According to the Prime Minister, Peppa Pig is the key to unlocking productivity in the UK. Bertie isn’t.
Boris looks at macro-economics in a mad way. Doesn’t he know there’s nobody left here to kill a pig and put it in a Brexit bacon butty? To digress, I have been to Peppa Pig’s home, not a sty, a grand house in the Cotswolds paid for by Peppa but my productivity this week has fallen short of the mark; sorry. I lead a frugal life with Robert and Bertie most of the time but this week I was at the Rectory Society’s party at Brompton Oratory (I got wrecked); the Standing Council of the Baronetage’s dinner (I got blotto); the Shipwrights’ supper (I got sluiced) and an interesting Durer exhibition at the National Gallery followed by a modest club lunch on St James’s Street at which I got a bit tiddly. All of which has not been conducive to writing – a pity as I’m brimming with ideas.
Local news: a corpse has been found at Charing Cross Hospital. “Yeah” you say, but it was on the roof – something for Poirot or Lord Peter to solve. It was a peregrine falcon killed by the incumbent male falcon. I suppose the fight could have gone another way.
Meanwhile, work has commenced on a posh coffee shop outside the tube station. Work has commenced on the building site that will become an hotel and accommodation for students. All round the 19th century terraced streets where we live, high-rise buildings are springing up. I feel as if I’m living in PJ Clarke’s; a favourite destination for strong liquor and a bowl of chilli on the East Side after a night out.
