Oliver Letwin MP on my doorstep
Bugger me, that nice Mr Letwin has just knocked on my door, asking for my vote. Does he not know I've been accused of sedition by one of his most ardent supporters in this village? 'Hello, I'm Oliver Letwin,' he says. And I nearly say 'Yes, I know, although you look different without the horns, moustache and specs.' But I don't. Obviously. 'Can I count on your vote?' he says. 'Well, at least one half of the household,' I say. 'Your husband? Are you wavering?' he says. 'You could say that,' I say, and then blurt out: 'I think you're a great constituency MP' as if I've got George Clooney on the doorstep. Mr Letwin smiles sweetly. He is a very nice man, even if he did write the Conservative Party manifesto. I shuffle, we both look embarrassed, the clock strikes thirteen and a tumbleweed blows past. Just as I wonder what to say, the frozen-moment chasm is filled by the UKIP ice cream van going by, flags-a-waving,...