It was when the comet Hale-Bopp appeared in the Northern sky, politely moving the Great Bear and Pleiades to one side, that I realised we stood upon the threshold of momentous days. And what days they have been! Our empyrean visitor not only saw the Conservatives swept from power but also witnessed Rutland regaining her independence. On April 1, as the last Leicestershire tank rumbled free of our borders, the celebrations began; in all honesty, they have yet to end. We have battered down the prison gates, razed the Stilton mills and toppled the statues of Gary Lineker that disfigured our market-places for so long. Amidst all this mafficking, the Duke of Rutland has done me the kindness of appointing me his ambassador to the Court of St James's. Thus I shall see quite as much of my friends in Britain as ever I did.
If it was not in all conscience another 1906, the evening of May Day 1997 will live in the annals of our party. Seat after seat fell to us, some of them most unexpectedly - I had to dissuade more than one of our people from demanding a recount in Northavon. We have now made contact with almost all of our victors, although nothing had been heard for a worryingly long time of the missionaries we dispatched to the far west of Cornwall. The new Members are already emerging as something of a vintage crop: I have, for instance, made the acquaintance of an excellent woman by the name of Bollard and feel that her presence may in some degree recompense us for the sad loss of Dame Vera Lynn in Rochdale.
The New Party certainly seems remarkably pleased with itself. Its members go about calling one another "Tony" and setting homework for complete strangers as though they owned the place. One thing puzzles me, though: what exactly are they going to do? As far as one can tell, there policy is precisely the same as that of the recently defeated Conservatives. I asked one of my few remaining friends in the New Party why this was. "Well, Tony," he replied, "It's very simple, Privatisation, for instance, is Government policy, so now that we are the Government it automatically becomes our policy." I cannot help thinking that these people have spent a little too long in opposition than was good for them.
To Southport, to see if a persistent rumour can possibly be true. Has Miss Fearn indeed returned to us? I arrive at the National Doily Museum and my spirits leap as an hart when I behold a familiar figure taking the patrons' money in a kiosk at the entrance. Is it right, I breathlessly inquire, that she has spent the last five years asleep in the bowels of the earth and has only been restored to us by a kiss from a brave warrior (together with an efficient election campaign with plenty of leaflets and a full canvass, of course)? With characteristic modestyshe denies the story, but does confess to "feeling better after a nice lie down".
Ashgrove hails me in the street: "I'm going to try a new way of opposing the Government," he informs me. "What's that?" I enquire. "I'm going to agree with everything they do" he returns triumphantly. Altogether, he is in a very chirpy temper. Whatever the merits of this approach, at present I am far more concerned about the behaviour of Ming Campbell. He spend most of his days trying to sell people fish. Here you see him pressing a hake upon a New Party ingénue: there he is haggling over a red mullet with a former junior minister. I fear that the fellow put too much faith in Ashplant's "partnership politics" and rather overstocked as a result. "Do you know me, my lord?" he asks as we meet upon the stairs. "Excellent well," I reply (after the philosophic Dane), "You are a fishmonger."
The defeated Prime Minister (whatever his name was) has fallen on his sword, though whether by accident or design no one is quite sure. Whatever the cause, the Conservatives are looking for a new leader, but surveying the field one sees little to fear. Who, for instance, sees Mr Stephen Dotterel as a future leader of our country (other than Mr Stephen Dotterel and his mother, of course)? I feel sure that the waters of obscurity will soon close over his head. The bookies' favourite appears to be one William Hague. Those with an interest in the minutiae of politics may recall him bringing the Tory Party Conference to its feet as a six-year-old. Now, three years later, aged 74 he fancies his chances. Given that his chief opponent is Michael Howard, one is inclined to agree with him. Howard, incidentally, has recently been described as having "something of the night about him". He should not be confused with our own Sir Robert Smith, who has something of the knight about him.
The victories of April 1 and May 1 have, I fear, been rendered mere ashes in our mouths by the loss of dear Nancy Seear. For decades she bestrode the political field like a warm-hearted colossus, and her presence will be particularly missed in the Lords where she was never slow to poke Lord Jenkins in the ribs when he was Going On A Bit. Then again, has she really left us? Is she not - in a very real sense, as the Reverend Hughes would put it - with us still today? I fancy that wherever there is a particularly sticky by-election to defend or a recount in a West Country marginal, Nancy will be there.
The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest have borne most; we that are young
Shall never see so much nor live so long.