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I know you’re dead busy right now, putting up loads of pics of famous black people all over the White House and instructing your staff to piss on all the beds, but I had to write to tell you a few things.

Yesterday you made me cry like I was at a funeral.

I loved every word of your farewell speech, (apart from the icky last line where you asked God to continue to bless America because a) I am British and b) I am British).

It reminded me of a speech I gave at my fortieth birthday party. Just like you, when I got up to speak, the audience made so much noise I could hardly make myself heard and it definitely wasn’t because they were all too hammered to notice I’d stood up…

Somewhat shocked to still be alive at forty, it felt like the right time to undertake a review of my achievements thus far. It was not an especially glorious list. I could not claim to have taken out the mastermind of 9/11 or reversed a recession. But I’d finally gone back to work after fifteen years of being mental and had also had my longed-for second child. I didn’t praise my kids like you did yours because mine are a pair of arseholes who ruin my life everyday. And I didn’t praise my husband because unlike your darling Michelle, he looks shit in a dress and is constantly complaining about having to be my husband.

Of course, unlike your speech, mine was no farewell. My family must endure me for more than two terms of office. But it’s good to take stock sometimes, isn’t it?

It was your taking stock that caused my throat to block.

It was the way you talked about politics and people, the capacity for change, the rejection of divisive propaganda, of not giving in to fear, of remembering that ultimately we’re all in this together and not in a David Cameron bullshitty way.

It was because all your sound reasoning and compassionate pleading is about to be systematically packed-up and thrown out with the White House trash.

You said your mother used to tell you, “reality has a way of catching up with you.” Well it has. After eight years of thinking, if nothing else, a black president MEANS SOMETHING, harsh reality has chased us and pushed us up against the playground wall and, like a reverse game of tag, is saying: now WE are IT.

And they are IT over here too. I wish we were gawping at daft yanks making daft election decisions but we are in our own era of daft. And while our Theresa is at least a politician and not a billionaire reality TV star, she isn’t exactly diggin’ the poor and the needy.

After watching your speech, I couldn’t sleep so I stayed up and watched a thing on telly about our NHS which was so appallingly shocking and sad and hopeless, it made me cry like I was at a funeral…again.

By the time I got into bed after midnight, my eyes were swollen like a lizard and my tummy was in turmoil. So I did what any insane person would do after a day of emotion and gloom and tuned in to watch Trump shout at journalists with all the grace and decorum of an angry Dad on the touchline at his kid’s football game.

Yesterday you said you still believed in the future. You said you’d met the upcoming generation and they were unselfish, altruistic and creative. And I’m with you on that because I’ve got one of them in my house. My eldest is all of those things. She’s also outraged by her elected officials, angered by bigotry and fuelled by a belief in her generation’s capacity to change things. (When she’s not watching Gilmore Girls and painting her nails, obvs).

So, Mr O, in signing off, I will make a promise to you: I promise to try to keep my daughter’s hope alive until it’s her generation’s turn to be IT.

Good luck with your new career as an incredibly expensive after-dinner speaker. Do get in touch if you need a few tips…

Yours,

The Annagram

Ps – please ensure to leave a gigantic unflushable turd in every loo in the White House…

Thank you  xxx