As Boris Johnson heads towards No 10 with his stuff in a bin-liner, I simply can’t bear to watch the news

I haven’t watched the news for ages now. I can’t bear it: I’ve been blinkering myself against the inevitable for weeks – the day Boris Johnson moves into No 10.

Instead I’ve watched every available episode of Project Runway, an American reality show starring rookie fashion-designer contestants competing against each other in a series of glorious cat-walk challenges.

This feast was swiftly followed by a massive binge on a series called Blown Away, a Canadian TV show featuring competitive glass blowing. That’s right, glass blowing – possibly the maddest and riskiest of all the creative arts. Pottery – ha! – wheels are for pansies compared to the red-hot furnaces and molten blow-pipes of glass blowing. Seriously, this is nail-biting stuff, with dreams shattering into a million shards in the final minutes. Love Island might think it’s hot, but it’s not: boiling liquid glass being moulded into incredible solid objects is hot.

Anyway... as I was saying: like a child trying to dodge things I don’t want to hear, avoiding the news has been my version of blocking my ears with my fingers and singing lalalalalala until it’s all over.

But the waiting is done and no amount of burying my head in reality TV programmes is going to alter the fact that Theresa has loaded up the removal van and is headed back to Berkshire. She’s packed up her collection of china owls, given the work surfaces an extra wipe down in case anyone should think she’s dirty, and wrapped her precious wedding gift dinner service in newspapers that feature her own ravaged face.

Meanwhile Boris, who has been staying at a mate’s, has chucked all his stuff in a bin-liner and is on his way in, not forgetting the Playstation.

Rumour has it that he’s also bringing his girlfriend and this is where things start to get interesting. If Carrie does decide to move north of the river then she and Boris will be the first unmarried couple to take up residence at No 10 (unless Ted Heath had someone hiding in the attic). I wonder if she’ll be bringing that sofa with her, the one Boris spilled wine over that caused the big ruckus in Camberwell?

The gossipy, fiction writer side of me boggles at this; it’s so mad you couldn’t make it up.

Carrie Symonds is a year older than my own 30-year-old daughter and the idea of Phoebe playing Mrs Prime Minister makes me howl with laughter. Somehow I can’t imagine her stuck indoors having to entertain a load of old fart dignitaries when all her mates are off doing the summer festivals or snacking on grilled halloumi and gluten-free veggie and kale straws in front of Ru-Paul’s Drag Race.

If I were Carrie’s mum, I’d be worried sick. In fact I’d probably insist on moving in too, just to keep an eye on things: I’d kip on that stained sofa if I had to.

I’m sorry, but I can’t see this incarnation of No 10 as being anything other than madly dysfunctional, complete with sleeping bags full of smelly twenty-something kids from his first marriage cluttering up the place every other weekend.

I imagine whilst Theresa was living there it was all very ordered with clean hand towels and mini-soaps in the all the guest bathrooms, and plenty of air freshener so as not to embarrass any big-wig with a bowel problem. I bet she kept her cupboards well stocked with easy-fix meals for when she got home late and she and Philip fancied something light on a tray in front of an interesting documentary on the television.

“Scrambed eggs and smoked salmon, Philip?”

“Just the ticket Tess, Aperol spritz?”

“Super.”

By contrast I can imagine Boris and Carrie living mostly off kippers and Deliveroo, and the carpet gradually turning into one big pizza crust. Mind you, I bet the wine cellar will be well stocked and I imagine the contents of the fridge will be more chilled lager than homemade lasagne, although Carrie might want to bagsy a prosecco shelf for when her old mates from school come round to paint each other’s toenails and talk about their old games mistress.

As for the garden, Boris scored very badly on his hobbies round when he was famously interviewed on Talkradio. As gardening wasn’t even mentioned, consequently I fear we’ve seen the last of Theresa May’s neatly trimmed bush (sorry, I couldn’t resist).

Do you think the same household staff stay on at No 10 regardless of the occupants and if so, I wonder how much it would cost to bribe one of them to hide a small camera in every single room? Because while I may not be ready to face the news ever again, in the light of running out of both Project Runway and Blown Away, then I wouldn’t mind wrapping my eyeballs around a Celebrity Big Brother-style, fly-on-the-wall account of life inside those No 10 walls once Boris and co move in.