The Awful Life of an MP's Wife

Post Electoral Depression

2005-05-16T15:00:00.000-07:00

Bad week for everybody. We hang on in the constituency. BBM behaving as if the election has not happened. Rushes round visiting people and dealing with their concerns all the while coughing desparately. Seems to have been through buckets of Benylin (non drowsy) Well, that's what it says on the packet, but he seems pretty drowsy to me.

Chuck mountains of unused campaign literature out with the rubbish, and spend a lot of time packing to go home. We don't finally make it until Saturday. Beginning to wonder if BBM has gone troppo because he says now that he never wants to go back to London.

Suggest visit to doctor to get something for cough but am not surprised when he says no. I don't really believe he should go myself. His eyes are still bright and he doesn't have a temperature, so I guess he will improve slowly. He may even improve quickly if something new and exciting happens. Developing a theory that BBM has first recorded case of Post Electoral Depression

Transfer suitcases of clothing and electronic equipent from constituency to home. Go to Tesco to replenish all the boring things we have run out of while we have not been there (puzzle: explain?)

Pack new suitcase of clothes and electronic equipment to take to London and then forced to leave the whole lot behind. We have to walk the mile and a half to the station, the local cab company being too busy on a Sunday afternoon to pick us up within an hour of the train departure time.

Arrive in London sans clothes sans laptop. In addition I have forgotten mobile phone, house keys, swimming goggles.

Will I ever get back in the routine again?

The importance of fish

2005-05-11T07:00:00.000-07:00

My sister had never been to Scotland although two of our grandparents were born there. As she is off back to Oz in a week we agreed to a short visit after the election. Well, I agreed, BBM just came along. He seemed pretty tired but it took about three days for a really bad cold to develop. Ghastly cough and a sneeze that would reverberate around the Grand Canyon for hours. Then he burst a blood vessel in his left eye. Red Eye which he as a photographer should appreciate. But he refuses to look when I give him a mirror.

First to Inverness where they seem to have had a General Election of the old fashioned kind. Every lamppost and every tree were voting either Labour or Lib Dem sadly not many Scot Nats. We stayed Saturday night at a gentle countryhouse hotel. I was consoled by a silver framed photo of Alex Salmond and Sean Connery with the proprietor, on a table in the hall.

On Sunday we drove to Oban. A change of constituency to Argyll I think, but still in the land of the Liberal Democrats. Asked at the hotel for best fish restaurant, and after a couple of mini lessons in Gaelic and the pronunciation thereof-set off for "EE Usk" on the waterfront. "EE Usk" is Gaelic for fish (as in EE Usk and chips).

On the glass door of the restaurant we read "Seafish restaurant of the year-2005" It must be at the most eight weeks since BBM and I attended the Seafish Awards dinner at the Royal Lancaster Hotel in London where the owners of EE Usk were the winners of the top award.

We all had marvellous mussels followed by various EE Usks with our chips. Haddock, Halibut, Turbot. Wish we had a restaurant like this in the constituency.

Drove to Tarbert Loch Fyne the fishing village our great-grandafther set out from for New Zealand. Our grandfather, a merchant seaman and master mariner went back to visit Tarbert several times when working at sea. Someone sent us a copy of a letter he wrote in 1902 lamenting the fact that now he was married with three children(our father wasn't born for another decade) he doubted if he would ever see Tarbert again. He dreamed about those wonderful fish suppers he had with the family in "the old country". Fish so fresh, straight from the loch. New Zealand fish he wrote, were not nearly so tasty.

Maybe it was our grandmother's cooking.

Our grandmother was a Bute woman, so we went off to Rothesay by three ferries and a few narrow country roads to look at the place where she was born in 1869. Her father was a tailor . She was born in a room above his shop on Victoria terrace looking out to sea.

Suggest to BBM that as a grand daughter of Tarbert and Bute and the wife of a fishing MP, the sea has played a big part in my life. No reaction at all. Just another bout of old man's coughing.

BBM says he has not the strength to go to London for the party meeting and to listen to Blair's Apologia. Think this is a good idea as it will stop him being tempted into the troublemakers team on day one.

Suprise myself that I feel very strongly that unity is what is now required. Blair has said he will go. That should be enough.

Family day out at the Polls

2005-05-06T20:35:00.000-07:00

Election day was like a huge family party. They came in their sub- groups from every corner of South London. BBM has eight grandchildren now and their parents had escaped them from school to witness democracy in action. I suppose they reckoned they could spark a lifetime's interest in politics if they started early enough.

I started early. Leapt out of bed at five am and ran about searching for unwashed glasses and crumbed plates at every level. Emptied and refilled all the cleaning machines and pressed all their buttons.

Gave the loos a final scrub with my new disposable toilet duck brushes and hopped across the bridge for the morning papers. The paper shop is a very unlikely place for a provincial town. Half a dozen job sharing metro style gays- openly very right wing, prepared to tickle BBM gently but not enough to lose my patronage. Didn't exactly wish us well but said it should be an exciting day.

Long shower, careful application of makeup lite suitable for polling station appearance with BBM at 9am.

BBM appears and we eat breakfast pretty much in silence. We leave all the chat to John Humphries these days.

Town are warm hearted to us. Several people I don't know have come to the front door to wish us well. Not hard to find. We are right by the bus stop and there's a huge poster hanging from our balcony. It's the only Labour poster in town.

Others throw cheery comments as we pass by. "You'll be alright lad." "It'll all be over tomorrow" and "I've already voted for you three times!"

Of course the local paper does not turn up for the photo op at the polling booth. Why would they? They have been through this with us eight times before.

Agent M has instructed BBM and the Candidates Friend that they are to spend the morning in Starbucks in the shopping centre. This is not such a daft idea because it is an open Starbucks bang in the centre of the walkways with MandS on one side and Boots and WHSmith on the other. Do not really believe that BBM will sit in a Starbucks. Never seen him do it before but I think he is now on auto pilot and doing what he is told. He whispers to me that he hasn't got any money so can I come to pay for the coffee. He hasn't got a hole in the wall card and can't remember a pin number but doesn't seem to have any trouble ordering a vente caramel macchiato.

Loads of people stop to chat to him so I guess this expedition was a success. He keeps the change from my twenty quid the bugger.

First South London contingent arrives and BBM grabs two of the lads for a loudspeakering trip round town. One drives, one sits in the back blowing up Vote Labour balloons and chucking them out the windows. BBM shouts "Today is polling day. Vote Labour" until he can hardly speak at all.

By lunch time there seem to be 11 or so. We head for the fish and chip shop. Everyone has haddock and chips except the small children who are fed from their parents portions. I go off to pay and the bill is seventy five quid. Have fish and chips rocketed in price ? Is dandelion and burdock a fiver a bottle, or did they think I would buy lunch for everyone in the place because it's election day? I guess it will be a mystery for ever. They've got me. How could I question the bill today. Son in law offers a tenner presumably thinking it will pay for his family's meal. I use it for the tip.

Go to Sainsbury's with my daughter. We buy some champagne and a cake for later and run slap bang into the Tory chairman and wife doing their weekly shop. The woman on the checkout listens to our conversation and says "Well, he should be alright shouldn't he? But you can always bring it back if the worst happens!"

Filled in the time till close of poll driving canvassing teams of family enthusiasts out to understaffed committee rooms. They all seem amazed that BBM has so many children.

My sister arrives from Oz via Kings Cross and we go out to the local Greek restaurant for a huge family meal babies and all. We have only been there two minutes when the Tory candidate and his team turn up. I listen to the exit poll on my walkman and tell the Tories the good news for them that the predicted Labour majority is 66. I begin to feel gloomy because I sort of sense that it's all over and the result isn't really going to make anyone happy.

BBM's turn out is low. Just over fifty percent. I always knew his majority would be reduced but cannot understand why the whole family on the balcony look incredibly gloomy. Go upstairs and find that they are watchin the wrong count in the other part of the hall, and think that BBM is going to lose! Explain where to look and everyone cheers up.

It all ended about 2am. It's still a safe Labour seat, but the election sysytem seems nonsensical. A change to proportional representation should be the first bill of the new parliament.

Of course I am exhausted when I go to bed at four thirty but also depressed and miserable . Somehow it ended up being the gloomiest election yet for me and I don't know why.

We are off to Scotland with my sister for a few days. She's never been there and two of our granparents were born there. Mention to our party chairman how keen I am on the SNP and how I would vote for them if only they had a candidate here. She looks amazed and points out weakly that my husband is the MP for our constituency. I would still like to vote SNP if I could! My heart's in the highlands.

To London and beyond

2005-05-04T06:14:00.000-07:00

A programme I had never heard of- the Desk BBC4 -asked me to take part in a discussion in London. I didn't gather too many details, but I was to discuss something to do with MPs wifery with Michael Cockrell so I siezed the opportunity for a twenty four hour escape.

Arrived in London late on the night of the bank holiday. My sister from Oz was staying in our flat and had been there a while. It didn't feel like our flat at all. I had removed most of our lying about stuff before the election started (a golden opportunity) and she had replaced it with all the paraphenalia of a woman alone. Half empty wine bottles, pink razors.

Got up early to visit my London pool. Lovely. No one else there. London looks quiet, or my bit of it does. At five forty five am the battle of Victoria Street was getting underway. Tory HQ and Labour HQ both had police guards and early young suits with damp hair were chatting outside.

The Desk happens at Channel 4. Wasn't my kind of thing. They were all style gurus. Had a mild disagreement in the greenroom with Michael re the importance of Iraq and "lying" He was very involved in the detail, and the terrible effects on Blair. I suggested that his view was metropolitan eletism and these things didn't play too much in the constituency. Quoted poll Iraq only 11th on issues running order. This annoyed the producer who thought I was accusing her show of metropolitan eletism. I was. She pointed out brusquely that she lived in Cheshire! (ME's only northern outpost!)

Found myself during the programme supporting Blair vociferously. Well that's a first. Maybe 4 weeks in the constituency have addled my brain, but feel that "everyone I know is voting Lib Dem" is a London phenomenon exaggerated by journalists who are the real swingers.

Watched Channel 4 news last night. Blair seemed to me very patient as Jon Snow pressed him again and again about Iraq and the detail. This endless picking at Labour's damaged bits works in Blair's favour as far as I am concerned. I just get more sympathetic.

BUT I don't want another big majority. Blair is at his worst when he escapes from the people and the parliament and he won't be able to do that if he's down to sixty or so. Suspect that's what everybody wants and the real problem is how to deliver such a precise punishment in a first past the post system.

Intense pleasure from The House Magazine. Sir Patrick Cormack's campaign diary describing his rural idyll in South Staffordshire - nodding daffs, leaping lambs, verdant pastures, made even more poignant because in his constituency the election has beeen cancelled. Owing to the death of a candidate they have to wait twenty eight days and have a By- election. Even BBM (who is very nervous and jumpy and not really with us any more) smiled at the prospect of Patrick locked out of his office and unable to perform his duties as the Parliamentary Malvolio.

Just as the light was fading and BBM and I were working away in the downstairs office, there was a click and a sort of whine and the power failed. I was just about to email BBM's views on school closures to a journalist on the local paper when everything switched off. Went out to the front gate to peer into the dusk and was met by the extrodinary sight of young men appearing in pain at every front door. Power seems to be out for several blocks and right in the middle of Chelsea versus Liverpool. After ten minutes of agitation and misery most male residents (BBM excluded of course) set out to find the nearest pub where the power is on. I find a box of Sainsbury's night lights and hand them out in lit saucersful to young women from the flats next door. Bloody girl guide says BBM. Power comes on just before the Desk is due to begin on BBC4. Don't watch. Suspect I may have been the victim of a judicial revue of the contents.

Mayday mayday

2005-05-02T23:54:00.000-07:00

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.

Payback time begins Friday

2005-05-01T23:33:00.000-07:00

Lost the plot a bit over the last couple of days. We had developed quite a routine BBM and I. Him walking the streets from dawn to dusk pushing paper through front doors. Me multiskilling away on the domestic front, joining the afternoon canvass rounds and the evening speculation about what Labour's majority might be come Friday morning.

On Saturday morning one of our oldest political mates arrived from London for the weekend. He's just become Ambassador for his country here, and has had some pretty bad teasing from all of us about his new elevated position. Yes your excellency, no your excellency. Would you like some butter on the royal slice of bread?

I invited the three Labour MPs (well OK candidates then) from our patch plus their partners to dinner on Saturday night to meet His Excellency. Ms Nextdoor constituency turned me down. She's quite marginal, and frankly quite terrified that she's going to be the loser come Friday. Looking at the polls it seems unlikely, but she says she is spening every minute of every hour cajoling her voters.

Still seven for dinner is quite daunting and the day disappeared under a wave of food preparation. Crushing fennel seeds, scrubbing spuds, chopping garlic. BBM spent most of his day in supermarket car parks handing out leaflets. Of course it never occured to him to cross the threshold to the place where they actually sell the food. Asda, Tesco, Sainsbury: to him they are just places where voters hang out rather than the front line where the domestic economy meets the nation's.

Delighted to discover that the other MPs wives at the dinner were having feelings identical to mine. All three husbands seemed to have been given a month off chores to try to get their jobs back. A month where unreasonable demands on us wives had been met with weary smiles of resignation. A month where we'd all worn lipstick and combed our hair just to pop out to the Post Office. Where we'd ironed shirts, polished shoes for weary feet and put glasses of red wine into tired hands. Most of all a month where rows just hadn't happened. Lips had been bitten, angry words swallowed. Great injustices suffered in total silence. A month where praise for last night's speech "They loved you darling they really did" was the only item on the domestic agenda.

With a bit of luck this will all end abruptly sometime early on Friday morning. Our fairy godmothers dressed at Returning Officers will wave their magic wands declare the right result and payback time will begin.

The three candidates looked deeply gloomy as we wives warned of their future prospects.

Swimming to insanity

2005-04-29T01:03:00.000-07:00

Weekly visit home to collect the post. Utterly depressing news. The flood was caused by squirrels who seem to have taken up occupation in loft and chewed their way through the overflow pipe. BBM thinks they may be going further and sitting in his chair, reading with his special lamp, and enjoying themselves watching the telly in our absence.

Both cloakroom ceilings are down. Flaking plaster everywhere.

Go for a swim in my home pool for old times sake and wish I hadn't. A couple of old women are caling (is that how you spell it? Yorks for chatting) in the fast lane designed for swimming. Ask them very politely to move over the other side of the rope. It is the biggest mistake I have made for months. I am heaped with abuse. "Do you realise you take up twice as much space as me? Do you? Do you? said the chief bully. "Well, yes" I said honestly enough but it didn't work. She told me her mate was dying of cancer perhaps, and how dare I etc. The abuse went on and on ending with a shouted threat that she would pee in the pool if I didn't p off and leave her alone.

To my humiliation I was shivering and felt sick Jesus I really have turned into an old lady. Considered biffing her one really hard but realised she would respond in kind, so like all good middle class ladies I slunk off to get the attendant. Gasps of horror when I arrived in reception in my swimsuit hat and goggles.

Attendant arrives poolside to say that she can't possibly intervene. She's no doubt been on some human relations course while doing her sports management degree, and its rule one - encourage participants in rows to see that there are two sides to every story.

Suggest to her that I only want her to enforce the rules but she ignores me and other participant starts shouting that I assaulted her mate. That I am an attention seeker (well, yes, but not in the pool love)

I swim off. Attendant leaves and Other Participant hires in a huge bald male maybe eighteen stone and encourages him to try his butterfly in my lane. I leave utterly defeated. It takes me the 100 miles back to the constituency to calm down. Speed because BBM will want his lunch. Make it at the same time as him to find that he got fish and chips at the Old Peopl'es home he was visiting. Hope he dies of raised chlorestrol levels.

Freeze all afternoon finishing my survey
200 voters in the two electorates were interviewed in the street on 26.27.28 April. Only positive responses were counted. All"don't knows" "not voting" and people who appeared not to understand the question were excluded.Overall the results were as follows.59% of respondents thought their votes would not make a difference. 44% thought they would.

Constituency A is fairly marginal. B is regarded as a safe Labour seat.In A 44% thought their votes would make a difference, 56% thought their votes would not make a differenceIn B 38% thought their votes would make a difference . 62% thought they would not.

Depressing isn't it. The sooner we get PR the better.

Sleep through Charles Kennedy on Questiontime. Wake up for Michael Howard and decide he is so nasty I have to go away and read a novel. Sad really. I thought he was a lovely bloke when we went to the States with him. Can Australians really transform someone from good to evil in just a few weeks? MaybeI should get an Australian personal trainer to improve life in the swimming pool.

Trotted round to Radio Homicide (local station) to be interviewed by John Humphreys re candidates clothes. Good. We both laughed on a rather serious morning when serious accusations re Blair and the war were the story of the day.

Off now to the market to buy armfuls of flowers to cheer the last weekend. Guests to stay, guests to dinner. Dinner to cook.Sister's partner is faxing posh fish recipe from OZ (nothing violent though)

Today programme

2005-04-27T22:48:00.000-07:00

On my way back from the pool I caught the Today programme asking for sightings of candidates and what they were wearing. Dashed off an email:

Over 27 years of campaigning I have developed a serviceable candidates outfit for my husband.
Machine washable trousers - dogs, kids building sites and "I'd just like you to take a look at the damage they have done to my garden" make these trousers essential.
Comfortable footwear-The kind of trainers that are disguised as casual shoes, dark coloured, rubber soled. Vital for jumping fences and running away.
Layers of topcover. Raincoat jacket jumper shirt for varied climate conditions. I would prefer a tieless candidate but BBM insists on large numbers of these and spills a variety of food on them each day.
Finally, most essential item: Gloves. These are absolutely essential to prevent damage to hands from modern postboxes which are designed to repel rather than encourage leaflets. Also to protect from dog bites. I think some voters round here have been trainming their dogs up since the last election.
And how does he look my candidate? A complete shambles of course, just a more casual shambles than appears at Westminster.

This elicited a response just after lunch time. Apparently I was the only person who wrote having seen a candidate. There were various claims from other listeners that they had voted in the same place since 1950 and never seen anyone who wanted their vote.

They ask me to come on on Friday morning and describe the candidates outfit.

Spend the rest of the day interviewing constituents in next door electorate for "Make Votes Count" survey to try to encourage proportional representation. Have set myself a target of 200 responses. May take forever.

Hardworking wife

2005-04-26T00:41:00.000-07:00

Deserve a medal (me) BBM has become very accepting of my election services. Three meals a day, clean shirts, clean sheets, canvasser extrodinaire.

When no one else is available, or there's something rally good on the telly, or it's raining non stop- that's when my canvassing skills are called on. BBM and I got soaked when we visited the worst street in the constituency on Tuesday. Only half the houses occupied. The rest have had windows broken and gardens trashed and then steel shutters applied by the local authority.

I shelter for a while in the corner shop, but the local paper and persuade the owner to take picture of the two us drowned ratting outside his front door

Sunglasses at the ready

2005-04-25T07:24:00.000-07:00

Unmasked by the Mail on Sunday. Sweet irony, they get a thousand words for free. Put on biggest sunglasses (Versace £99 Sunglass Hut Heathrow terminal 3 ) and head for Tesco in the next constituency. The Lib Dems are canvassing at the door. Candidate has soap box and very large hammer (think tent pegs) on top.

What's the hammer for?" I ask cheerily. Candidate quickly explains it's to stop the box blowing away. We start chatting. He touches my wrist."Have you ever considered voting Liberal Democrat?" Whip off the sunnies and reveal that he has known me for a quarter of a century. He grins and tells me that the Mail on Sunday piece was on the daily Lib dems Candidates briefing. Wow.

BBM sits in the garden for a few minutes and pronounces weather warm enough for a walk along the front. It is'nt. The wind is chill, but he enjoys the high recognition factor.

Poster Wars

2005-04-24T07:06:00.000-07:00

This has so far been an election without posters. In previous years much time and money has been spent expecially in marginals to put posters everywhere. It used to happen here too, but the only posters in town are on the trees outside Tory HQ, just up the street from us. I think that wall to wall newspaper and TV coverage and telephone canvassing has taken over.

BBM hankers for the old days so a few weeks ago I asked the next door neighbours, a very friendly couple of comprehensive school teachers if they would mind if we put a big "Vote Labour" poster on the front of our house. We are a terrace with our living rooms on the first floor so it's very easy to tie a poster to the balcony. They smile and say it wont be a problem at all as long as we don't mind their supersized Liberal democrat poster. Oh dear discuss this with BBM who says we should just put a small poster in the window and leave it to them to up the anti. A week goes by and nothing happens. Our six foot by four foot plasticised instruction to vote labour languishes in the front hall.

On Saturday morning I went out for the papers and was greeted on my return by a yellow glow in the sky and "Vote Andrew de Freitas Liberal Candidate" covering pretty much the whole balcony of number 15. We live by a bus stop bang in the middle of town so it's causing much interest and amusement for Saturday morning shoppers. BBM is cross. "I didn't think they'd dare" he mumbles.

Sykes and Archie and Richard (granchildren and their dad) arrive to accompany BBM to football. Local derby with next constituency. I punch holes round the border of our giant sign and the men go out to tie it to the balcony. BBM wants to be in on it all but everyone agrees that he is safer down in the street photographing the great event.

People on the bus and in passing cars cannot believe the advertising war which has begun. "this is more like it!" says an old bloke leaning on my front gate. "This is what elections used to be like."

Consider nipping up to Conservative HQ to suggest that they move their banner to join ours. But I don't know if I can bear two more weeks intense scrutiny by every passerby. When we first moved in here I didn't realise there was a bus stop right outside the door. We were waiting for our curtains and I was sitting on the bed stark naked giving my feet a bit of tlc. I looked up and there was the whole upper deck of a number 27 grinning with delight or gaping in amazement only a few yards from our second floor window.

Frightful Friday

2005-04-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

Went home to make sure well, and collect mail. Everything seems calm. Open bills, grab a couple more shirts and decide to give my one pot plant a little water before I leave.

While I am doing this phone rings. Cold call from the House of Fraser trying to sell me a twenty four hour plumbing service. Refuse. Man says you might have a plumbing emergency, what would you do. Because it's election time and you never know if it might be the Daily Mail I am reasonably polite and explain that we have had the same plumber for thirty years.

Turn off tap. Fail. Try again. Try and try and try. It won't budge and there is hot water gallons of it gurgling down the drain. Ring our friend a few farms away who used to be our plumber until he retired with plumbers back and plumbers knee. He explains to me that modern taps no longer have washers but have ceramic discs and I need to get a plumber to replace mine.

He diects me via the phone to a cupboard upstairs where I am to turn off the hot water. Do this. Nothing happens at the tap end. Think it might take a while to drain and go off to do something else. Within five minutes disaster strikes and find water flowing cool and clear and smoothly through the ceiling of the box room on the first floor and on to the cloakroom below.

Panic, ring back retired plumber who rushes round to help. We turn off main water supply and open all taps. After half an hour we are just left with drip drip drip. He explains that our plumbing is very ancient and something I did, he is not sure what, caused one of the tanks in the roof to burst.

He assures me that the water will dry up eventually and it is safe to leave the house, as long as I find a plumber for next week. Tear back to the constituency making sure I do not pass through any south Yorks speed cameras too quickly. Make it with a minute to spare before man appears to fit new blinds in BBM's office. He tries for an hour. They won't work. The windows are crooked due to ninetweenth century subsidence around here.

Friend from Home rings, she has just been to our house with the police. Alarm has gone off. She tells me I have had a bad leak but it has stopped now. She says she has reset the burgular alarm.

At one o'clock this morning my son rings. Alarm company have rung. Alarm has gone off again. What do I want to do? Realise that water had got into the system and is setting offf the alarm. The base station is in the box room.

Think I want to die actually.

Two weeks on and we'll be gone

2005-04-21T15:50:00.000-07:00

What a difference the weather makes. You can smell happiness in the air at half past five a.m. The sun is coming up, outside the front door it's fresh, not chill, and the wheelie bins are due to be emptied in a couple of hours.

In this constituency green small-person sized plastic containers guard every front door. Most residents only open their doors when they have a stuffed plastic sack ready to chuck in the wheely. It takes six seconds. Unlock, lift lid, chuck, thump! and then it's back to "No canvassers, no hawkers, no financial advisers" except on collection days when the bin has to be placed outside the front gate. Suggest to BBM that he should get rubbish collection rota from the town hall and follow the bin men to meet more voters.

Went with BBM to discussion group at the local FE college yesterday afternoon. Only the three big players turned up. Tory Lib Dem and us. There is a Green candidate and a UKIP and a National Front, but dunno who or where they are.

The Lib Dem bloke has been a candidate every election forever, so once every four years or so we meet up and chat in back rooms, corridors and under awnings when it rains. He moans to me that his party in this town is getting old and tired and that he doesn't have anyone to canvass for him any more. Same with us I tell him. He's just had a heart op and been told to walk everywhere so he gets up at first light and walks all over town alone pushing leaflets through hostile doors.

The Tory is a young posh bloke from out of town and he has some youthful locals to support him, so they look much more impressive than the rest of us. They rattle on about immigration and asylum seekers as decreed by Lynton Crosby and are hurt when the audience and BBM have a go at them. I'm sitting at the back with the Tory supporters and one of the young men hints that the continual emphasis on immigration has become an embarassment to them. "It's not going down at all well with the locals." he whispers. Well it wouldn't here. The immigrants in this town are all senior health service workers or human rights lawyers. Consultants at the hospital in their forties and fifties who live in the best areas and have hoardes of very smart children who are training to be lawyers, television producers and Members of Parliament.

Well, that's where I left off there this morning to do some wifely duties. I have to prepare lunch each day. Today it was s chicken with lemon potatoes from the River Cafe Cook book. Yes I know it sounds very posh but it's easy to do and you can eat it cold.

BBM appears very upset. One of his ongoing cases, a local family who have been supported by the whole town in their asylum application have had their appeal against the appeal verdict tuned down. He has to tell them later today and is desparately trying to find a way for them to stay. I offer to help by ringing the Joint Council for the Welfare of Immigrants in London and ask if there is any more we can do. There I am working away. Forgotten I am a wife. Forgotten I am in Constituency, feels like a normal day back at the media coalface. A phoen rings and I answer it without thinking. The Daily Mail wants to know if I have been fined seven hundred and fifty pounds for speeding. Of course I answer Yes. You can't lie about things like that. And then I realise it's a trick to find out if I am the awful MP's wife. Clever stuff, but then the Daily Mail is clever. Too clever for me it seems. Break the news to BBM that they have discovered my blogging activities. He sighs with misery. It's turning into a very bad day indeed here and there are still fourteen more to go.

15 bloggy days to go

2005-04-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

what a bad blogger I have turned out to be. This is the first election with blogging and I realise now just how hard it it to record anything. First there's BBM: king of the bloggers. I pointed out blogspot.com to him just after I started and it has now become the very reason for his existence. Sometimes he's posting two thousand words a day. It gets mentioned on the radio and quoted in the papers, so he is thrilled - this is his way of getting a bit of input to the national campaign. If he could use a computer then I would never have to see the bloody stuff, and wouldn't be put off my own blog- but of course he can't post without me. He has a keyboard such as are issued to children with learning difficulties. He blogs away on this. Then I connect it up to my computer, watch it transcribe itself at about fifty words a minute and email the chaos to his secretary. She spell checks it. He gets a double spaced print out from me. He edits this and faxes it to her and she then makes the corrections. He reads it all through again (no wonder it's funny) and passes it to a third member of staff and she posts it. Or doesn't.

While we were at Westminster it was fine because one of BBMs London researchers did the postings. A young sparky lad he didn't care a bugger about the content. Here in the constituency it is a different story. The posting researcher "just happened" to show the copy to some of the old codgers in the local party and the outcome was predictable- total disaster. They complained to BBM and to a man insisted thay he must stop publishing unless they got editorial control!

War rages and nothing has reached BBM's blogsite for a week. I suggested yesterday to BBM that this was crazy and he poked the researcher into action. Except that she didn't really know the password or the username and she fiddled with it so much that I got an email saying we must change the password, and it took two hours to sort the whole thing out. Two hours when I might well have blogged myself.

BBM is moaning. No one has quoted him on the BBC or in the papers for a few days and he knows the reason why!

Latest news is that researcher will come round here this afternoon and I will let her use my machine to post. We will see.

The election? Good heavens what with three cooked meals a day and worrying about the blogs, the laundry, and the deep depression from being a fulltime MPs wife, theres no time for anything else. But here's a promise. I am going to post something at least once a day for the next fifteen days, no matter how great the obstructions, the distractions and the instructions issued by BBM.

I will be heard.

The first week of the campaign

2005-04-18T06:35:00.000-07:00

What a hopeless failure I am. I was going to write a witty amusing paragraph every day, and I have done everything but. It's been awful. At least eight hours every day cleaning and preparing rooms for researchers and out of town assistants. I spent the first weekend of the campaign dejunking the upstairs rooms at BBM's local office. Since May 1st 1997 they have been using them as storeage space for everything they will never need again. The local Labour party offices were sold a year ago and in the hiatus till they got new ones BBM thoughtfully stored all the junk they had no place for. Dozens of cartons of dead paperback books. Nothing you or I would want to read but the leftovers from every party fete and Xmas fayre for the past decade. Barbara Cartland romances with coffee rings, Dennis Wheatley, and Anthony Robbins guides for a better future.

The stairs are mean and steep. I struggled up and down and down and up until my back ached, stopping now and then to read odd gems from the past. There were boxes and boxes of old files (carbon copies, remember them?) Poster sites for the 1979 election. Every single person who offered to take a poster is now dead, what kind of message is that?

Anyway I was left totally to my own devices. In some ways this was brilliant, unsupervised I managed to take eighteen sacks of rubbish to the tip without BBM moaning about destroying valuable archives. When the staff returned on Monday morning I was down to the harmless stuff: old clothes, manual typewriters, word processors, early computers. As BBM has never learned how to work a computer he can hardly complain when I proclaim them all worthless. The office staff watch silently as I trail up and down, in and out to my car. I dare to mention this to BBM and he points out that they have important work to do for constituents. I on the other hand am only an MP's wife, entirely suited it seems to making life more comfortable for them.

Thump a pot plant down in the bathroom, chuck a pile of clean towels on the beds and head for home. BMM comes in with a ruddy canvassers glow and dares to ask what I have been doing all day, and what's for supper.

Take ten minutes off to watch the Blair Brown video ad by Anthony Minghella. Can't believe how strange it is. Looks to me as it is designed to show that Blair and Brown can't get on. Blair is in shirt sleeves Brown had coat and tie like he's ready for a trip to the kirk. The speak across one another, around one another, over one another, never to one another. Not even at one another. It seems a disaster to me and I voice my opinion forcibly to important bloke in the local party. "Oh you media types" he snaps. "I thought it was wonderful. Really showed them getting on together."

Lord dismiss us ....

2005-04-07T21:23:00.000-07:00

Lord dismiss us with thy blessing, we sang every last day of term at the girls' high school. It was like that in Portcullis house on Thursday. Those retiring who'd planned it and were looking forward to it, were jolly. Those who didn't know what the future held...they wanted to come back but had small majorities (under say four thousand) over the Tories, were scared. Mostly people who'd won their seats for the first time in 1997 and now felt that Tory gods wanted retribution. There were farewell lunches with staff and cobbled up agreements "If you don't win, I'd love to take on your researcher" "If I don't win, will you do something to help Janet?"

BBM has what's known as a safe seat, so none of this applies. We load the car with absolutely everything we think we will need for a month in the constituency, and have not even got as far as Finchley when we are making a list of essentials we have left behind.

Life under Canvass

2005-04-01T07:30:00.000-08:00

BBM and I went out canvassing together. Well, that means we went in the same car and did the same street, but the minute we got there BBM leaped out of the car and announced that we would take one side each. This meant that for four long hours (it was a bloody long street) I got glimpses of him in the distance being harangued by local residents. I was left totally on my own, and mine was the longest side by far because it had lots of culdesacs and crescents. I think he must have done the street before and known which was his best side. On my side the only people who were at home were over fifties couples who were both sound alseep in front of Countdown or children's cartoons. The houses were small and terraced with little front gardens so I had to walk past the sitting room window to get to the front door. A hard decision whether to knock or leave them in peace. Soon discovered "leave them in peace" was the only correct solution after two old fellas stumbled to their front doors to tell me that they wouldn't vote for that loser BBM if he was the last candidate on earth. Took time to tell me they always have voted Labour in the past of course but BBM had been such a bad MP that they'd changed their minds for ever.

Decided the only way to cope was to avert my eyes as I passed the sitting room window, and give a short ring on the bell. The first rule of canvassing is that doorbells, well ones in our area anyway, never never work, so even if there is someone at home, you are quite safe. All the doors are exactly the same, replacement plastic painted mini georgian jobs from B and Q. They always end about four inches from the ground so there is a difficult threshold to cross if you are invited inside. (Not much chance of that)

They all have the same letter boxes. Golden coloured metal with two brush edges just inside the flap. You put your hand in with the leaflet, and the brushes have to be forced apart. You finally get the leaflet through and the brushes seem to close like a crocodile's jaw and hold your glove firmly in their grip. Out comes your hand and your glove stays right there in the door. Remove glove, but it's a freezing afternoon and my canvassing hand is purple and white within minutes.
Walk miserably from empty house to empty house. Every front garden is a scrap yard for broken gnomes, dewheeled push chairs and old plastic paddling pools. When I take a sly peep through the windows the view is always the same dusty vases of plastic flowers, a couple of holiday souvenirs and yesterday's local paper open at the telly page. The tellies are all the same. Huge silvered plastic boxes which bring the whole world to the constituency on cable.

This is the kind of street where "Our People " live. For a quarter of a century the party has told me this is where we must go to "get the vote out". These are supposed to be the people who will vote Labour whatever happens, but I don't think it's true anymore. These people are quite frankly fed up. The tellies bring the world of Westminster to them every night and they hate the sight of all those politicians promising the good life. Nothing ever changes round here. All these people are struggling through on two or three hundred pounds a week. Scrimping and saving to make ends meet. The promises of middle class lifestyles seem as far away as ever eight years after that lanslide in May 1997. Can't help feeling that this will be the year when they will stay at home on polling day to try to teach us a lesson.

So here I am maundering along thinking maudlin thoughts about how badly we are going to do and I get the fright of my life. I push the leaflet through a quite front door and suddenly there is chaos. There is a rumble and a crash and the leaflet is snatched from my fingers by a huge dog. I just get my fingers out in time but he continues to terrify me by throwing himself at the front door with such force I think it might break. Then he rushes into the sitting room and throws his whole body against the window and snarls at me. I belt across the garden and leap the fence to safety in the neighbours patch.

A man delivering the local freesheet newspaper arrives. He's travelling the other way down the street. We are like ships passing in the channel. "Are there any more doge like that one?" I ask nervously. He tells me that one paper deliverer was so badly bitten by the dog at 113 just by the school gates, that he had to get his fingers stitched at the hospital. "Dog's dead now though!" he said cheerfullybut without explanation.

The other change from last election is the number of people who have put up signs telling you to go away. "No hawkers, no canvassers, no door to door salesman for insurance. No money lenders. We have got everything we need, so don't even think of knocking!" proclaims a large sign in one of the poorest looking houses.

Every now and then I come across a small group of young women having a fag by their front gates and watching their kids play in the culdesacs. I try really hard to be charming and fail miserably. I chat on about the election and the fact that I'm married to BBM ("poor you") and what a good job Labour has been doing. I mention in my stupid middleclass London voice the Surestarts, the way Labour has done so much for young mums, etc etc. Every single woman looks bored rigideven embarassed by this speech from an old woman in a woolly hat, anorak and jeans. ("How the hell do we get rid of this nutcase?") They either hand the leaflet back or stick it in the pocket of their jeans. "I'm afraid I'm not really interested in politics" they sa, and turn back to each other.

I hope Michael Howard's not thinking what I'm thinking.

Easter and Beyond

2005-03-28T07:28:00.000-08:00

Still the phoney campaign. The election in all but name. The radio TV and news channels talk of nothing else political. Presumably Blair did it this way so that he could use the advantage of being the government to promote his policies without having to worry about the Representation of the People Act. The minute the real election is announced (Monday 4th) the RP act swings into action and in each constituency you have to mention every person who is standing every time you talk to one of the candidates. It's a nightmare for journalists as the parties take it very seriously and have people measuring every news bulletin and newspaper coulumn.

BBM and I came to the constituency in time for Easter and we have been here ever since. A bit of a waste of time really, because althought everyone at Westminster knows Blair will announce the election on Monday and it will happen on May 5th, real people don't seem to have picked this up, and wouldn't really care if they had. So we have to put up with an endless barrage of abuse "What's he doing here then?" "Hullo love are ya doing a bit of slumming?" when BBM and I go out stuffing leaflets through doors in unloved areas of the constituency.

Sometimes it feels as if we are on holiday in a strange country where we don't speak the language. At Westminster you get so used to being a village with a village's preoccupations, but I think it is probably impossible to move for a month into someone else's village and pick up theirs.

We read all the papers hungrily every day. It's the only way of finding out what your mates are up to. The Howard Flight affair has interesting repercussions. Flight is known and liked by everybody at Westminster and the general feeling is that Michael Howard overreacted by sacking him completely. There should have been some kind of face saving compromise.

BBM has a moment of nerves when he works out that any of the parties can sack whoever they like in the run up to election day and replace them with an apparatchick/chap. I think he has taken a vow of silence to keep out of trouble until the nominations are firmly in the bag in the town hall.

The relationship between BBM and Agent M amazes me. M is a teacher who stands no nonsense in the real world, and has obviously decided that she will treat BBM like a badly behaved 7th year student. She rings him every night to hurl abuse down the phone. When we were in London and he had other things to do he sort of ignored her, but now that he's in the constituency he has started to shout right back. They are beginning to sound like a middle aged married couple in traing for marriage guidance. I play the part of the mistress in all this. He comes to me to moan about her. Asks daft questions like " do you think M lacks confidence? Why else would she be so abusive?"

I gently suggest in a mistressy sort of way that BBM is not the world's easiest person to deal with (only a genuis like me knows how to handle you dear) but he just mumbles and starts writing yet another leaflet "Thinking of voting Liberal Democrat? Good on you! Charles Kennedy is a good chap" has he finally flipped his lid?

The court have sent back my driving license. The paper sheet has NOT BANNED FROM DRIVING BECAUSE OF EXCEPTIONAL HARDSHIP-BUT CONVICTED handwritten across it. Are they mad. Do they seriously think I will carry that round with me. Unfortunately I was stewing some rhubarb when I opened the envelope and it went everywhere (The rhubarb that is) I was able to wipe it off the plastic card completely, but the paper sheet is a mess. I have dried it out on the radiator, but you can't read it anymore, well not the handwritten bits.

The Day of Judgement

2005-03-19T02:24:00.000-08:00

The day of judgement in the Magistrates Court duly arrived. Our son drove over from Birmingham to support me.

BBM having promised to be in attendance, was of course frantically busy with constituency affairs. 'Frantically busy' means zapping like a demented bumblebee from one party worker to the next. Each is issued with personalised instructions on how to complete the "Election Address" which is still floating in the ether between labourprint.org and staff on the ground. Everybody now knows the password for the website. Everybody has a go at altering it in an attempt to please BBM. The results are disastrous. "Labour has taken one million children out of poverty.."begins one paragraph under a screaming headline "Labour has cut overall crime by 30 per cent" Everyone is blaming everyone else.

Made miserable by all this, we left for court much too early. I was terrified that we might get caught up in a jam on the motorway. The court papers promised possible imprisonment if I didn't show up, and on time.

It turned out to be a concrete monstrosity of a building in the town centre. A disabled citizen in a motorized tricycle, with a lit cigarette leaking from the side of his mouth was doing high speed figures of eight in the foyer. The female security guard, somewhat frightened by this aggressive performance, kept lifting security barriers and waving him towards the outside world. He kept missing the turnoff because of his speed, and setting off on yet another circuit. Eventually he shot past us out the front door.

I went off to the toilet and she asked my son what we were doing there. He explained about my speeding charge and told her he had come to support me. "Well, that's a surprise" she said "It's usually the other way round."

The ladies toilet was something else. Four stalls, four wash basins in gleaming stainless steel and all bathed in the most wonderful blue light. I had never seen anything like it in my life before and wondered if it was a special form of soothing lighting to calm people down before their court appearance. My heart was beating very fast so I stood in front of the miror and tried a few slow calming breaths.

When I got outside I asked the security guard about the blue lighting. Was it to relax the defendants I asked nervously? She looked at me as if I was bonkers as well as completely out of touch with the real world.

"Nah, it's ta stop yer shootin up in there, of course. It stops ya seein your veins. Go back in and take a look." I did, and she was right.

My name was on a long list for the afternoon session. I had visions of hours spent listening to other people's petty crimes and misdemeanours, but no one else except me turned up for court nine. An usher took my details and asked me to fill in a form about my financial circumstances. Spouse occupation and salary were amongst the first few questions, so I duly filled in BBM's name and the parliamentary salary. Oh my god, did the parliamentary allowances count as part of the income? I hadn't the faintest idea, but I felt quite dizzy when I saw the next page. They wanted to know how much we paid for gas, electricity, mortgage etc. As quietly as I could I explained that I was married to an MP and that we lived in more than one place, well more than two places actually, soI actually get three gas bills and I was wondering.....she looked at me with amazement and said just to put down a sort of lump sum for income and we'd see what happened.

For the whole awful hour in court I felt I was in a television programme. A really cheap one with bad actors, weak casting and not much plot.

There were three magistrates in navy gowns from Whipples or Ede and Ravenscroft in a sort of top row across the back. I understand now why they are called "the bench". A ferocious young woman with tied back blonde hair and one of those black NEXT machinewashable trouser suits which are such a boon to us all, was in charge of proceedings. And then there was a lone bloke representing the other side. Tweed suit with waistcoat, shiny red polyester tie which did a good job of highlighting some angry red spots on his face. 80 percent bald. The kind of solid respectable law enforcing citizen whose role in life is to demolish opinionated noisy women like me.

Ferocious blonde read out the facts and announced that I was here to explain to the court that a driving ban would cause me severe hardship.

Severe hardship? Oh my God, now I understood whyI had been given the papers about my income. Were they only going to consider financial hardship? I was a gonner then.

I didn't need to remember my instructions to be humble. I felt terrible. My heart was beating so fast and so loudly I could hardly hear my own voice. I mumbled my apology to the court for my total wickedness in travelling at forty six miles and hour in a forty mile an hour zone. I launched into a diatribe about me being a great believer in public transport but needing the car to get me to the train to go to work and to play my part as wife to an MP driving BBM back and forth to the station.

They all listened politely to this, and Ferocious Blonde then asked me to step into the witness box and take the oath as Spotty wanted to cross examine me.

"You say you are a great believer in public transport" he sneered.
"If that's the case why can't you get the train all the way to work instead of driving to the main line station?"
Good lord, had he tried to catch a regional train lately?
"You can get a train all the way from your residence to London without having to come here" he demanded.
"Yes" I whispered.
"Then there's your husband "he said, encouraged by my total failure to counter his argument. "Can he drive?"
"Yes"
"Then he can drive himself if you are banned"
"Yes"
My god I had turned into a mouse.
His moment of triumph had arrived
"So if you are banned and lose your job he will be able to pay the bills?"
"Yes"

Well, that's it then. If BBM is left in charge of the utitility bills it will be approximately six weeks before total chaos reigns and they start cuutting us off for non payment. BBM doesn't understand that everything is computerised these days and forgetting is no excuse.

Suddenly realise where all this is leading. I'm going to lose my drivers license , my job and my marriage will be on the skids, if Spotty gets his way.

Somehow I begin a mumbled speech to the court about my long life of supporting myself and driving myself and working for myself and only relying on BBM for the er er more spiritual aspects of our long life together. Without my license I will experience severe hardship because....because.... There are other kinds of hardship than not being able to pay the gas bill!

Jesus did I really say that? I try hard not to think of all the poor bloody women out there who can't pay their gas bills, and realise what a phoney middleclass creep I am to put up an argument like that.

The magistates shuffle out to consider their verdict. They are gone for an unbelivably long time. Ferocious blonde goes out to join them. Spotty stares straight ahead. Ferocious Blonde comes back and says they need another ten minutes. I can't believe this. I can't believe that it is happening to me. I just keep running Twelve Angry Men on a projector in my head and wonder which magistrate is arguing for me against all the odds.

They come back.The Boss Man delivers a speech.

I am, he says, a very foolish woman, to go speeding round the countryside, when there is so much at stake. I must try to control myself in future. The Magistrates have decided,because my job obviously means a lot to me, and because I will probably lose contracts if I cannot drive to locations, not to ban me. ButI must realise that the excuses I have given will only work once and I must never never come back to court and try to use them again. Fined seven hundred and fifty pounds.

I shuffle out of court without looking at Spotty. I imagine he's furious. I head straight for the Ladies and in the cool blue light I manage to calm down a bit. I scrabble in the bottom of my bag and find a couple of Neurofen and swallow them without water.

My legs are still shaking as we walk back to the car. I ring BBM. When he answers I shout "I didn't lose my license" "Sorry" he says. "I'm in the middle of a meeting" and hangs up.

.

Falling in love with Tony again

2005-03-14T18:37:00.000-08:00

Terrible week. The feel good factor from the holiday melted as the Whips got on the phone to BBM and asked him tenderly if he had enjoyed his break. Of course he said yes. Of course they said "Well, take another one this week!" They were desperate to get rid of as many potential rebels as possible. BBM always a difficult sod, insisted on floating round London for a couple of days looking like he might vote against the Government and then he gave in. We went back to the constituency to create what used to be called an Election Address and these days is a phoney newspaper called the Rose. You get on to a private web site and there it is all laid out for you on a pdf. Candidates insert the names of their constituencies and other local references. Eight photographs can be chosen and distributed throughout the piece. Photos have to be emailed in, copy uploaded. It's a new piece of kit, and someone has presumably conned the Labour party into paying thousands to be the first to use it. Of course it doesn't work properly. Actually it doesn't seem to work at all. Eventually I rang the help line where a bloke in a call center told me that they'd had to bring in dozens of people to sort out the problems. Not much luck so far. All photos for all Labour candidates were supposed to be in a couple of weeks ago, but because the machinery doesn't work and we all know MPs are hopeless with computers I predict an electoral disaster. Labour candidates sans literature posters and stickers. They may have to go back to megaphones to get their messages across.

Sunday morning I went off for the papers. BBM languishing in bed "worrying" he said!

Mail on Sunday reports mayhem during the all night session. Peterborough and Reading East are portrayed as sex godesses propositioned by a quiet bloke who seems to have been pissed. Well, he'd have to be pissed. Peterborough and Reading East are famous for getting the wrong end of the stick about everything. I once asked RE how P and her husband were getting on. Friendly chat like. Before you could say "thisisoneseatweareboundtolosethistimeround" P is on the phone leaving hysterical messages about how she's going to sue me. Five pages of handwritten abuse are hand delivered as back up. So I'm a bit sympathetic to this poor MP who might have been the worse for wear. Highlight of the fracas seems to have been the appearance of a whipclad only in tight white underwear to referee. Sadly it wasn't Hilary Armstrong.

Watched the PM on the telly. The Jonathan Dimbleby Programme. I thought he was lovely. Almost crying as he begged the women in the audience over and over again to trust him. He'd never lie to them. He'd never let them down. Just like that damp handed boy you rejected at college but convincing. Very convincing and made even more so by the great Dimbebore who kept interrupting and trying to ask insane questions of an intellectual nature which had nothing to do with the discussion. Blair was cool, but you could see he was irritated with Dimblebore. He kept turning away from him and back to the women. It must have been an Alistair Campblell masterstroke because it was the first time I have felt on the same side as Tony for about two years.

Only Saturday when I'd seen Michael and Sandra Howard with their lovely children and grandchildren I'd been wondering whether I should vote Tory just to teach Tone a lesson. But then I got worried. After all it's my old man that I have to vote for locally, and if I don't then the polling booth will probably explode or somethingand I'll be found lying naked outside a SureStart centre.

This is the week of my great court appearance. A letter has arrived from the court warning me that I have to turn up. I could be arrested and put in prison if I don't. Crikey! But I am allowed to say a few words about why I should not be banned. Everyone keeps warning me that I have got to be HUMBLE and apologise to the court and promise never to be naughty again if I want to keep my license for the election campaign. What an absolute disaster.

Monday March 7th 2005

2005-03-07T07:00:00.000-08:00

We sneaked a week away. I thought we were very lucky when the Whips agreed to a pre-election break, but realised when we got back last night that the government had been in real trouble last week and the absence of BBM could only be good news as he was bound to have voted against house arrest for terrorists. Can you imagine house arrest working with terrorists? Are they supposed to sit at home all day plotting and knitting up gelegnite jumpers, rather than meeting their mates in Starbucks?

I am in deep trouble. I already had 6 points on my license. Three for doing forty six in a forty zone at six o'clock on a Sunday morning near Manchester and three for doing ditto at 5 am on the Finchley Road.

Then in one awful week I took BBM twice to the station for the London train. This involves travelling through the South Yorkshire Revenue Raising Strip...you know the sort of thing 60/50/40/50/40/30 all in the space of 5 miles, and I got done twice! I sent in the money but they sent back one lot saying that I would be up to twelve points and liable for disqualification. Now I have to present myself at court and argue my case. Trouble is everyone knows the election is going to be on May 5th, and if the magistrate doesn't like me I will be banned and I won't be able to drive BBM around all the time and help out with canvassing, taking voters to the polls and all the other damned awful things I am supposed to help out with before polling day. Add that to the fact that news is bound to get out if I am banned and the constituents will think BBM is married to a criminal. And thats before I start worrying how the hell I will get to work.