Election

This morning I answered the front door in my dressing gown to be greeted by a Tory canvasser, with Simon Burns (my MP) just walking past to the next house. “I hope we didn’t get you out of bed!” Mr Burns grinned at me (it was around eleven-thirty). “I’ve been up since a quarter-past six!” I retorted; I may have added “Mate!”

Friendly repartee in the confident knowledge of a safe seat or being cheeky to a senior citizen hard at work editing his new book?

Burns has a reputation for a wicked sense of humour. Apparently he bumped Mr Speaker Bercow’s car in the House of Commons car park. Bercow, a famously short man, said: “I’m not happy you know!” Burns is alleged to have responded: “Well, which dwarf are you then?”

On the basis of that, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt; I’m not sure I’ll vote for him though. When the alternatives are hanging or a firing-squad, how on earth does one make up one’s mind?