I didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for Vicky Pryce until I saw how she spent her last weekend of freedom – popping out to her local shop and buying bin bags; after perusing shelves of hair dye and socks. (Well, that’s how it was reported by the hacks in her wake.) It made me think – well, yes, those are what you’d probably need if you were contemplating your last moments of ordinary domesticity. What would you do? You’d sort out all of that tat in the kitchen, and jumble all of those old clothes in the back of the wardrobe… You’d fear for personal comforts – like cold feet and warm socks, and as a woman of a certain age – you’d worry about your roots. Crikey, I would. Although I do gather Holloway has its own salon nowadays.
On a more serious note, I’ve also found myself uneasy at the apparent press delight at the jail sentences finally dealt out to Chris Huhne and his ex-wife. Who exactly benefits from their incarceration? Why should the taxpayer fork out for their weeks of private punishment? Wouldn’t we all feel more satisfied from witnessing them, sporting fluorescent jackets, picking up tons of rubbish from our city centre streets, or manning soup kitchens for the homeless? Instead they’re now removed from our lofty gaze to “do their bird quietly”, as Jonathan Aitken advised today – and we won’t hear from them again until at least one of them produces a tome of memoirs!
