Wednesday Thanks to my diary, I know we’ve danced exactly 72 times to The Winner Takes it All (81 if you count the p*rty that never happened). But now Bozzie’s away at the war and I’m alone playing Knowing Me, Knowing You. After the Rishi and Saj – Saj! – betrayals, the familiar words are piercing. “No more carefree laughter.” From down the hall I seem to hear a mocking voice join in: “No more free wallpaper.” Case? He’s definitely been more uppity since that fellow drone stuck the knife in. “Come here Case.” “Yes madam.” “Any news from Nato?” “Sadly, the supreme allied commander vacancy has been filled.” “And the Nobel prize committee?” “Normally Norwegian, madam, though they appreciated your CV. Will that be all?” “Get Lulu, check how much of this stuff is removable – minus everything stained and we’ll forget what’s left of the rattan. Say there’s a damehood in it. Or not.” “If you recall, Ms Lytle blocked our number after the fixed penalty incident.” Patronising sexist brute. Why doesn’t he just say he thinks I’m Lady Macbeth? I can’t sleep, as per, so still up when Bozzie staggers in at four with his lamest excuse ever. Something ridiculous about Gove, herds, snakes. “Liar!” Grab a plate. If I don’t believe him, he says, it’ll be in all the papers tomorrow. Throw it anyway. Thursday Up to find Bozzie already working on his memoirs. Look over his shoulder. Page 1,014, chapter 49, Treason: “Suddenly Gove grabbed the Lulu Lytle brass doorstop and lurched towards me. We grappled. But only one of us was in his raw, animal prime, and I soon had him up against the drinks trolley. ‘Wretched snake,’ I said quietly, ‘Volodymyr was right to warn me. This is all Cummings’s doing.’ With a low groan Gove admitted his treachery: ‘Forgive me, I had no choice.’” As I watch, Bozzie types the next heading: “Resignation”. So it wasn’t a nightmare. He really has pissed away everything I achieved and without even finishing the Shakespeare book. I slam the laptop shut on his fingers. “Did you even think about Wilf’s treehouse? My future? The party?” He mumbles something about the bastard party not deserving him anyway. “The massive wedding party to celebrate our love!” “I’ll sort it, Otter, don’t worry, Nads and Ben are still on, Dad says we can borrow the farm and Brownlow always stumps up…” But I want – no, I’ve earned – the ABBA tribute band, a sustainable feast for 300 with “midsommar” floral tablescapes, a carbon-neutral wine fountain, organic sweet cart, monogrammed goody bags and the guests’ chance to take a unique Chequers selfie with Cromwell’s death mask, if it ever turns up. “… and Evgeny’s always there if you need some actors.” “I have given suck,” I say, “and know How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.” “I say, Otter, steady on, I’ll do it, look, I’ve already changed ‘Resignation’ to ‘Pluck’.” While Bozzie’s rewriting and Case steams the sick off his suit, I’ve got four hours to think photos, summon agents and sort a dress, and that’s with Bozzie’s faux-resignation honours list to fix. Approve Parsons. Promote Nimco. Add a couple of publishers. Who’s this hairdresser? Veto Nadine. Literally all I do is stand lovingly beside dear old Nads but within hours it’s literally my wedding party that’s supposed to be putting the nation at risk. No mention of the incredible career as a renowned conservationist that I sacrificed to transform Britain’s standing on the world stage. As always, it’s the animals that suffer. Do the haters have any idea how long it is since I’ve had time to tweet about rewilding captive manatees to their native savannah? “You rang?” “Case, close down this typical nasty regurgitated Lady Macbeth-style vile sexism nightmare.” “Can do in the Times and Mail, Madam. But regrettably no one at the Mirror is in line for a peerage.” “Get my husband, Case. He knows of other ways.” “I believe the PM is supervising the evacuation of some 200 Ukrainian cats, as you requested, but I see his father is making his 37th call today, will you take it?” Oh God. “Dear girl! Not to rush but we may not have long before my podiatrist – something of an Amazon, you know what is meant by Amazon, Carrie? – gets here. Got a pencil? Splendid, since your party’s off I’d appreciate a final Chequers stay with an illustrious Chinese friend – I’ll spell it – a Mr zulu, hotel, echo, november…” “Where’s Boris?” “Doesn’t my son the PM paint buses between two and four, no I’ve never actually seen them – but when he’s home remind him, gongwise, his sister’s done sterling work at LBC, Lebedev wants something for his wolf and if I might mention your proud pa-in-law’s service at GB News, for my sins, there’s an extremely bright Mr Wootton, not quite like us but that’s modern life, and Carrie, don’t forget something for yourself – Rachel thought an MBE?” Friday So all the peerages in Westminster can’t hold back the torrent of vile Lady Macbeth-style media fabrications. First they force relocation of the holy celebration of our love, now I’m being literally crucified because of a drinks trolley that with its convenient wheels saved precious prime ministerial time needed, above all, for the war effort. I assume these people would be OK with Putin sneering at May’s John Lewis tablecloths? “Bozzie! Finally! Where are you?” “Boom, rat-a-tat-tat, wheeeee, kapow! – sorry, Otter, bit noisy on the front line, cripes, damned close call, if you could just pass me that grenade, Volodymyr old chap – aaaargh.” Alone again with my music. “Money, money, money, It’s a rich man’s world.” Thank you, ABBA. Soundtrack of my life.