I Love Pasta, Old People And Thrilling Political Debate...

Oui, oui.

I could have passed for a French lady yesterday, so chic and petite was I. I think it was the black trench coat and black patent shoes that did it.
And as the late train made its hurried way into London I bit my lip in anticipation of what was to come. I do so love popping in to see mum and dad, their upbeat optimism always managing to dispel any negative thoughts I have about myself. And I have many I'll have you know. But seven hours in their company and I'm rejuvenated. Suddenly anything is possible and the doubts which crush and disable me are shot to smithereens not just by their love but by their belief in me. I think people who have that power, that power to rekindle, re-ignite a fading flame should be honoured and loved. So in my own little way I show my affection and gratitude by taking up cakes and pies and trusting without question their infallible advice.

After the necessary shop where I bought fresh pasta and lip gloss, mum and I rattled on about men. How lovely they are for a day or so but how painful their animalistic tendencies can be. They also get so in the way in the house. We agreed, over tea and strawberry cake, that for a woman to understand a man she must think as a man. Dad laughed.

And then after the sex lesson we all went mental whilst yakking about the upcoming debate. I told them that I had to be home in time for it and dad said how pleased he was that his daughter had taken his advice 40 years ago and had taken an interest in the murky world of politics. He also told me how to vote. On that joyously ludicrous note I picked up my handbag and left, getting home with thirty minutes to spare. I sat down with my bowl of pasta and watched Messrs. Cameron, Brown and Clegg fight it out like a gang of intellectual thugs. I knew from the off that Clegg was a winner, his opening ninety second speechlet had me hooked, the other two paled into the background. Brown came across as stuffy, his hand gesticulations reminiscent of PMQ's. Mr Cameron tried to look Ministerial but there was something missing, he lacked gravitas and just sounded like any other Tory boy. No, Mr Clegg won the debate, although I doubt whether he'll hold on to his new found fame as the election gets nearer. I was most impressed by the way he looked into the camera when answering a question so unlike Brown who avoided the camera's eye at all costs. OK maybe he did shoot a glance now and again but over all he side stepped the one eyed monster like a kid facing a headmaster. Too tetchy and evasive. Cameron looked smooth and clean but wore too much make-up.

As the pasta disappeared I just salivated and the debate could have gone on for another hour and I wouldn't have cared. I loved it.
Winner by a mile: Nick Clegg.
Man Trying to be most Prime Ministerial: Cammy Knickers.
Man on the precipice: Gordo.


So glad I sometimes look chic, so pleased I bought the pasta and so incredibly indebted to mum and dad for making me watch Panorama 40 years ago.