THANKFULLY last night’s riots were not as bad as expected. But the experience has left deep psychological scars on all of us, particularly sensitive and intelligent people like me.
My personal nightmare began when I discovered Cheltenham was not considered a priority target for rioters. The call handler was actually quite brusque when I dialled 999 to ask if my Waitrose delivery would be late due to police checkpoints – only to be told there were none!
Horrific visions began racing through my mind. Our detached home set ablaze by tracksuited members of the underclass. The authentic Spanish chiminea lying broken on the patio like some nameless victim of Guernica. A fat man with tattoos barbecuing our labrador Teddy and asking for ketchup.
Unable to rely on the thin blue line – the thin yellow line, if you ask me – I realised we would have to defend ourselves. Pausing only for a cup of chamomile to steady my nerves, I began instructing my children to tape Japanese chef’s knives to brush handles to make spears and slashing weapons.
At this point my husband Marcus told me to stop acting like a mad cow and come and have dinner. I wasn’t hungry, but was cajoled into having a large glass of sauvignon blanc and some olives in front of the TV. Fearing the worst, I switched over to BBC News live.
The streets were indeed full – of Asian people and middle-class anti-racists. ‘These riots are crap,’ said my daughter Octavia, and I had to agree, although I hope she’s a bit more perceptive in her Oxford interview.
Obviously I’m relieved my fears were misplaced, and Britain’s racists are – I feel I’m allowed to swear on this occasion – f**king useless twats. Nonetheless, the protests have taken their toll on my mental health.
The stress definitely caused my nightmare about patios, and I can’t look at our labrador without having flashbacks. Although on the upside I’ve decided to see a counsellor, which means I can talk about it all over again.
