Monday You’d have to have a heart of stone not to laugh. Man of the people Nigel Farage announces that his bank, Coutts, has closed his account because it disagrees with his views. Cue outrage, media fulminations amongst those who like to fulminate over rather than celebrate the idea that Farage is suffering in any way, and a rallying of Brexity troops around the martyr. Then, when it was revealed that his account was closed because it didn’t meet the exclusive bank’s minimum requirements for membership (£3m in savings or £1m in investments or loans, in case you were wondering) and that he had instead been offered an account with NatWest (part of the same banking group as Coutts), everyone fell over laughing. Overall, there have been worse starts to a week.
Tuesday Orkney wants to secede from Scotland. They put it a bit less bluntly than that, but that’s basically the idea. Fed up with being ignored and underfunded, as they see it, by their Caledonian overlords, they are looking to capitalise instead on their strong historical links with Norway. The archipelago was settled by the Norsemen and remained part of the snowy kingdom to the north for the next 600 years until in 1472 it was taken by Scotland after Margaret of Denmark’s promised dowry was not paid to their James III. It is now felt that the time – and the paternity leave allowance, the benefits system and the all-round sense of Scandinavia being a place where a belief in a more or less linear progression towards the betterment of humanity is still possible – is ripe for re-establishing the relationship. Oh, please, please let it happen. I mean, “Orkney now part of Norway” is just such a demented yet cheering headline. Think of the opportunities it opens up. Maybe then south London could secede from north London (long a dream of mine). Lancashire could formally fence off Yorkshire (big trellis up along the Pennines, red roses aggressively trained up the whole thing). Eventually, every man could become an island. Because Donne was wrong – this is exactly how we’d like it. Wednesday Potential liberation of another kind arrives with the news that nearly one in seven people say they frequently host “Deliveroo dinner parties”, ie where guests are fed by takeaway rather than home-cooked food. This is, clearly, abominable behaviour and an offence to all notions of civility, love, respect and all the other things that the breaking of bread together symbolises and has symbolised for people of all ages, eras and cultures since time immemorial – and the greatest news I’ve ever heard. I loathe cooking. For myself and especially for others. Mainly because you have to do all the work and then people just eat all your efforts and I don’t feel that becoming another tiny link in the chain of love, respect and all the other things that the breaking of bread together symbolises and has symbolised for people of all ages, eras and cultures since time immemorial is remotely worth it. Especially not when you have to do all the shopping beforehand too. If I can get people round and keep them warm, fed, drunk and happy enough to keep chatting without having to trundle round aisles then muck about with everything I’ve bought in the hope of making it faintly edible, that’s a win for me and, I assure you given the state of what emerges from my kitchen, them too.
Thursday Amy Nuttall has apparently taken her husband and fellow actor, Andrew Buchan, back into the bosom of the family after an alleged affair with a co-star, on condition that (in addition to never seeing the co-star again) they go on date nights (with each other) once a week, go away for a night (again, with each other) every seven weeks, and go on holiday together every seven months. It’s called the 777 approach and is apparently A Thing. I admire the commitment and wish her seven different kinds of luck. Or seven different, wildly fulfilling revenge affairs. Whichever she ultimately feels is more rewarding. Friday The plumbers are finally here. And when I say plumbers – I don’t mean ordinary plumbers. I mean an elite, Special-Forces-A-Like team of plumbers, sent by the local council to replumb our entire block of flats to try to resolve the matter of six years of leaks into our home. They have stemmed from various points in the hundreds of pipes from six flats around us that run into the big communal pipe that finds its lowest point in our bedroom and from there discharges its watery burdens. I face most things, to be honest, with a fair degree of detachment and a sanguine air. What will be will be. But when the very walls of my home are being demolished and its innards – not just pipes but electrical wiring and layers of plaster, wood and bricks – are on display, I become borderline hysterical. My mental integrity depends very much, almost entirely, it turns out, on the integrity of the physical shell around me. I must not see the workings. I must believe that it is eternal and inviolable and that whatever else goes on it will remain a refuge. Now that it’s mostly splinters, dust and damp I am going out of my tiny mind. Once school finishes, we can go on holiday and then decamp to Mum’s. But until then, I am insane and everyone will just have to work around that.