I don’t believe Donald Trump ever had Covid. From the moment
I saw the doctor who isn’t a doctor coming out on to the steps in front of the medical centre, surrounded by a chorus of batmen in white, I expected them to launch into barbershop harmonies. Smell ? It reeked.
I don’t believe Jeffrey Epstein,
nearly as rich as he was unpleasant, killed himself. I am sure the job was paid for.
I don’t believe the Prime Minister gives a damn. He wanted power and the country delivered it to him. And now we know that all that burble
is all there is.
I don’t believe the Chancellor is any better, just a newer face. He may pray more often but that’s for his own soul. Not ours.
I don’t believe that there is any great difference in mindset between Piers Morgan and Boris Johnson. The only audience either of them care about
is the image in the mirror. Whether it is media or Westminster, get between those guys and the glass, and you really will be unpopular.
I don’t believe what bread looks like. I believe how it tastes. If I had a pound for every tarted up loaf I have shelled out for – at fine food fairs, farmers’ markets, artisanal outlets and patisseries – that looks fine but tastes of not very much, I would be a rich woman. My son used to tease me about being the only person he knew who would go distance for a good chicken – true – and now it’s bread.
Walking to find food may not sound as glamorous as exercising to an on line tape or walking for charity but it counts as exercise.
I am still giggling about being described as a hysterical feminist. (IDBI) I was looking for something on line (it was a slow afternoon) and turned it up. You’ll have your own view of feminism (a bit like beauty, in the eye of the beholder) but I have never been hysterical. It is how a certain group of men describe any woman who gets angry. I was born angry
– my parents, I salute you. And I owe a man (Dov) the greatest thanks for having told me that it was so, and the story from Solomon, and Martin Buber’s rewrite, that confirmed it.
And while the above seems heavily laden against the male sex – may I just say I would be just as critical about women who behaved as badly, unkindly, immorally and with such noisy irresponsibility – as the above ? And that in the last few weeks I have received several outstanding letters, all from men. Half a dozen letters isn’t a sea change but it might be a marker. All too often the thoughtful are shoved aside by an unthinking mass.
And that image – the few being inundated by the many – describes why we are in such a state about several of our institutions – the NHS, the constitution, the BBC, my God read the information from Logistics UK about the increase in prices. No wonder people keep looking for a saint or a superhero to pull us back from the lemming
brink that looms.
The slender young woman with red hair who passed as I was putting rubbish in the bin (I have a very good relationship with my bins) was wholly mortal – yawning. And she wore a well cut single breasted coat the colour of orange peel – over which I exclaimed, asking her to show me the back (where cheap coats pinch and become ugly) and generally enthusing. She excused herself (with a whisper of an accent) for yawning without covering her mouth, I told her she was probably the last person in London to do that, we smiled at each other and parted.
Later in the afternoon, I opened the door again and on the step were 12 roses, white, yellow and orange. The orange must have been dyed, I have never seen a rose that colour, how clever – and a note: “not quite a jacket but a splash of colour to brighten your home. thank you for connection. your neighbour, orange jacket.”
Victor Meldrew is a popular British TV character whose catchphrase is “I don’t believe it !”