I've no doubt that Polly's carbon conscience compels her to send twenty quid by Paypal to some bloke in Africa every time she burns a ton of aviation kerosene, and in return the bloke will tell her that thirty trees have been planted. Africa must be as lush as the Amazon these days with all those millions of new carbon-offset trees.
Polly won't mind a bit about the intrusive questions, searches and baggage restrictions, the queues or the sullen rudeness of the hordes of new jobsworths that Zanu Labour has put into fluorescent waistcoats; with
And Italy has done its best to make Polly and ZNL's other Tuscanophile apparatchiks feel right at home as they start their holidays. The twelve year-old gypsies have already been fingerprinted and rounded up into ghettoes into which Italians are encouraged to throw petrol bombs; stinking refuse is piling up in the squares and piazzas, Novara has banned gatherings of three or more people at any time in an echo of a 1920 Fascist edict, and armed troops are patrolling the streets across Italy as Berlusconi tightens his media grip and is making moves to ban You Tube.
And Polly will bliss-out in Chiantishire as she slumps like a block of melting lard on her sunbed, for this is her very Labour vision for Britain; if only we saw David as she sees him, not as a weird looking wonk with a bumfluff upper lip, but as a young Adonis, an Arthur pulling the sword of socialist progress from the stone.