Be patient with me

I believe that my intellect is decaying. Splendid.

After spending the early afternoon wading through acres of newsprint and nonsense about Yasser Arafat, John Peel and why women who drink too much, are too fat and can't get a boyfriend like Bridget Jones the three are begining to fuse into one godawful Trinity.

Perhaps the last days of Yasser Arafat would make an excellent diary.

October 21, Ramallah

Cigarettes, 10 (good); Israeli rocket attacks, 3; Suicide bombings, 2 (v. bad).

Stayed in again last night. Ariel still ignoring me: why? Ate a tub of ice cream, but was feeling bloated and unloved so I changed out of combat fatiques and head dress into Noddy outfit and then gaaah, Ali came in with a camera and took a picture of me in that get up. Now I will never be able to show my face at the world leaders club and will probably die alone while my aides argue about how's going to get access to the Swiss bank accounts.


It probably doesn't quite capture Helen Fielding's prose style, but I doubt that's a matter for shame.

More pertinently, I feel the Palestinians would have been better advised to mark their leader's passing by playing Undertones records and making wry, understated speeches rather than behaving like Britons after the death of Princess Diana.