Diary

Monday Dave has moved into the building! He and his staff left the Commons office on Friday night and set up camp in The Thatcher Room! That ought to put paid to the silly people saying Dave doesn’t respect Lady T. I went for a little peep earlier and he’s got piles of clever books. Inside Her Pretty Little Head: A New Theory of Female Motivation and What it Means for Markets sounds interesting. Bit concerned about The Low Carbon Diet. Are we going to have to eat CO2 now? Do I, as a Modern Compassionate Conservative, have to swallow my own footprint? Oddly, someone seems to have taken The Thatcher Room sign off the door. Asked Nigel why, and he claimed Dave insisted on it coming down. Must say, I feel a bit hurt.

Monday V. exciting. Was in charge of note-taking and smoothies at our Emergency Treachery-Management Meeting. We couldn’t decide what to do about Mr Mercer. Jed argued for something v unpleasant-sounding, which would involve us digging for a lot of complicated information, and would take ages. Was a bit worried as have dressage trials with Sesame tonight. Thankfully Mrs Spelperson persuaded everyone we had to lovebomb ‘dear old Paddy’, or he would go ‘all the way over’. It is very confusing: Mr Mercer was supposed to be much too right-wing for us when we sacked him for telling the truth about the army, and now he is making friends with Mr Brown who is very left-wing. I think.

My holiday reading list this year was both accidental and catholic. Usually I plan some months in advance, but this year I managed to wolf down my summer reading list before stepping on a plane. Consequently I went to bed with Joanna Trollope, woke up with Philip Roth, had an affair with Tom Bower’s Conrad Black biography (principally because I felt I had to) and spent several days by the pool in Banyuls as the cicadas blithely scratched away in the olive trees with Rupert Everett. I even spent an afternoon with James Patterson just to see what all the fuss is about. But what mostly captured my attention was castration.

‘I’m not Jewish, but I love Israel, and I try to holiday there every year.’ An uncontentious remark, surely, but it produces Batemanesque horror around the scrubbed-pine dining tables of London’s chattering classes. Arad, Israel ‘I’m not Jewish, but I love Israel, and I try to holiday there every year.’ An uncontentious remark, surely, but it produces Batemanesque horror around the scrubbed-pine dining tables of London’s chattering classes. You are more likely to boycott ‘apartheid Israel’ than visit it for pleasure — unless you are Jewish, Islamophobic or Paul Johnson.

It was the call that never came. For three hours last week, I sat with my hand hovering over the phone. I had been told that Bill Kenwright would be getting in touch between 3 p.m. and 6 p.m. Yes, the Bill Kenwright, theatreland big shot and chairman of Everton FC. This was exciting. Was I about to be hired for a cameo role in his West End production of Cabaret? Better still, perhaps, he fancied my prospects as a burly striker, playing at Goodison alongside Andy Johnson? Sadly not. The reason I had been put on red alert was that Kenwright and his inamorata, Jenny Seagrove, were panellists on the celebrity edition of Who Wants To Be a Millionaire — and Bill was keen that I should be his ‘phone-a-friend’.

What is up with the once superb Blue Guide that it fails to so much as mention beautiful Qinghai province, up in China’s northwest? Xining, Qinghai province, China What is up with the once superb Blue Guide that it fails to so much as mention beautiful Qinghai province, up in China’s northwest? Here a lively mix of minorities make up 46 per cent of the population. Tibetans and Muslim Hui are the most prominent, alongside a sprinkling of Kazakhs and Mongols. At Xining, Ta’er Si (Kumbum) is one of the largest and most important (Tibetan Yellow Hat) Buddhist sites. Labrang, on the grasslands bordering Gansu, another. The exquisite Qutan mon-astery in Ledu county yet another.

Monday I can’t take much more of this. Even Daddy says I need a holiday and our family motto is ‘Don’t Make a Fuss’ (it sounds better in Latin). It’s just unbearable, non-stop horridness. Every time we think we’ve got on top of it another Dipwig (Deeply Irrelevant Person With Grudge) comes crawling out of the woodwork to have a go at poor Dave. I wouldn’t mind but they’re all complete losers. At least DD has come out fighting for us. He’s on a major military discipline metaphor high. He addressed the morning strategy meeting and it was really exciting. Lot of talk about something called the Maginot Line and a v interesting slide show entitled ‘From Static Defence to Penetrating Counter-offensive’. He was quite masterful.

I miss Issie. I am waiting outside in the Orangerie in the Parc de St-Cloud, in Paris, where the Chanel show is about to begin. The incessant driving rain, the clouds, thick, and black with purpose, as another deluge begins. The huge white bright spotlights shining undiminished give a silvery magnificence to the scene. The team of Karl Lagerfeld and Chanel, undefeated by the elements, succeed in staging one of the best couture shows I have seen, and I have seen quite a few. Contrary to what one might expect, the rain heightens the senses and gives it a poetic surrealism. Showtime. The moment the first model exits to explosive music and flashbulbs, the runway has become a stream in the gravel. No one can do drama like Karl, and this is a drama.

Hong Kong It is very good to be back. So good that I can ignore the horror of the summer weather. The humidity suffocates and is only relieved by sudden and violent downpours. But these are minor irritations in a city that is back to its best. The economy booms and the shops and restaurants are full. I watched a pro-democracy march and was reminded of the glorious fractiousness of the Hong Kongers. No power on earth should pick an argument with them. It is a passionate nature which can occasionally find expression in unfortunate ways. Take the case of Mr Kwok who finds himself very nearly eyeless in Kowloon. Six years ago Kwok was set upon by his girlfriend Ms Po who in the midst of a romantic tiff tried to gouge out his left eye with her finger. As a result he lost the sight of the eye.

Washington High tea with George Bush in the Oval Office. Polite but tough questioning on my book. He tells me how much he’s enjoyed reading it. Next stop, the wonderfully counter-counter-cultural bowling alley with Dick Cheney, flanked by Francis Fukuyama, author of The End of History. They tell me how much they’ve enjoyed my book. Paris Croque monsieur for 70 at the Elysée Palace with Nicolas Sarkozy. Nico tells me he’s only just put down my book. I tell him how much I’m enjoying his presidency. We part amicably. Afghanistan To the Tora Bora caves for mint tea with Bin Laden, author of 9/11, then off kite-flying with his deputy Ayman al-Zawahiri. They tell me they take issue with my thesis but have greatly enjoyed my book.

Monday Horrid, horrid. It’s all election war footing and aggression and shouting round here. Jed has decided we are ‘too nice’. Says he is going to toughen us up and turn us into ‘attack dogs’. (Am prepared to do almost anything for Dave. But the concept of turning me and the girls into dogs, ‘attack’ or otherwise, is — well — just not very nice). Our lifestyle guru Sherwood has been sent on decorating leave, the positive energy murals have been taken down, Die Hard With a Vengeance is playing on a loop on the TV monitors and the Tranquillity Room is being used for kickboxing. Suzie from Events says it’s almost as bad as when Lynton was around. The Great C.