One regrets using the term “the gift that keeps on giving" - a phrase every bit as hackneyed as "smorgasbord", the use of which, were I reduced to being the editor of a national newspaper, would lead to instant dismissal if trotted out even by the food reviewer - especially if trotted out by the food reviewer - but it does concisely sum up the Liberal Democrats' contribution to the coalition.

Marry in haste, rejoice at leisure has become the political idiom of our times. When we made overtures to Cleggy & Co it was done in the spirit of someone anxious for a quick before-the-port knee-trembler in the library. The coupling was intended to fix a present need; there was no thought for future consequences. And yet every which way they have proved to be a boon. Either they are so in awe of us they are happy to be first out of the trenches to take one for the team or they are so angry with us that by their behind-the-back whingeing they make us look dignified. Marriage-wise we have landed on our feet, with a bounce.

So it has been that, with Dave off doing his aw-shucks-I'm-a-new-dad bit (what on earth possessed them to give the poor dear the name Endellion and thereby scar her for life with this ghastly reminder that she was born Cornish?), I was given the task of further integrating our more reluctant partners into the extended family. Or, to put it another way, overseeing Project Shaft. This is the most terrific fun. It involves pinpointing a disillusioned Liberal and then inviting him/her/it (they did manage to get a transsexual elected, didn't they?) out for a chinwag to assuage hurt feelings.

My strategy is unvarying. If it is a man, I take him to my club; if a woman, to Lord's; and if, er, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Then I buy them a drink, sit them down and say, "Is there anything . . ." And the whining Liberal Democrat is off: "Feel underappreciated . . . views not acknowledged . . . taken for granted . . . no spark in the marriage any more . . ." Boy, can they go on. Like a good therapist, I listen and listen, mentally replaying entire Test matches to avoid falling asleep.

Eventually, they reach what they might term closure and look to me for reassurance.

“Frankly, if you feel like that you might as well fuck off."

And off they go to leak to the press before, with luck, disappearing altogether to depress another party, and, in so doing, providing our heartlands with a pre-conference fillip.