Went for a swim. Although the constituency pool is only fifteen meters long (it makes you dizzy counting the lengths) it’s very pretty. Turquoise tiles, statues, some greenery. Like most private pools which are part of a gym, its underused and I can often get it all to myself . And so it was on the morning of Mayday.
The rest of the club is grim. Dingy cold changing rooms and dribbly showers . A wonky boiler. The showers are often freezing. But a hundred lengths made me feel good and I went home singing.
BBM and His Excellency waiting hopefully.Lurking might be a better word. I speed to the kitchen, ask whether scrambled eggs will fill the bill and watch their faces warm. Crack 8 eggs, melt butter in pan, use the other hand to throw on some toast (Burgen – it’s terrific. Bet Paula Radcliffe eats it) Eggs turn out creamy and delicious. Pass out two platefuls to the grateful, and then discover I have left myself approximately twice as much as I doled out to BBM and HE. Bugger it! I think, just this once. After all I am the one who has swum a hundred lengths. By the time I sit down they have almost finished their portions and they fix on my plate in amazement. Four resentful eyes watch every mouthful.
We set out for Lincoln. HE in the front with me. BBM in the back calling out every speed sign we pass like a scrutineer . “40. 50 60, 40 40 FORTY!!”
“Watch it there’s a speed camera on the left.”
HE falls asleep.
When we get within 5 miles of the cathedral BBM starts looking for a parking spot. Manage to hold on until we are within a few swimming pool lengths. HE stirs and pronounces Lincoln the world’s best cathedral (I think he is in diplomacy training). Then he starts looking for lunch. A pie shop is the choice. It turns out to be a good one with local delicacies. BBM asks me what Haslet is and I describe a sort of local pate. They both have that. BBM goes for sausages and mash and HE for the steak and porter pie to follow. Mindful of my double breakfast sin I order a salad and no starter.
On our way home both men are soundly asleep. The day is only half over. BBM has an evening appearance at a local church hall. All candidates will speak for four minutes and then answer questions from the floor.
Well the Green was green, the BNP a cheeky chappy, the UKIP a rosy faced bundle of righteous indignation.
The real politicians weren’t much better. The Lib Dem grumbled on about BBM. Tory Boy who is incredibly good looking and has a glorious girl wife in black suede booties and a Pucci pinafore turns out to be so laid back that he wouldn’t know a political point or how to kill with it. Whew! If the Tories ever thought to hire me I could deliver some knockout punches to BBM.
BBM well, he’s a disappointment too. Nervous like it’s 1977. Hoarse voiced and diffident.
“Darling, they simply loved you.” I know my duty.
The vicar came up to me afterwards. “You have no need to worry! BBM was a slow starter, but by the end I realised he simply had to win again!”
Well, thanks vicar. Really.
We move into the last three days with guns a smokin’ gently.
I am now quietly terrified about what might happen on Thursday.