Breath of fresh air?

It's been an unforgettable few hours for British politics. The pendulum of public opinion has swung from left to right for decades. Now we have a bit of both, and frankly, no one knows whether or not it'll be a fantastic experiment or a hideous mess. So I'm going to hold fire with my opinions until we get some fallout - at least for the next hour or so, anyway. I will say that I do want it to work, even though that may mean that I one day have to praise members of the Tory party. But we'll see.

In the absence of a gripping liveblog updating me on the coalition discussions every six seconds, I now have almost nothing to do [see doodle]. In my personal life, the snake has beaten a retreat along with Gordo. I got up this morning, did yoga and washed my hair, a series of actions that have a similar level of signifcance to a perfectly normal, healthy person going on a weeklong intensive detox in Bali. After two days of no make-up, greasy hair and no exercise, I now feel like a new person. A new person who still hasn't heard from the short guy but who's now deleted his number and stopped worrying about it. I'd texted him yesterday morning telling him he wasn't flirting nearly enough and then, when I didn't receive a reply, texted him again yesterday evening saying, and I quote, 'Meh. Lame. I'm replying to the magician.' Pathetic? Sure, but it made me feel better.

Now I'm sitting here researching the Chinese visa application process and trying to distract myself so that I don't go back to the vending machine for a second packet of crisps. Nothing funny is happening here, although it may amuse you to hear that, in a vivid display of karma's sizeable powers, I (possibly unfairly) wiggled my way onto the rammed tube this morning, ukulele on my back, and then, smugly in position, had to endure the frankly unendurable morning breath of the businessman to my left for around 45 seconds. I wasn't sure whether I'd rather smell it or breathe through my mouth and then inhale the particles, but neither of us could move our heads due to space restrictions so I was forced to adopt a mix 'n' match combination procedure. He was presumably unaware of the solid bulkiness of his emissions, but they were eye-wateringly pungent, suggestive of a thick, yellow coating on the tongue like cranberry-flecked Cathedral City from weeks of coffee and dairy. I can't pretend to know his motives, but the man was unquestionably anti-toothpaste. Thankfully I was able to rotate approximately 80 degrees at the next station but I did notice that the hand that he was using to grip onto the safety rail was wearing a wedding band. Pity that woman, readers. If ever there was a justification for separate beds, he was it.