

       March 19 1997
                                                                OPINION


            Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye 

       Monday, March 17 Dear Diary: One is a bit glum. One has just said goodbye
       to one's Prime Minister, and one's Prime Minister did that endearingly
       awkward little bow he does, and gave that charming little smile he gives, and
       the door closed, and now one hears the creak of the fourth stair as his shoe
       depresses it, such a sensible shoe, so shined, so neatly laced, almost
       certainly made in Northampton, and one is decidedly feeling a trifle low. One
       rather suspects that the next Prime Minister might wear frightfully famous
       Italian loafers with those little tassels on. The sort dogs snap at. 

       The object of his visit was to inform one that the date of the general election
       was to be May 1. He made a little joke about Labour Day, as one would
       expect of him. One rather fears one has heard the last of his quite excellent
       little jokes: one will always remember that delightful story about the Irish
       chicken and the road. How one laughed! One rather suspects that the next
       Prime Minister might not tell jokes with Irish chickens in them. The greater
       likelihood is that he will tell very long jokes indeed, of which one will never
       entirely grasp the point. 

       One observes that one's Prime Minister did not eat his second Hob-Nob. That
       is uncharacteristic of him. Perhaps he is a bit glum, too. As he has so often
       told one, he is very partial to a Hob-Nob. Not quite as partial, mind, as he
       used to be to the squashed-fly biscuit, about the disappearance of which one
       was once given a most illuminating lecture. It seems they cannot be obtained
       in any of the Huntingdon supermarkets for love or money. One rather suspects
       this not to be a subject upon which the next Prime Minister would be able to
       shed any light. Worse, one fears he might try to interest one in polenta. Or
       squid. 

       Or Web sites. One has heard that he is eager to put all one's loyal subjects
       onto this. One has, of course, just been put onto it oneself, but one does not
       have the faintest idea what it is, except that one's loyal subjects may now
       access, one believes the word is, one's soft furnishings, pictures, pot plants,
       and so forth. One is not entirely happy with this. One's current Prime Minister
       never raised fashionable technologies. We did, however, discuss our first
       bicycles in some depth. By happy chance, we both owned Rudges. His had
       drop handlebars and three speeds and a panier which held two bottles of Tizer
       and enough bread pudding for four people, though it lacked a dynamo,
       because these cost £2 6s 3d, and he was saving up for new pads. It seems
       the buckles on his old ones came undone when he ran. He is most
       enlightening about cricket: one had never quite understood the googly, before.
       One rather suspects the next Prime Minister might not be interested in cricket
       at all. Football seems to be his game - one has seen him, on the television,
       actually playing it. One fears the worst for future weekly chats: one has scant
       interest in soccer, especially since One's Park Rangers were relegated. 

       One also understands that the next Prime Minister is a member of Trimdon
       Colliery and Deaf Hill Working Men's Club, which one somehow doubts to be a
       prime source of jolly anecdote. One could, one supposes, inquire how Deaf
       Hill came by its name, but the likelihood is that the next Prime Minister would
       prefer to address matters of greater pith. He went to Oxford and is rumoured to
       be something of a thinker, whereas the current Prime Minister and one have
       three O levels and an ATS diploma in lorry-maintenance between us: a
       situation which, how might one put it, does much to prevent us from boring
       one another stiff. 

       And then there is the matter of wives. 

       One has just peeked from the window, Diary, and watched him walking to his
       motor car with that special little lope of his. One will rather miss that lope. Oh,
       see, he has given his special little grin to the driver. One will rather miss that
       grin. And the way he settles his spectacles with his forefinger. And the way he
       says "wunt". Such a very nice man. How difficult it must be for one's loyal
       subjects to cast their vote! One is really rather grateful, all things considered,
       not to have one. 
