A young and rather dapper looking Tony Blair has taken over running the Project Group.
The Project Group itself seems to have assumed a more grandiose, and perhaps slightly sinister, air -- as if its unpretentious name is designed to conceal some bolder intention to subvert the state or Brexit or heaven knows what. We are gathered in a large and comfortable sitting room, lying round on sofas, when Tony announces that we are not going to walk up the nearby hill but that we are going to be driven to the top of the mountains in an army lorry and that we will then fan out and work our way back down the mountainside without being seen by the local population. It is the main group exercise of the weekend. Mary Booker is uneasy. I realise that I have not brought a rucksack or any of my camouflage gear or even a waterproof jacket, so I set off to walk the mile or two back to the house. I am not concerned because it will take Tony ages to sort out the lorry (it always does) and we will just be faffing around. However, on my way I stop in for coffee with an old friend who is delighted that I have brought salted peanuts, which she puts in a bowl for us to eat. Because my teeth no longer meet in a satisfactory way anywhere except at the front of my mouth, I am obliged to scissor each nut repeatedly and laboriously with my front teeth, which takes hours. Eventually I rush off, rather ashamed, and learn from staff at the 'centre' that the lorry left long ago and I am left to consider how my old habits -- trying to look cool and unconcerned, not taking things too seriously, lack of forethought and preparation, failure to look after my teeth, liking for peanuts and tendency to call in on lady friends -- have come home to roost, leading to my missing out on the whole exercise, wasting money, wasting the others' time and probably leading to them all hating me. |