We Londoners are still dizzy with the excitement of the recent elections and I have yet to recover my composure after finding a message on my answerphone from Boris Johnson himself.  My dilemma is that although, like any right thinking person, I dislike almost all politicians and politics,  I consider it completely unacceptable NOT to vote, given what people through history have done to ensure that we can.

My life in politics got off to a bad start from which it has yet to recover when my mother developed a massive crush on Jo Grimond, then leader of the Liberal Party.  This resulted in my sister and I having to deliver thousands of electioneering leaflets on foot to remote homes in Southern England at an age when we had far, far better things to do than break our nails wrestling with reluctant letter boxes and fleeing rabid hell hounds.

Matters were not improved by my first political outing with ITN when I was sent south of the river (Surely some mistake?) to cover a by-election where a beardless youth called Peter Tatchell was standing.  He was in the middle of a battle with the media who had dared to suggest that he was gay.  When he arrived for the count wearing a glittery jacket and even more mascara than me I realised that my suspicions  about politicians not being altogether straight, on more than one level in this case, were all too correct.  I think history shows that he has somewhat changed his stance since those far off days.

On one General Election night a friend who had never directed anything more taxing than an interview with a Booker prize winner was ordered into the front line election trenches and found himself locked in an Outside Broadcast lorry with a very left wing crew; his own leaning being somewhat to the right of Nigel Farage.  Too tempting.  Hoping to enhance his miserable evening, although perhaps not in an entirely positive direction, I personally delivered a small hamper from Fortnums and a 10 by 8 glossy of Auntie Margaret, apparently signed by her own fair hand and thanking him for his constant support.  I hope it cheered them all up.

One of my more memorable elections was spent outside Number 10 with my legs firmly crossed and wondering why a female Prime Minister had failed to address the lack of women’s lavatories in the SW1 area.  Stumbling back to ITN as dawn rose (By cab, obviously) I was diverted from my dash to the comfort station and told to ‘Get into the Green Room and keep Cecil Parkinson happy’. And second prize?  Ever the consummate professional I spent the next few hours pouring wine down our throats and listening to his soppy liberal views.

For a politician he seemed to be a pleasant enough man so imagine my horror on returning to work after an extended holiday to discover that a sex scandal was raging about his hapless head.  I walked into the newsroom and one of the newscasters greeted me with a broad grin. ‘Didn’t you spend election night with Cecil Parkinson?’ he enquired. ‘Think yourself lucky you’re not pregnant too!’

‘But I am’ I replied.  Imagine his surprise.