11 March 2026

Power comes and goes – I never seem to have it for long

What with my ex-MP and the internet, I feel connected again

Many years ago, my local MP gamely turned up at my children’s primary school, stuck his head through a hole in a large piece of plasterboard, and invited the parents (and their children) to throw soapy wet sponges at him for what seemed like a very reasonable rate. I – will you forgive me? – splashed out.

“That’s for Iraq!” I shouted with my first salvo. “That’s for getting rid of Clause IV! That’s for handing control of interest rates to the Bank of England!” Of course, each sponge missed, thudding into the wood on either side of him. Perhaps my rage made me miss, for normally I am a fairly good shot, even winning a coconut, against which I bore no grudge, at the shy later on.

Since then my views have mellowed somewhat, apart from on Iraq, and last Monday saw us sipping coffee in his large, wood-panelled office overlooking the Thames in Portcullis House, or PCH, as we political insiders call it. I won’t identify him, or say what we talked about, apart from the fact that he confessed he was being driven mad by the busker playing “Bella Ciao” on the ukulele on a loop beneath his window, but it was a good and long chat: more than 45 minutes, which would have been over an hour if I’d factored in the time it took security to frisk me. In my pocket was the Swiss Army Knife my children had got me in 2007 for Christmas; I was very worried I’d never see it, or indeed freedom, ever again, but they put it in a little box for when I left and I remain at liberty to this day.

Portcullis House was, in my mind, because I am ancient, built yesterday but for some reason smells old – a bit like the Houses of Parliament over the road, or a venerable provincial hotel. I know what the HoP smell like because I have had a drink or a meal there many times, thanks to my friend M—, who has retired now and has a CBE.

Going to the seat of power in the land never fails to leave an impression on me. One leaves it feeling privileged, important. I suppose if you go there every day it just becomes the bloody office. I was disappointed to find that the visitor’s lanyard they give you isn’t covered with portcullises or other signifiers of government; I would have been chuffed to wear it back on the train. And maybe for a few days afterwards.

One thing I didn’t mention to my ex-MP was that I had come from a place of squalor and sadness. On the Saturday evening, I had recklessly decided to defrost the fridge, for its freezer cabinet had iced up to the extent that the only space in it was barely large enough to keep an Arctic hamster, if there is such a thing. I put an old towel in front of the fridge but this could not contain the Hove-l’s melting glacier, and in the small hours of the morning the fuse governing every socket had blown, and the residual current device, or RCD, as we electricians call it, wouldn’t reset. That is, it stayed jammed in the off position and I didn’t want to force it in case something snapped and my landlord took a dim view. This meant waiting until the Tuesday for the sparkie to come. I couldn’t wait in on the Monday because I was going to the Corridors of Power.

It wasn’t too bad, being without sockets. I had overhead lighting, but I had to ration my phone use until I had the bright idea of borrowing a phone charger from my old friend S—, who lives round the corner from me. But I still had to be careful with the phone and what with the latest news it was probably a good thing for my mental health that I had a couple of days without a wi-fi router.

The other problem was that at almost the same time as the sockets blew, one of my back teeth split almost in half. It hung on in there, moving back and forth painfully and, even as I write these words, it is still there, warning me of a looming dental bill unless it falls out gracefully, like its cousin on the left did some years ago.

There was also the matter of tidying up the kitchen in case the electrician had to inspect the wiring behind the fridge. I pulled out the fridge – about the size of two generous Arctic hamster cages – and boy, you should see what the floor beneath your fridge looks like if you haven’t cleaned it for five and a half years.

That was not the only part of the kitchen that needed a good clean-up, and in the end it took about six hours of frenzied work to make it presentable. I also include the time it took to scour the toilet in case my visitor needed to use it. Because I started late, I finally got to bed at three in the morning. Rarely has anyone stayed up so late and had so little fun.

Of course, when the electrician came – you’ve guessed this already, haven’t you? – he flipped the RCD switch and, instantly, power to the sockets came back on. I had many questions, all directed at either myself or God.

As I write, the tooth still hurts but the kitchen is clean, and what with my ex-MP and the internet, I feel connected again.

[Further reading: I am ashamed to be an American]