Morning Call: pick of the papers

The ten must-read comment pieces from this morning's papers.

1. Coming through... the arrogance of power (Telegraph)
Andrew Mitchell can apologise all he wants, but he's done his bit to retoxify the Tory brand, says Matthew Norman 

2. It's the whale in the paddling pool of politics (Times £)
Party funding is a plague on us all, says Matthew Parris

3. Tory posh boys who think they're born to rule (Daily Mail)
You see the true character of a politician when they think they're off camera, says Amanda Platell

4. The real Mitt Romney is instensely relaxed among the filthy rich (Guardian)
Wanting politicians to drop the artifice and tell it to us straight is all very well, but we may not like what we hear, says Jonathan Freedland

5. The last thing the Church of England needs is a pleasant middle manager (Telegraph)
The next Archbishop of Canterbury must connect with all of Britain's people, says Charles Moore

6. Paul Burstow is not just a miffed ex-minister (Daily Mail)
He's right that social care needs reform, says Dominique Jackson

7. Morally repugnant tax avoiders can rest easy under Cameron (Guardian)
Moving from tax haven to tax haven is called success, says Tany Gold 

8. I'm not sorry for saying sorry (Independent)
The Lib Dem leader faces a difficult conference, says Andrew Grice 

9. Is the modern military really scared of a baby? (Times £)
The army should get its head out of the desert sand, says Janice Turner

10. When a sacred text is the word of man (Independent)
Christians are able to accept the reinterpretations of Jesus, says Selina O'Grady

Morning Call
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For the first time in my life I have a sworn enemy – and I don’t even know her name

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

Last month, I made an enemy. I do not say this lightly, and I certainly don’t say it with pride, as a more aggressive male might. Throughout my life I have avoided confrontation with a scrupulousness that an unkind observer would call out-and-out cowardice. A waiter could bring the wrong order, cold and crawling with maggots, and in response to “How is everything?” I’d still manage a grin and a “lovely, thanks”.

On the Underground, I’m so wary of being a bad citizen that I often give up my seat to people who aren’t pregnant, aren’t significantly older than me, and in some cases are far better equipped to stand than I am. If there’s one thing I am not, it’s any sort of provocateur. And yet now this: a feud.

And I don’t even know my enemy’s name.

She was on a bike when I accidentally entered her life. I was pushing a buggy and I wandered – rashly, in her view – into her path. There’s little doubt that I was to blame: walking on the road while in charge of a minor is not something encouraged by the Highway Code. In my defence, it was a quiet, suburban street; the cyclist was the only vehicle of any kind; and I was half a street’s length away from physically colliding with her. It was the misjudgment of a sleep-deprived parent rather than an act of malice.

The cyclist, though, was enraged. “THAT’S CLEVER, ISN’T IT?” she yelled. “WALKING IN THE ROAD!”

I was stung by what someone on The Apprentice might refer to as her negative feedback, and walked on with a redoubled sense of the parental inadequacy that is my default state even at the best of times.

A sad little incident, but a one-off, you would think. Only a week later, though, I was walking in a different part of town, this time without the toddler and engrossed in my phone. Again, I accept my culpability in crossing the road without paying due attention; again, I have to point out that it was only a “close shave” in the sense that meteorites are sometimes reported to have “narrowly missed crashing into the Earth” by 50,000 miles. It might have merited, at worst, a reproving ting of the bell. Instead came a familiar voice. “IT’S YOU AGAIN!” she yelled, wrathfully.

This time the shock brought a retort out of me, probably the harshest thing I have ever shouted at a stranger: “WHY ARE YOU SO UNPLEASANT?”

None of this is X-rated stuff, but it adds up to what I can only call a vendetta – something I never expected to pick up on the way to Waitrose. So I am writing this, as much as anything, in the spirit of rapprochement. I really believe that our third meeting, whenever it comes, can be a much happier affair. People can change. Who knows: maybe I’ll even be walking on the pavement

Mark Watson is a stand-up comedian and novelist. His most recent book, Crap at the Environment, follows his own efforts to halve his carbon footprint over one year.

This article first appeared in the 20 October 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Brothers in blood