Rage

I broke a glass this evening. It wasn’t any old glass – it was one of a set of matching Champagne flutes, etched crystal. There’s little of beauty in this flat (not me, for sure), almost nothing of value. These glasses were just about all I cared for or about, glasses that conferred a sense of occasion even in their everyday use. If I’d lived a different kind of life, I’d presumably have sideboards stacked with such items, Waterford beakers and matching dinner services and canteens of silver. But I didn’t and I don’t and I’m mourning the glass. The stem snapped in my hands as I thought of her. Of Nick and her. I can’t help feeling she’s won.

I know why he’s letting her do this. There have been so many false alarms about Gordon but this time it’s for real. No way will Labour MPs will allow this broken, gurning man to lead them into the next election. There’s nothing some of his would-be successors would like better, of course, than for Brown to hang on in there and take the blame for the inevitable rout. James Purnell doesn’t want the poisoned chalice yet. David Miliband says he’d have to drink from it, for the good of the party, but he’s in no hurry to take the helm. But Nick – he’s gagging for it, and as for his protestations of innocence… well, they’re about as convincing as Harriet Harman declaring her lack of ambition.

If Nick gets the gig, will he take me back? Sarkozy divorced in office. Berlusconi’s marriage has hit the rocks. Surely British voters are at least as forgiving as their continental counterparts?

Forgiveness. Not sure I can forgive. I’m pulsating with anger and I don’t even know why.