20 May 2015, 12.30 pm
I walk down the Corridor of Power to see the CIPA Membership Team. We talk about regional representatives and how many happy hours we are going to let them organise each year before we start to get suspicious. We think perhaps three. This is real power, deciding how many happy hours people are entitled to. I could get to enjoy this. 20 May 2015, 2 pm The lovely people from ITMA come to visit. They say Congratulations on being President, ha ha, serves you right! And now you are President, they say, you can come to our annual drinks party. So now I know I have arrived. They also say they will be coming to our Pickled Parts of Patent Attorneys Party, which sounds like a tongue-twister although doubtless not such a tongue-twister as it will be by the end of the party. 20 May 2015, 8 pm I return home as Pee, to the entirely predictable jubilant reception from my family. My long-suffering husband arches a single eyebrow to remind me of both his long suffering and his husband-ness. My eldest son, who is training to be an android and is very nearly there, looks up from his maths revision and then looks down again: I am nothing like as interesting as a regression curve. My teenage daughter doesn’t even look up from her GCSE revision, which seems to be largely Facebook®- and Instagram®-based, but later announces that she is going to a revision barbecue and won’t be back till some time after her business studies exam. My eleven-year-old son, who is so keen to become a teenager that he finds a new facial hair virtually every day, tells me about his latest facial hair but is not hugely impressed with the news that I am President of the Charted Instagram of Pattern Journeys. I ask him how his day was at school, but it appears this is information which he only imparts on a need-to-know basis, and since I do not even know where his classroom is, he concludes that I do not really need to know what he does there. In any case, he is far better friends with the President-twice-removed, a certain EyeEyePeePee, than he is with me, because the EyeEyePeePee is fond of trains and guess what, my son is fond of trains too, especially after the EyeEyePeePee emailed him a list of the ones he might like to ask me for at Christmas. The cat-that-shows-me-its-bottom shows me its bottom twice in honour of the occasion. I take this to be a good sign. Although not a particularly attractive one. My eldest daughter, who used to be my son, is no longer at home anyway. But it has to be said, her support is about as heartfelt now as it used to be when she was here. If you'll excuse my sarcasm. 21 May 2015 I am feeling jaded. I put this down to my London diet. My London diet consists largely of plastic pots, or rather the contents of the pots; obviously I do not eat the pots themselves. Whilst I am sure these things are nutritionally sound, they all appear to be marinated in loneliness. They might just as well be labelled “Sad Person’s Salad” or “Tiny Hotel Room Sandwich”. They can’t be good for the hormones. Still, at least I get to walk the Corridor of Power and control the allocation of happy hours. It’s not all bad.
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