Morning Call: our pick of the papers

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

1. His calamity cabinet must be the despair of David Cameron (Observer)

An astonishing number of ministers are either deliberately stirring up trouble or stumbling into the mire, says Andrew Rawnsley.

2. Last gasp of the seigneurs (Sunday Times) (£)

Both Ken Clarke and Dominique Strauss-Kahn owe their predicaments largely to the same thing – an indifference to women's feelings, says Minette Marrin.

3. Ed Miliband and the End of the World (Independent on Sunday)

Labour's leader should be thinking about policy and not about Clarke's resignation – or anything else unlikely to happen, argues John Rentoul.

4. Kenneth Clarke has done his time. He should go without delay (Sunday Telegraph)

Until the Justice Secretary is sacked, Cameron's claim to be on the side of the public over crime will fail to ring true, says Matthew d'Ancona.

5. Speak up on crime, PM, or be punished (Sunday Times) (£)

Law and order is usually the Conservatives' strongest card, yet many voters think the Prime Minister has thrown it away, says Martin Ivens.

6. Obama's visit marks a new special relationship of the super-realists (Observer)

With a shared pragmatism about foreign policy, the president and David Cameron may have a good deal in common, says Jacob Weisberg.

7. The right seems reluctant to run against Obama (Independent on Sunday)

Six months ago, the Republicans triumphed in the midterm elections, but few have come forward for 2012, writes Rupert Cornwell.

8. Why drown Ken Clarke in this tidal wave of phony anger? (Observer)

The reaction to the Justice Secretary's remarks about rape proves that true political discurse is a thing of the past, writes Rachel Cooke.

9. Who are the standard-bearers of the Tory right? (Sunday Telegraph)

Liam Fox's intervention on overseas aid shows that the right of the Conservative Party is still a force to be reckoned with, says Tim Montgomerie.

10. They shoot horses, don't they? (New York Times)

The Syrian regime that has been so accustomed to staying in control is getting a taste of what it's like to lose it, says Thomas L Friedman.

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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