Tuesday 17th April
Cheese on toast for breakfast, I feel a bit rough, the bug that's been stalking me all winter re-surfaces. It hangs around and you can't get rid of it. The health centre nurse says there isn't a name for it. My suggestion would be "Blair Flu".

The post arrives, just one letter, a woman from the Civil Service asks my opinion on the closure of Chalfont Drive, job losses and the selling off of ministry land for housing. Apparently, there's an old bomb shelter on the site, a listed building riddled with asbestos. I'll have to think about this one.

I decide not to do any leafleting today, but go up to Sherwood instead and print some more manifesto pamphets. Come back home, my German friend turns up and dyes my hair, sooty, greyey black. I don't think Elvis would be impressed but it will have to do.

Pick up the Evening Post and look at poets corner. Ian C. Gray the Wollaton poet is in again, he's in nearly every day. If I get elected I'll try and get an Asbo slapped on him for trying to bore me to death.

Go to bed and listen to the radio. The student who shot 32 dead in Virginia was South Korean. Thank god, he wasn't North Korean or it might have been World War Three. I start to think about the bomb shelter again, stay outside and get radiation poisioning, go inside and get asbestosis. Some choice, I'm bloggering off to sleep, good night.