Good afternoon.
I am so sorry this is a little late but Katie isn't well and I was at a lunch which over-ran - more of a high-tea, in the end- Faye has had tea thrown across her work-station and Romilly, who I am thrilled has stepped into the breach, is racing to catch up. What a piece of work are we are? How devoid of reason? How infinite in chaos.... enough Shakespeare monque and on with the show.
The Big Boss is threatening to fingerprint us all so he knows where we have been. I said bleeps would be better and he seemed cross I hadn't got his joke.
No jokes as all passengers passing through T5 from tomorrow's opening to the public were threatened with having to offer up their dabs. An invasion of privacy, say some; an additional time worry, say others; a damn good idea if it stops people blowing up my holiday flight, say the rest. Phil tests all arguments to destruction.
Fingerprints weren't really helpful when a little boy was left in a doorway at the weekend, speaking only Punjabi and as lost as any needle in any haystack. A woman says she is his mum but the mystery remains and at so many levels. Robin will have you gripping your seats and, so, covering them in fingerprints.
The unique fleshy ID of multinational capitalism would seem, according to a man who texted me, to be all over a take-over of GP surgeries in Camden. Karl Marx or Kildare, new signing Vaughan Jones does the dialectical analysis for you.
We've a black comedy causing the horrors all over the place and we've set Chrissie amongst the pigeons, and other feathered friends, because we know it terrifies her and that seems to amuse the cruel amongst you. I just enjoy seeing the gorgeous glaze that comes over her eyes. Odd, but it does it for me.
I think I better stop there, for so many reasons.
I need low tea now, and chocolate.
See you at 6 unless Carla Bruni invites me to the Embassy. Same eyes as Chrissie, you know.
The French are in town! Stay in and watch TV with us.
Alastair & Romilly
