I forgot to make a blogpost yesterday. Feeling restless, I went down to "The Banner" just before eleven to order my special medicine - three pints of Tetley's bitter. Outside, I met up with Tesco Pete and Claire the civil servant and before I knew it midnight had passed by and we were into September 3rd.
It takes five minutes to trudge home along quiet side streets. Our street is on a hill and sometimes I stop to take a breath. Up ahead, I saw the unmistakable silhouette of a badger scurrying across the pavement (American: sidewalk).
In any case, what would I have blogged about yesterday? There was nothing I felt an urge to report and nothing else I really wanted to say. You get days like that.
Since the war in Ukraine began, I have been suspicious of our departing prime minister's overtures of support for that beleaguered country. He has visited Ukraine three times this year, courting Volodymyr Zelenskyy and always attired as he has appeared in The House of Commons - white shirt, dark suit, black shoes and light blue tie. I couldn't help thinking that he was using these visits cynically to distract from his political troubles at home and to boost his flagging popularity by trying to look like an international statesman. Other western leaders have appeared more circumspect with regard to Ukraine.
I came across this cartoon from Peter Brookes in "The Times" that seemed to back up my point. It was created in late April:-
Anyway, Johnson will be gone very soon but just like Trump in America he has egotistical visions of a triumphant return.
For the time being, it seems that Johnson will be replaced by Liz Truss, the Foreign Secretary. Her impending coronation has apparently caused her parents considerable angst. Both seventy five years old, John and Priscilla Truss subscribe to the country's liberal-socialist tradition so their daughter's political allegiance has long been a source of embarrassment rather than pride.
I am sure that as our next prime minister, Liz Truss will be about as effective as a chocolate fireguard.
At this point this blogpost's creation was interrupted by a phone call from my brother Robin in France. Now I must get a shower before proceeding with further efforts to get rid of that bloody white van. Why can't things be simple?