The Check Is in the Mail

Interrupting the fun of hosting Emily here - with all the excitement and socialising that comes with it - for some civil duties: to cast my postal ballot. I misdemean-ed by allowing her to watch as I filled out the ballot, aware that the law will turn a blind eye within the confines of our home. She did voice some displeasure over my vote and declared that my X should be placed next to the Green Party box. Anyone who knows me, even not nearly as well as Emily does, would have gasped.

Needless to say, the British Greens didn't get my precious vote. I also had to point out the differences between the daft British Greens and the flamboyantly bourgeoise Greens in France under such socialite as Daniel Cohn-Bendit. Vive la différence, mon cher, but the British Green infantilistas are unelectable!

"57" is the magic number I will anxiously await on Election Day. No, it's not the spot to tap on Heinz Ketchup bottle to allow its content to ooze out; it is the number of newly gained Conservative MPs necessary for me to make the most drastic change in my career. Once the 57th seat beyond the current 210 MPs in the Commons is won, I will end my banking career and switch over to politics. It will also mean turbulent times ahead at home, with my Green-ish fan... I got a taste of what's coming earlier today when Emily suggested that the BP top brass should be expelled to China, for only there would they be executed for polluting the environment so severely along America' southern seaboard.

Lukewarm defence for the oil giant's executives was met with a punishing stare,  a frowning face and the demand for a one-hour massage. Kneading and working-in the oil on Emily's tanned back, I couldn't help myself mumbling, "this massage is brought to you courtesy of British Petroleum."



Current Music (Spotify linked):  Les Rita Mitsouko – Ma Vieille Ville