Number of days since lockdown: 63

Number of days since I became a 24/7 carer: 2

Number of times I’ve felt like screaming “You lying, privileged bastards” at Dominic Cummings and Boris Johnson: how many do you think?

I was up half of Friday night putting the finishing touches to my preparations for Mum’s arrival on Saturday. I wanted everything to be perfect, even though, with my mother, that would be impossible. She will either complain that I haven’t done enough or that I have gone way over the top and that she hates a fuss. We specialise in the double-bind in our family.

Plus Brian said he was going to be in touch on Saturday. Being a carer is going to make things a bit more complicated on that front, but love will find a way. Or so I hope.

I got up really early on Saturday and took Harvey out for his walk. I was back in the house for one final round of wiping surfaces and plumping up cushions before it was time to set off to collect Mum, when my phone pinged. I leaped across the kitchen to answer it, feeling all girlish and thrilled, only to find a text from my ex-husband saying he was at the side gate and to please let him in as he needed to talk to me urgently.

He sat down at the garden table and said what about a coffee, Sades, and I said Richard, I’ve only got ten minutes before I need to leave to collect my mother, and he said never mind that, did you know about our daughter? And I said what, and he said, did you know that she’s now batting for the other side, and I said for God’s sake, do you live in the 19th century, she is 32 and who she goes out with is up to her.

And then it all descended into a stupid argument when he accused me of indoctrinating his children and I said he was a fascist. And then we seamlessly got onto the subject of Dominic Cummings and I said he should resign and Richard said he was only trying to make sure his child was alright, and I said tell that to the single parent who looked after their children alone in a tiny flat while ill with the virus because they were following the quarantine rules. Or the mother and father whose 13 year old son was dying in ITU and they weren’t allowed to be with him or even to attend his funeral. And he said don’t be so dramatic, Sadie.

So I said Cummings is like one of those parents who park their SUV on the zigzag lines outside schools because they think the safety of their own child is more important the safety of everyone else’s and Boris Johnson is like a headteacher who says it is OK for one parent to break the rules because they are a personal friend. And he said Did you read that in the Guardian, Sadie? And I threw my coffee at him and the coffee went all over him in a massive arc and the cup hit him on the head and cut him over his left eye.

So I ended up having to ring Constance at the hospice to say I would be late, before going in search of plasters and apologising for my violent outburst.

To be fair to Richard, he never holds a grudge. He tried to grope me while I was cleaning his cut which made me want to hit him again, and then he said, I’ve left her, Sadie. And I said who, and he said Karina.

Karina is his latest partner, or is it wife? I can’t keep up. Anyway, it turns out that, surprise surprise, he has been shagging someone at the office and Karina found an incriminating text and threw him out and he has been sleeping in his car for the past three days and now is in desperate need of a shower and somewhere to stay.

I said why not go to a hotel and he said insufficient funds, old girl. And I nearly cracked and said OK, just for one night. And then I remembered all the times he has let me and the children and his subsequent wives and girlfriends down, plus the lockdown rules and what it would look like to the neighbours and that my Mum would also be there and the small matter of Brian. But mainly his support for Dominic Cummings and Boris Johnson. And I said no, Richard, you will have to make other arrangements.

After a bit of chuntering, he left and I drove to the hospice and collected Mum.

I will be honest, being a full time carer is not going to be easy. Although at least it took my mind off Rishi Sunak’s fall from grace, when he followed orders on Friday night and tweeted support for the odious Cummings. Sorry Rishi, but it’s over. You are a puppet after all.

Sunday morning:

7 am Take Mum cup of tea. Explain (again) why we can’t go and see Dad today. Empty dishwasher.

7.30 am Take dog for very quick walk.

8 am Deliver Mum’s breakfast in bed. Accept admonishment for excess number of Weetabix (She only wanted one and I gave her one and a half.)

8.30 am Help Mum to have bath and get dressed. Make bed, tidy her room and bathroom. Put on load of washing.

9.30 am Help her downstairs. Settle her into least uncomfortable chair in sitting room. Deliver coffee, one digestive biscuit and newspaper. Accept admonishment that it is the Observer rather than the Sunday Times.

10.00am Sweep kitchen floor, wipe down surfaces, load dishwasher. Remember I haven’t had breakfast yet. Make toast, about to start eating it standing up, respond to urgent call from sitting room that she needs the loo, offer assistance, help her back to sitting room, return to kitchen to find cat licking butter off toast.

A long day. But my mother and I are at least in agreement that Boris Johnson needs to sack the odious Cummings or he will turn all the attention to his own lack of leadership skills. Which he then does very successfully at the 5pm press conference. For someone who’s main asset is meant to be communication, it is a PR disaster of monumental proportions. The country is full of fury, with Tory MPs, bishops and people who have missed the funerals of loved ones lining up to express their disgust.

And the wonderful Sir Keir Starmer plays a blinder in not mentioning Cummings, but waiting for the PM to fall into the trap of supporting his man just as even more incriminating evidence starts to appear. He has asked for a cabinet secretary led enquiry. Which given that Cummings has been trying to oust the cabinet secretary has a nice symmetry to it.

In other news, I had a lovely long WhatsApp chat with Brian on Saturday night after I had settled Mum into bed. He seems to have resolved all the stuff about Stella and feels that things are as good as they can between him and her parents. And he now feels he can concentrate on his own life. We are going to try a late night tryst in the garden/summerhouse tomorrow night, ie Tuesday, after Mum has gone to bed.

I feel like a teenager. What could possibly go wrong?

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