My direct line manager, as I suppose you'd call him, the Boy David, has been quieter than usual. He has bags under his eyes, looks pale and wan and is vastly irritable. I overheard one of the kitchen maids saying, "It was like this when Maggie had sent the troops to the Falklands".
But, of course, it's nothing like the Falklands. What our Boy David is hoping is that it'll all be over quickly; that the Libyans will shout their love of David Cameron. He dreams of walking in shirt sleeves through ranks of adoring Arabs - shades of Blair in the Balkans!
My friend Arturo and I think that we'll keep out of the way for a few days! If things go wrong, they're bound to start kicking the cats! Just hope for his sake that Obama's dog keeps a low profile in the White House! Who'd be an animal in a centre of power?
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