The Tories are considering cuts to the NHS and overseas aid

Osborne may use next year's Spending Review to remove the ring-fence on health and international development spending.

Ahead of next year's expected spending review (which would cover spending from 2015-2017), the Guardian's Patrick Wintour reports that the Tories are unsure whether they will be able to repeat their 2010 pledge to ring-fence spending on health and international development.

Given the deteriorating fiscal situation, this is no surprise. When George Osborne delivered his first Budget in June 2010, the newly-established Office for the Budget Responsibility forecast that the deficit would fall from £154.7bn (11%) in 2010 to £37bn (2.1%) in 2015. But the failure of Osborne's strategy to deliver growth (indeed, its success in delivering recession) means that, according to the latest independent forecasts, it will now stand at £96.1bn (5.8%).

In response, the Chancellor has already been forced to extend his austerity programme by two years to 2017 (going further, David Cameron has suggested he may need an extra five) and has declared his intention to seek another £10bn of welfare cuts (the reason he tried - and failed - to remove Iain Duncan Smith, who is opposed to further cuts, from his post in this week's reshuffle). With the fiscal situation likely to worsen further as growth remains anaemic or non-existent (the OECD today predicted that the UK economy would shrink by 0.7% this year, a worse peformance than any G7 country except Italy), Osborne is on the hunt for further savings.

Few Tory MPs would weep at the demise of the NHS/overseas aid ring-fence (many were outraged that defence spending was cut by 7.5%, while overseas aid received a 35% real-terms increase) but such a decision would inflict further damage on Cameron's brand. Against this, the Tories believe that a 2013 spending review would cause trouble for Labour by forcing it to come clean about where it would cut. As Treasury select committee chairman Andrew Tyries has said: "Labour would have to respond. Having the coalition parties committed to the same spending path halfway into the next Parliament makes it very difficult for Labour at the election."

The biggest question facing Balls and Miliband remains whether to accept the Tories' spending plans, as Labour did in 1997, or offer a distinct alternative.

George Osborne arrives at Downing Street yesterday for the first cabinet meeting since the reshuffle. Photograph: Getty Images.

George Eaton is political editor of the New Statesman.

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The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism