Country life
Loving a loser
Leanda de Lisle
Search as I may I'm finding it difficult to find any good news in the new year. The mice that eat my new suede cushions are now out of the house but into the Range Rover, where they breakfast on the wires under the bonnet. The pig farm is losing money and Sara is leaving me. I always felt her looks were unfortunate. I loved her for her mind, which is very organised, but men were attracted to her beauty like bees to a honeypot. Now, at last, one of them has seduced her away from me and I must spend the whole of this week interviewing people to replace her as housekeeper.
The omens thus far have not been good. The first person to apply for the job was a man. I thought it was possible that. I could get my head around the idea of having a Naturally . . . member of his gender handling my laundry, but he informed me that he couldn't iron and was practically blind. Did that matter? Well, at this early stage in the selection process, yes it does. However I appreciate that his offer may look more attractive after I have seen the other interviewees. I may even, like the Conservatives, come to regard incapacity in an old man as a reason to rejoice. I wouldn't want an active Gener- al Pinochet managing the house. There is only room for one dictator here — myself.
Not that I suspect it was General Pinochet who applied to become my house- keeper. As a former soldier he must know how to iron. But he should consider the job. It may be safer for him to be here now than in Chile and we have Chilean chickens to make him feel at home, a few of which need to be quietly dealt with by someone who knows how to be ruthless. Furthermore, I wouldn't mind if he was visited by some of his old friends in the Conservative party. I have, in fact, determined to join the Con- servative party myself. Not because they made his fate such a cause celebre, although it might seem that way. You see I find myself attracted by the party's sheer repul- siveness. I don't believe I'm alone in this.
The English like losers (or the 'under- dog' as we sometimes put it) and the Tories so resemble the kid that no one wants to pick foi his team that they are in danger of becoming loved — something which rarely happens to British politicians even when they are dead. They also offer an irre- sistible subject for a makeover. I'm not at all surprised their chief spin doctor, Aman- da Platell, is a woman. It would be both a challenge and a joy to remodel the Tories in such a way that they could completely outshine all the nauseating little Mr and Miss Perfects in New Labour, with their carefully crafted looks and tastefully tai- lored views.
For country people, such as myself, there is additional satisfaction to be found in the fact that those Conservatives who were once too proud to bother about our fate, whether as hunters or farmers, must now turn to us for help, since we are one of the few groups who are challenging their pow- erful enemies in the Commons. It's going to be off with the blue suits, on with the tweed, and if Mr Hague isn't prepared to shape up as we require then I am sure Michael Portillo will be more than happy to don an Hermes head scarf and Damart bloomers if it seems likely to improve his chances of leading the party into any subse- quent election. But first things first.
Our honest, hardworking pig man is on the telephone asking for my husband. From the tone of his voice he has more bad news to impart, I don't think the pig unit can survive that and he may soon be made redundant. Should I offer him the job of housekeeper? No, he will be looking for a full-time position and, if we are looking for good news, he is just the kind of man the countryside needs in the Commons.
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