By Auntie Sylvia
WHEN you’re achieving as much in life as me and Angela Rayner – for her being deputy Labour leader, for me rearranging bird ornaments – it needs to be documented.
So until the money comes through, I’ve hired Steve who did Rachel’s wedding photos. You know him, bald chap, bit ugly. This isn’t a bonkers ego trip; Steve’s job is simply to make people aware of what I do.
From visiting the doctor to complaining at the swimming baths, Steve’s there snapping away. And he’s not just for me but for the whole family. Big occasions, chance encounters, and paparazzi-style invasive shots when I suspect something’s going on.
As of yet I’ve not been able to dispatch him to anyone else – there was a recipe for lemon drizzle cake on Lorraine this morning I needed a record of – but that’s just coincidence. He’ll be available to Auntie Pam even though we fell out at Christmas because she drinks.
I’m aware certain relatives have questioned whether employing Steve is wise with everything being so expensive these days. But there are tough choices to be made and I will not flinch from making them, which is why Uncle Geoff’s sold his car.
Yes, £68,000 a year for Steve’s services is a lot of money on two state pensions, but how else can I photograph myself in Aldi? I can’t rely on Geoff’s steady hand. He’s never got the hang of digital. We lost a beautiful set of photos of the Edinburgh Tattoo.
My daughter Siobhan, little madam that she is, says ‘For God’s sake, mum, just take a bloody selfie!’ but they’re not sophisticated, are they? Rayner wouldn’t settle for that. These images need to be front-page ready.
So let’s stop the silly carping, settle down with a cup of tea, relax and let Steve take photos of us watching Antiques Road Trip. He’ll pop them on the PA wire last thing for worldwide use. Don’t worry, I retain international usage rights.
