SHOP - books, clothes, music, yummy food (preferably all of these)

2. Eat ice cream

3. Sun bath, while reading newly purchased books, occasionally sipping beer.

4. If you get a stomach or head pain, just take a pill and make it go away.

5. See your friends. Hug them. Kiss them. And be happy that they are around.

6. Don't talk bout the current political nightmare, or how Ashes to Ashes finale made you cry. Instead talk of films that you all like.

7. Finish your second year at university, and know that you have until September with not alot to do but do the above 6.

And smile....

Revision

I have no idea how I will do in the upcoming exams, but I have learnt a few important things...

1) I suck at revising.

2) The internet only ever distracts me.

3) The election held right in the middle also distracts.

4) I have now watched way too many romantic comedies and am now starting on the ones made in the 1970s which are so cringing and sexist (homophobic and racist)... that I can't quite believe that I have sat through them. But I have.

5) I can quote large chucks of Cymbeline. Possibly one of Shakespeare's most boring and frankly pointless plays. How will this ever be useful in later life - i mean it wouldn't get me a job or even prove interesting in a question, since most people haven't even heard of Cymbeline. (I can also quote from Henry 4th part 1, but at least nearly everyone has heard of that play)

6) Chocolate isn't a good idea.

7) It is unhelpful if the loo breaks and your landlord refuses to fix it.

8) Suddenly spending time with friends you happily hardly ever see seems like a wonderful idea.

9) Ditto speaking to my parents.

10) I dislike revision so much I am actually looking forward to the exams....

Oxymoron

Oh dear. The possibility of putting faith in politicians, seems a terrible ask.

Especially as the media is so keen to remind everyone - the men who are now taking office are terribly young and inexperienced but it wouldn't do to be agist.

No what is really starting to annoy me is how you vote for something that you believe in, be it PR, or controlled and capped immigration, and you pick your side wither it be Labour, Tory, Liberal Democrats, BNP, Greens who ever it might be... but how on earth do you know they'll keep to their side?

I hate to divide the country between left and right - since I fail to see a socialist party, and yet there seems to be several fascist ones, but to keep it simple for myself as much for anyone else - why on earth when you vote for the left, do they join forces with the right???

I mean its like the Obama thinking Palin might have a sensible suggestion on foreign policy (or really any policy), or Sarkozy deciding that poor old S Royal deserved a second chance - it is daft.

And the brave face that everyone has stuck on it - that united will forge a greater Britain is lovely rhetoric but is asking a terribly difficult leap of faith, that we must believe the dread Tories the ones who thought Thatcher was a good call. It simply goes against principals of sense and history to trust a word out of their mouths.

I hope it does work, I really do... but unless Clegg can push through PR and stop that absurd cap then he really will end up looking like the 'joke' that his new buddy previously called him.

On a happier note, Mandelson, is gone... (for now)