I have spent the week rereading The Diary of a Nobody, which is probably not a very good idea when writing a diary for the New Statesman. The fictional diary of Charles Pooter is a masterpiece of boring, pompous and mundane entries. It is very difficult not to feel a bit Pooterish when contemplating one’s own week. Pooter writes: “Mustard and cress not come up yet. Today was a day of annoyance. I missed the quarter to nine bus into the city.”
I was thinking of writing: “Very hot. Today was a day of annoyance. Boris Johnson has not left No 10 yet.” But I thought better of it.