The plan had been to do a small favour for someone and drop off a few bundles of leaflets. I rang the door bell about three times, getting increasingly annoyed that no one was answering – it was chucking it down and my umbrella was on it last legs. Eventually the door opened and an old boy, pulling his coat on, greeted me cheerfully. So now I was wet and feeling bad because I had tried to rush an old man who may well have been campaigning for the Tory Party since Macmillan.
“I'm glad you bought a brolly, I've only got the one. We should be done in a few hours and then we can enjoy a nice cuppa tea.”
Drat. Granddad here thought I was delivering and campaigning with him rather than just dropping off. The urge to correct him with “sorry pops, there's a chocolate cake and bottle of rose back home that needs my attention,” but how could I? Here was an OAP prepared to walk miles in the rain for the cause and I just couldn't look into his friendly eyes and leave him to it.
So that was how I found myself, wandering in an unfamiliar residential area, in the mist of what felt like a storm. All of my make up had dripped to my jawline and no cigarette had survived more than two puffs before it was cruelly taken away from me by the elements.
“Are you alright, dear?” A little old lady with a trolley asked as I desperately tried to get my lighter to work, in the shelter of a bus stop.
“I've gone out campaigning by mistake!” And then I dropped a bundle of leaflets to the very wet ground with a cry. She walked away pretty darn quickly as I rolled out every cuss word I could remember.
By the end I was seated in a rather musky smelling front room, drinking a perfect cup of tea, listening to the old boy's stories about elections past. Steam rose off my clothes and hair, making me look like a demon from the underworld. I'm scarier than that if you ask a union member, for I am a Tory.
And do you know what, dear readers? I actually had a really good day.