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A Parliament well hung

(Girlfriend, do not read. Irritating Horoscopy alert.)

Overhauling your living environment will be a wonderful creative challenge. This is a great time to paint a drab room a different colour. If a space is dark and cold, add bright lights and wild patterns. When a place seems frenetic, soft carpets and tactile upholstery can help. Are you thoroughly fed up with your living situation? Think about relocating. You can get a generous loan from a lending institution. Apply for a loan. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

– Yahoo! Lifestyle Horoscope, today.

Now this is faintly astonishing, even by the predictive standards of the heavily beringed haruspex, Russell Grant.

I have in my hand, or somewhere near it on the table, a colour chart. I have been thinking lately of painting my little bedroom a different colour than Magnolia. It has been looking drab, but I had been planning in terms of a kind of gentle, shimmery pearlized effect and have just found a paint firm that promises one.

I am still strongly considering relocating, however, as I am fed up with being mown down by heavy lorries whenever I leave the house, and with wading through dogshit on the cinder path to the exurban space that passes for our local park. I looked at a place only last night, on the interweb, and sighed. My house is on the market – has been for over two and a half years.

But after all that time I am also wondering if I should not just put up with the lorries, the shit, the sheer convenience of staying put. It wouldn’t be such a bad place, with a spot of redecorating. And so I have lately been negotiating a remortgage, to provide capital to make repairs, pay bills, take a break, go singing. And the lending institution has generously offered me £7k more than I asked for!

Indeed, I just heard from my solicitor last night that she needs only one more document to be signed, that will give me the creative freedom I seek. (And allow me to pay my tax bill.) And she requires my final go-ahead to proceed. I have nothing to lose! (Except that she has now gone away ‘for a few days’.)

Rationalists would argue that five million Librans cannot all be in the same situation, merely because we were all born when the scales of the purely notional constellation of Libra were rising in the East. I say, bully for them! The world is dark and frenetic by turns. Who knew? And tomorrow is Election Day, when the world turns upside-down and darkness and freneticism reign for a time. It is all coming together nicely. We are in for a hung Parliament, my boys – and that’s just the way politicians should be.

Well hung. Like new wallpaper…

Postscriptum Electorum

So, it is the morning after. I wish I were a betting man. I could have got 10 to 1 on the Conservatives winning a majority. I told people beforehand I thought they would. I said I didn’t believe all the polls, and the pundits, that for weeks were predicting another hung Parliament. It seemed too good to be true. So the voters panicked at the last minute, and voted en masse for the devil they knew.

(Actually, it is probably more that they did not know or care who they were voting for – most people vox popped in the constituencies didn’t have the faintest idea who the Prime Minister was.)

Despite the voters eviscerating the Lib-Dems, down from 56 MPs to only eight, my local Lib-Dem man squeaked back in. I voted for him. Now I can bully him into doing something about the heavy lorries. And the dogshit.

Also, huzzah! The ubiquitous jokester, Nigel Farage has quit as party frontmouth after failing to win a seat in right-wing Thanet South, against the disturbing run of generally dimwitted citizens voting Tea Party… sorry, UKIP.

We shall miss him, the cheeky chappie with the pint of warm British beer in hand, popping up everywhere in his ghastly brown 1950s spiv’s Crombie coat with the moleskin tab collar, purporting not just to understand, but to actually be the Common Man. Now he can put on a decent bit of Savile Row and get back to making money.

Feminism Corner

And on the wireless this Tory morning (dull and raining), women with PhDs complained about there being no women involved in the TV election coverage.

I counted dozens, myself, including many reporting from outlying polling stations, several with ethnic minority status, and poor Rita Chakrabarti, stuck on the newsdesk overnight, reading out dreary election ‘news’ we had just heard; all of them apparently not women at all, but middle-aged white men disguised as women. (It’s the Andrew Neil effect – any talkshow he anchors appears to consist entirely of a middle-aged white man.)

Not only that, but quite a few of the politicians and even some party leaders, and most of the Returning Officers and hundreds of winning and losing candidates appeared to be women wearing dresses – although not the wee Scots lassie who’s just become at 20, the youngest MP since Pitt the Infant. She was wearing a disturbing iron-grey, Rosa Klebb dyke suit.

But hey, gals, let’s not spoil a good agenda.

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