IT has been nine days since I lost all contact my colleagues, my public, my fiancee, my son. Coincidentally it was also the day Dom left and I’m pissed off I didn’t get to properly enjoy that.
But I’ve been keeping a diary this entire time, because Churchill kept a diary and I’m just like him. Here are the highlights.
Dom is going apeshit. I told him personally how sad we are that he’s leaving, by getting Carrie to do it, but he’s still after some face time with the big man. ‘I know you’re in there, coward,’ he says as he walks around banging on walls. Sadly, the rules of self-isolation mean I must remain completely silent and hidden in this cupboard.
It’s Saturday, so I get up and knock on the door to be let out. But no, apparently you have to self-isolate at weekends too. Nonsense on stilts.
The news is out about BoJo’s corona no-show, and I’ve filmed a little video about it and put it on Twitter. 6,100 retweets. Meanwhile Trump’s getting 182,400 for tweeting ‘I won the Election!’ The British are such twats.
Pass my Covid test and demand to be let out. Apparently that’s not how it works. Demand to see Professor Whitty. Apparently he’s busy. I hear him chatting later and shout ‘Oi, Whitty!’ He goes quiet.
Prime Minister’s Questions today, and a video link’s been set up so I can take part. Starmer keeps smirking like there’s something funny about me being in this situation because I ignored the rules specifically set out by my office and repeated by me at briefings.
My big cyber-green-army-levelling-up relaunch is happening today and I’m missing it. Suggest it could be delayed until next week, so I can be personally involved sprinkling on the old charm and magic. Carrie says ‘F**k no’, then ‘Sorry, I thought I was on mute.’
Everyone appears to have left for the weekend. All I’ve got to eat is a sharing pack of Chilli Heatwave Doritos. The door’s locked and nobody’s answering their phones. I’ve really gone off Covid.