Dear Philippa,

 

As you know, I have decided to stand as an Independent in the District Council election on May 5th. Strictly speaking the campaign has yet to begin. There are some rules about the off; we obviously can’t have the kind of untidy scrambling you sometimes see at the start of steeplechases, with horses all over the shop. But there are preliminaries, which are important for sole traders such as myself who have arrayed against them the full power of national party machines with all their money and familiarity with the knavish tricks of political scrapping. I shall have to draw heavily on my reserves of slyness if I am to prevail.

 

I have received some family advice – from a cousin: “Don’t forget, you’ll have to try to be nice to people” – and encouragement – from my daughter: “With no policies and no principles, you are the ideal candidate.” Buoyed up by this warm encouragement I set about nailing together campaign literature. I was lucky enough to unearth the perfect photograph in which I am not only wearing a suit and tie, but also smiling, the only such snap known to be in existence. I showed it to my clever economist friend who, with unconcealed astonishment, remarked that I look like someone you can trust. The girl at the pet shop saw it and said I “look like a matinee idol, but reliable”.  A promising start.  In fact I’m having two photos on my leaflet, a second with the dog. More people know Rosie than know me, and if you enjoy the affection of a dog you are regarded as an all-round good egg.

 

My first official outing was to a presentation at the Council offices, given by the chief executive to prospective candidates, a mixture of malcontents, idealists and the deluded as far as I could make out. I see myself as an idealist. The chief executive confided, unwisely in my view, that as the returning officer she could lose her house and go to prison if we were to break the rules (there are many rules) and she to fail to get us into line – I noticed the malcontents perk up at this point, but she’ll have no trouble from me.

 

I am lucky enough to have as my rabbi a seasoned councillor who is not standing this time round. I expect you know the type: when they laugh heartily and say things like, “You don’t want to listen to me, I’m just a simple soldier” you know you are in dangerous company, precisely the kind of  company you need if you are going into a jungle. He is my William Whitelaw. My expectations of him are high, especially in the way of strategic vision and low battlefield cunning.

 

 Our first job was to decide which ten people should sign my nomination papers. My lot, in addition to him, includes my hairdresser, the landlady of the Royal Oak, a retired vicar and a chap from the Civic Amenity Site where I am a popular tipper and loyal frequenter. It is particularly important to have your hairdresser on board – he will be there at the count with can of spray and a comb to keep me looking fresh. With the army, the licensed trade and Holy Mother Church represented on my team I am holding many aces.

 

On the advice of my rabbi, I attended a Council meeting last week. It was a bit hair-raising – a lot of waspish observations about the weaknesses of others and a certain amount of self-admiration. Were it not for the iron control of the Chairman I fear that fighting might have broken out, and in a rural area like this where most people have shotgun licences, that is something best avoided. Maybe I am naive, but I was surprised by the amount of time that was expended talking about procedure as opposed to substantial issues.

 

Well, there it is. Soon we’ll be under starter’s orders and I’ll be rushing round town, spreading my personality about like cheap margarine. I’ll keep you posted.

 

Best wishes,

 

Howard