“Well, it didn’t take long for the Corbyn backlash to come along,” I remarked to Consuela (my Tejana maid). “The left have left off hailing him as the new Messiah, and are now calling for his crucifixion.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked Consuela, arching one eyebrow.
I showed her the picture on my iPad, tapping it with the nail of my right index, clickety-click.
“This is Jack Monroe, poverty campaigner, cookery expert, and activist. She’s after his blood because, it appears, the make-up of his Shadow Cabinet doesn’t live up to the promised gender balance. According to Jack’s tweets, anyone who argues to the contrary and happens to be male is guilty of #mansplaining. I have to say I rather dislike that kind of ‘guilt-by-denunciation’, it has a whiff of the Comité de Salut Public about it. It’s like saying only whites can be racist, or redefining ‘homophobic’ to refer to anyone who disagrees with a gay person on any issue whatsoever.”
“You,” said Consuela, with more edge to her tone than is usual, “are a chateau-bottled, appellation controlée, Grand Cru hypocrite. You don’t even support the parliamentary system. And you’re the richest anarchist in the world – you employ me to do all your housework. Ay, Madre de Dios…”
So saying, she stalked off. Really, I don’t know why I put up with her sometimes. I can hear her now. I swear to you, when she’s in a temper about something, she can even make the dishwasher, the washing machine, and the tumble-dryer rattle more loudly and more harshly in sympathy. All my housework? I lay the table, don’t I? And I hand-wash all my knickers.
Her insults are getting more inventive, though.