For the past few days I have been able to combine business with pleasure in a most agreeable fashion by taking a short holiday in Provence while supervising the publication of my latest book, Toujours Rutland. When my first such work appeared, some neighbours expressed concern at the likely influx of French visitors, but by such expedients as turning signposts around, we have kept them at bay, and many a local youth now earns a good living hauling their Citroëns out of the village pond with the family tractor.
On returning to England I hurry to attend the latest meeting of Sir Desmond Wilson's Election Planning Group. Nowhere has the new broom wielded by young Ashstock been felt more keenly than in our preperation for the great day; no more shall we wait about draughty bus stations hoping to meet one of our leaders. With our slogans "If you want a nice time, choose a sailor" and "If you're not getting enough, vote Liberal Democrat", I have no doubt that we shall sweep all before us and be returned with a majority the like of which we have not seen since '06.
Words fail me ... I can hardly see to write for manly tears. Ashcan has been disgraced and all is lost. What would the first Lady Bonkers have said if I had conducted a dalliance with one of the clerical staff? (I must admit, however, that I did once get a stenographer - I foolishly allowed her to become embroiled in the Schleswig-Holstein question.) Quite why so many otherwise sensible men break their marital vows and take up with their secretaries escapes me. Perhaps they find the faint scent of Tippex alluring?I cannot say. What is certian is that not since Parnell was brought low by his love for Tessie O'Shea has there been such a personal tragedy in our political life.
I am saddened, too, at the decline in the standards of Fleet Street. In my young day, for instance, it was common knowledge in political circles that Bonar Law maintained a second household with a large white rabbit called Mabel; yet, while my Varsity chums and I would sit in the front row at his meetings, hold up our hands on either side of our heads and wrinkle our noses throughout his speech, not a breath of the affair ever appeared in the Press.
I cannot pretend that I have not cherished the hope that one day my Party would turn to me and ask me to guide its destiny, but never did I imagine that it would be in such sad circumstances. The need for a "caretaker" leader is obvious, and upon honest reflection I see no other who could take up the role. Little Steel was such a disaster last time that none will think of asking him again, while Jo Grimond, let us not mince our words, has become a trifle elderly and eccentric. (I originally suggested that fellow Thorpe, but found strangely few supporters.) No, my duty is clear, and I shall not shirk it in this darkest of hours. Taking command at Cowley Street I immediately act to settle everyone's nerve by issuing a short statement denying that I have ever met Governor Clinton and demanding the introduction of site value rating, the restoration of David Gower to his rightful place in the England cricket team and the public execution of Mr Jeremy Beadle. By the time Miss Fearn has made everyone "a nice cup of tea", our spirits are quite restored.
The morning's newspapers reveal that Ashstead has overtaken the Queen Mother as the most popular person in Britain, and has been persuaded not to resign after all. (I have often wondered why he allowed Kennedy to establish himself as heir apparent; I think I now begin to glimpse the reason.) Could it even be that we have sorely misjudged the man and that the whole business was merely a ruse to ensure that we receive generous coverage on the front page of every newspaper in the land? I well recall that by 1953 dear Clement Davies was reduced to dressing up as a duck and wandering the streets of Oswestry slaying passers-by with a billhook in his attempts to secure us a modicum of public notice.
Confidentiality is of great concern to one in my position, and I have long taken the precaution of lodging a number of sensitive items at my London solicitors. Yet the current spate of thefts perpetrated by the "Intelligence Services" on behalf of their friends in the Conservative and Unionist Party (cunningly, they often steal the petty cash to make the enterprise look like a common burglary) has persuaded me that they are no longer safe. So today I hurry to the City to retrieve them, but find the offices locked. Fortunately, I meet an obliging fellow with a ladder at the back of the building and we soon gain entrance. After a thorough search I am able to take my revealing daguerreotypes of John Bright and assorted affidavits back to Rutland for safekeeping.
After such a week, the English countryside offers balm to the troubled soul. Once one would see stooks of wheat standing in the fields, churns of milk waiting at the farm gate for collection and teams of heavy horses patiently turning the soil as the gulls swooped behind them; today the European Commission sends lorries full of money, which they distribute to the farmers in return for their agreement not to grow anything. A different way of life, certainly, but the bright colours of the bales of used notes catch the sunlight as they are pitched out to the waxed-jacketed crowds, and it is just as attractive a spectacle in its own fashion.