They criticise us for premature electioneering, yet it was the wretched media that fired the starting pistol. "With an election imminent, can you tell us what you will do about X, Y and Z?" they ask. And when we do as bidden, they return to their studios and laptops and lampoon us for starting to campaign in early January, of all times. Hypocrites the pack of 'em, but you knew that already.

Thankfully they are as lazy as they are dishonest, otherwise we might have hit the buffers before the working year had begun. My plan appeared foolproof and doubly on-message. Shifty along to an NHS neo-natal department on New Year's morning, I told Dave, and we could show that "Yes, we do care for the NHS" and, subliminally, given the racket we could expect to endure, that we had been relatively abstemious the night before. It was a win-win photo shoot. Or would have been, had anyone from the Corporation (average salary £163,000 p/a - package includes seven weeks' holiday, all the expenses you can file, and perks) bothered to turn up for work. As it was, the only media representative hanging around reception was a young intern from the local rag.

Ah well, no harm in - excuse the pun - a dummy run, and off we trotted to be seen doing good deeds. Dave likes children and, perhaps because of his babyish features, they tend to like him. It is one of his gifts of which he is most proud. But it is not infallible, as we soon discovered when the first baby plucked from its mother's arms howled like a . . . baby. "Must be a Labour voter," I consoled.

We moved swiftly on and Dave, somewhat trepidatiously, plucked another infant. "Bawl, bawl, bawl," went the baby.

“Could it be the working breakfast with Coulson?" I suggested.

“Sorry," Dave replied.“Perhaps they can smell the scent of Coulson and, survival of the fittest and all that, they are, quite naturally, very afraid. I always thought it was a bad omen to start the year watching Andy munch muesli."

But Dave, having ceased to listen, was exiting the building. I was left with the workie and a ward full of screamers.

“Can I have a quote?"

“Will fuck off do?"

He started writing his quotation down. Realising I was lumbered with an idiot, I reacted quickly. "How about a seat on the campaign bus?"

He dropped his pen. "Wow. Are you sure?" Timidity is the crucial quality in an embedded journalist.

“Now, where can we get a drink in this infernal hole?"