The hospital gambit is brilliant for many reasons: it indicates intolerable suffering, stoically borne. It makes the errant chap seem a complete rat (Look! He’s made me ill!). It pre-empts any hasty plans he may have been making to trade one in for a newer model, in the hope that you’d go quietly.
And if the rotter fails to turn up at the clinic, clutching a vast, apologetic bouquet, you can issue a dignified press statement, just like Trierweiler’s, saying that your doctors have banned you from seeing him. (Word has it that Hollande managed to drop by a full week after she was admitted.)
Meanwhile, incarceration in a comfortable medical facility gives you plenty of time to get your hair done, lose a couple of pounds and generally prepare yourself for your next public appearance (Radiantly Reconciled, or Magnificently Moving On, as the case may be). Above all, it avoids the unfortunate paparazzo shot of you stumbling down your best girlfriend’s front steps, looking like the Wrath of God in a saggy onesie and no make-up, a bottle of gin in one hand and a fag in the other.
Comments to taglines82@gmail.com
