The End Of Questions

I return, in a slightly sad mood, not depressed, but reflective. Eighty seven days ago I met this man, Robin Cook, in the middle of my election coverage, who suddenly died yesterday. He was the man who persuaded me to vote Labour one more time. I remember distinctly his post-resignation tale where he told a woman that he may have resigned from government (in 2003 over the decision to go to war in Iraq) but he would go to his grave a card-carrying Labour Party member.

I guess in a few days he will be interred and I hope they do as he wished and bury him with his card. My ex-GF A’s father died at 62, a horrible death from liver cancer. When he was buried, they dressed him in his best suit, and her brother put most of her credit and store cards, which this kind man had paid off before he departed, in his pockets. I have always cherished that image. I long for the resurrection and the end of expiry dates.

So here we go another month, another wippet. There he goes… damn, he’s fast. What would I do without a regular succession of thin, fast dogs? Well, I would raise a family of coots, of course, start a drugs rehabilitation drop-in centre and perhaps teach an art class once a week on a Wednesday evening.