Sunday, May 29, 2005

Casting on

'B****y knitting.'

Ginny's thrown the yarn and needles down in disgust. This gives me the opportunity to investigate. I soon have a nice pile of wool wrapped around my paws.

'B****y dog. I'll never get this jumper knitted if you keep tangling the wool.'

Ooooh temper, Ginny.

Actually you'll never get this jumper knitted. Full stop. Knitting is not your forte, Ginny. Quit now while you're ahead.

That's my advice anyway. Ginny has spent over an hour trying to 'cast on'. Unfortunately Ginny has never cast on in her life. In the days when Ginny was learning to knit Class One's teacher, Miss Heywood, cast on for all the girls to get them started. Twelve girls arrived at school one morning with all the stitches already on their needles. All they had to do was to knit and purl. It was easy, Ginny told Clive.

Clive can't understand why Ginny is knitting. 'Look at the economics of it Ginny. How much have you spent on the wool?'

'Twelve pounds.'

'You could buy Jake a jumper for 12 pounds and you haven't had to lift a finger.'

'That's not the point Clive. By knitting Jake a jumper I am giving him love. This jumper will be a unique garment, an expression of my creativity and knitted with motherly love. Knitting isn't just about making something to wear. Every little stitch will have come from his mother's fair loving hands.'

Clive knows not to argue with Ginny when she's in full flow. He sighed and turned back to his newspaper.

Ginny had given up trying to remember how to cast on and turned to her 'New Complete Book of Needlecraft.' It's not so new now. In 1959, when it was really new, it was the only book a modern mother would need to make all those essentials for home and family. For 1950s Mum it was the handy reference book for rustling up embroidered place mats, macrame wall hangings, doilies, curtains, crochet dresses and woollen slippers for the man in your life. Even a rather natty gingham dog basket - now I like the look of that, Ginny could run that up in an afternoon. Ginny riffled through the pages for several minutes before finding what she needed. She read it out to Clive: 'How to Knit. Basic Techniques. To cast on means to put the first stitches onto the needle . . . Duurrrr.'

She went quiet. She fiddled with the wool and her needles contorting her fingers and thumbs into all sorts of positions. Now and then she muttered under her breath: 'holding the needle with the slip knot in the right hand, draw up the 2 strands of yarn between ring and little fingers of the left hand. Hold yarn securely.'

Ginny glowed with effort. 'Slip forefinger and thumb of left hand between the strands. The one coming from the ball should be at the back.'

Silence. Intense concentration. 'Bring thumb up and spread the fingers. Put the needle under the front strand of the thumb . . . . pull it through . . . let the loop slip from thumb . . . tighten the stitch. Hurray I've done it. Two stitches. Now where's the pattern. How many more to go . . . Oh . . . 96.'

Ginny looked a bit daunted but you've got to hand it to the girl, she persevered. It took nearly 45 minutes but eventually Ginny had cast 98 stitches onto her needle. Now she only had to remember how to knit.

Knit 'n' Bitch here she comes!

Friday, May 27, 2005

Knit 'n' Bitch

Ginny went shopping today for a pair of knitting needles and some wool. She hasn't knitted a stitch since primary school when all the girls knitted a tea cosy for their mothers while all the boys learnt to whittle a spoon out of a piece of wood. Clive was quite surprised to learn that Ginny could knit.

'I can do plain and I can do purl if I concentrate very hard,' says Ginny sniffily. 'I've got to stick at it or I won't be able to go to Knit 'n' Bitch.'

'What's Knit 'n' Bitch when it's at home,' asks Clive, peering over the top of the Racing Post.

'It's the new craze, everyone's at it - all the celebrities. You go to someone's house with your needles and your wool and you knit while you talk. There's a Knit 'n' Bitch at Bonnie's house this week. I can catch up on the gossip and knit Jake a jumper while I'm at it.'

Clive looked sceptical: 'Wouldn't it be easier just to have the Bitch?'

Ginny pulled a face.

'What colour will my jumper be?' asked Jake.

'Red'

Jake smiled. Jake only wears red now that Liverpool are the champs. He's been wearing his Liverpool kit all week, it's beginning to smell. When I say he's been wearing it all week I mean it. The kit stays on night and day. I think Ginny hopes to prise it off him by knitting an alternative red garment.

'Look I've got the pattern and the wool, here.'

Ginny proudly held up several balls of red acrylic 4-ply and a knitting pattern the like of which Clive and Jake had obviously never encountered. On the front were two boys. One was sitting on a log gazing at a distant vista, the other boy was standing at his side pointing at same distant vista. Boys like these have not been seen in the UK since around 1952. They were immaculate, with short-back-and-sides neatly combed with a slicked down side parting, grey school shorts, grey school knee-high socks and hand-knits - one V-neck, one crew - which displayed every knitting technique known to women. There was rib (K2P2) there was moss stitch (K1P1K1 then reverse on next row) there was cable (err . . . I give up).

'It looks quite intricate,' Clive sounded doubtful.

'Oh, it'll be quite easy once I get down to it,' said Ginny, also sounding doubtful. 'I'll make a start on it tonight. I don't want to turn up without anything on my needles.'

I'm looking forward to this knitting lark - those balls look fun to chase.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Scousers rule

At half-time Jake was inconsolable. His beloved Liverpool 3-nil down to AC Milan in the final of the Champions League. He sat on Clive's lap sobbing. Ginny didn't have the heart to send him to bed, even though it was way past his bedtime. So he sat through the second half of the Champions League final and cheered Liverpool's three goals to bring them level at full-time. Then Ginny really couldn't send him to bed. No mother could call bedtime to a true Liverpool fan who's come from the depths of despair through the fight back to the faint glimmer of hope that Liverpool could do it. Jake perched on the edge of Clive's lap through extra time. Then bounced around the room through the penalties and then leapt around the room as Liverpool won 3-2 on penalties. Never has there been so much excitement in the Philpott household. All of a sudden Clive, Nick and Ben are Liverpool fans (so fickle these Chelsea supporters) as they support Jake in his team's triumph. It was a weary but happy Jake who wended his way up the stairs last night. Too tired to wash or clean his teeth, but who cares? Liverpool are the Champs! As his Mum tucked him up under his Liverpool duvet Jake asked her to hang his Liverpool FC calendar next to the bed. Jake went to sleep gazing into the eyes of his new hero Jerzy Dudek - the prancing goalie and Liverpool FC's pin-up boy for May 2005.

No-one has fully explained to me why Jake, Worcestershire born and bred, is a Liverpool fan. Perhaps for the same reason that Man U's fans are all in Surrey?

Monday, May 23, 2005

Advice freely given

Ginny's fellow dog owners are never backwards in coming forwards with their opinions on how Ginny is getting on with my training.

Dog training is new to Ginny. It is also new to me. I mean I was aware that technically I couldn't expect the household to put up with my mess everywhere and so I have acquired the skill of scratching at the door when I need to go outside to 'make toilet' as Ginny's American friend Bonnie calls it. Now I just have to stand by the back door and Ginny comes and opens it straight away - she's learnt that one quite quickly.

Scratching the door, any door, is a good way of getting some attention in the Philpott household. It's not always the type of attention I want - having cushions thrown at me is all very well but if I'm scratching at a door it's because I want to go through it, not be bombarded with soft furnishings. Unfortunately there are a lot of doors in the house that I am not allowed to go through. Four bedroom doors are shut to me, so are the two bathroom doors, the dining room door, the children's playroom door and, during the day, the living room door. I find this sad because on the other side of those doors are lots of interesting and smelly things. A massive Beanie Baby collection, shiny CDs and toilet rolls to chew, comfy beds to lie on, chair and table legs to nibble, Lego, K'nex and Warhammer to swallow. These are all barred to me now. But I digress from the dog training . . .

Our walks in the morning are peppered with stops to chat. The dog owning fraternity is very friendly, in my opinion. That opinion is not shared by Ginny. Sometimes she comes home from our walks with some less than charitable opinions of the people we have met while out.

Take Mrs Holier-than-Thou as Ginny calls her, not to her face. Much to Ginny's chagrin she was just retrieving me from a rather smelly ditch when the holier-than-thou tones trilled across the field. I was covered in mud and was just having a bit of fun shaking it onto Ginny - it's nice to share these things.

'Ginny! What on earth are you doing in that hedge?'

Ginny's face looked like a Cadbury's mini-egg, spattered with tiny flecks of brown. She wiped a tissue over it and succeeded in smearing the mud across her eye. She gave up and blinked peevishly at the green figure fast approaching.

Mrs HTT dresses for the country - Hunter wellies, blue of course, Barbour jacket, green, and one of those scarves that you only see on English women, the ones with pictures of horsey things like stirrups and bridles.

She walks an English pointer called Bernard, who is impeccably well-behaved. Two sharp peeps on Mrs HTT's whistle and Bernard is there at her feet and gazing into her eyes waiting for a treat.

'Haven't you trained Arrow to the whistle yet Ginny?' she asked this morning.

'Err no. We're still on the coming when I call stage,' said Ginny.

'Oh train him to the whistle. It'll save your voice. I've had gun dogs all my life they need to respect your whistle,' Mrs HTT said in much the tone of voice that Joyce Grenfell would have used when talking to a recalcitrant schoolgirl.

Respect your whistle! Come on Mrs HTT. What self-respecting dog is going to come to a whistle when there are rabbits and pigeons to chase?

Ginny hates Mrs HTT. I heard her telling Clive that it was all very well Mrs Htt being a born-again Christian but that hadn't stopped her shacking up with her children's piano teacher once she'd booted her husband out of the extensive marital home. 'She got all her sinning done then turned to God. Now tells us all how useless we are at training our dogs and inviting us to prayer meetings. Cow,' sniffs Ginny.

Oh come on Ginny. You're not doing too bad, now come and let me out of the door before it's . . . too late.

Oh dear.

Thursday, May 19, 2005

A rush job

The phone range first thing yesterday morning. It was Saskia and it was urgent. Saskia is the Health Editor at Mirabelle magazine.

'Kylie's got breast cancer, can you do a piece?' she breathed down the phone. Saskia, while being very up on the latest health trends doesn't seem to apply the information gleaned to her own lifestyle. According to Ginny she smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and 'sleeps around' - although she doesn't actually say this out loud, she mouths it over the boys' heads to Clive. As a consequence of her hedonistic lifestyle Saskia has a voice that grates like a car driving over gravel. Saskia thinks it sounds sexy. Ginny holds the phone away from her ear, wincing as Saskia's commands rasp from the receiver.

Ginny put the phone down having pinned Saskia down to a word count (400 words), a fee (£200) and a deadline (today).

'Sorry Arrow, no walk this morning. I've got some work to do.'

Then Ginny was on the phone tracking down a suitable case: 'We'd like to interview someone who's young and survived,' she said in her sweetest voice to the lady at the breast cancer charity press office. 'I know you'll have been inundated with requests but I'd be really grateful if you could find someone as my deadline is today.

'And yes of course I'll mention your charity and your helpline.'

Case history obtained Ginny is on the phone again. 'Hello It's Ginny Philpott here from Mirabelle magazine thank you for agreeing to talk to me . . .

Sixty minutes later Ginny looks exhausted. She has sat and listened as a complete stranger tells her intimate details about her breast cancer and how she survived it. 'I now take one day at a time. I don't take life for granted anymore. It's made me appreciate the little things in life and not worry about the future so much.'

Ginny's reading out the notes she took. 'How many times have I heard people say that,' she mutters.

Quick cup of coffee then Ginny is at her computer. She tosses me a Bonio to keep me occupied. It does. For precisely 30 seconds.

Two hours later Ginny has bashed out her piece. She e-mails it to Saskia who pronounces it 'Great. Thanks Ginny.'

Ginny prints out an invoice for £200. Not bad for a morning's work. Kylie's cancer has a silver lining - for Ginny.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Hair today

Ginny is feeling her age. She is 44, nearly 45. 'I can't believe the problems I'm having with hair,' she moaned to her sister Victoria the other day. 'I spend my whole time tending various hairs on my body. I've had to shave my legs because the sun's come out - above the knee too. My moustache grows faster and faster every week. My underarms look like a Brillo pad. I'm spending a fortune on hair dye.'

I've learnt a lot about human hair since coming to live with The Philpotts.

Take Ginny. She spends inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom plucking her eyebrows, tweezing stray hairs from the mole on her cheek (I think it hurts a lot when she does that because her eyes water, she sneezes and then swears loudly), shaving her legs and her underarms.

I had a real fright when she emerged from the en-suite this morning. She'd gone in as Ginny with her usual slight five o'clock shadow and come out with a streak of thick cream across her upper lip. I thought she'd grown a new tash, which was a shame because the old one was quite fetching. It stank too - a sort of rotten eggs. Ginny set the kitchen timer for four minutes and then went back into the bathroom. When she came out again the white cream had gone and so had the thick black hairs, replaced by a violent red rash which she then dabbed with E45 Itch Relief.

Next she decided she just had enough time to dye her hair. This involved mixing two extremely smelly potions together, shaking up the bottle and then rubbing it all over her scalp. She then sat for half an hour reading the paper, drinking coffee, listening to Jeremy Vine on Radio 2 and occasionally rubbing her sore lip. Rich Auburn is the colour Ginny usually chooses for her hair. This month she's having a change thanks to Tesco who delivered the wrong colour with Internet Grocery Delivery. So this month it's Dark Copper Mahogany.

Ginny really shouldn't listen to Jeremy Vine while she's got hair dye on. Jeremy was interviewing a woman who'd chosen not to have children and written a book about it. 'Selfish Cow! Who's going to pay for your NHS when you're old and crumbly?' Ginny shouted at the radio. As her head shook a trickle of Dark Copper Mahogany crept down the side of her cheek. 'B****y Hell,' Ginny cried when she went back into the bathroom to rinse the dye away. 'I'll never get that off.'

I could hear her scrubbing away for ages. When she emerged her hair was now Dark Copper Mahogany - apart from a patch just at the back which she always misses because she can't see it. An interesting pale purple rivulet looked like a tattoo tracing its way down the side of her cheek. She tried to keep it covered with hair but kept forgetting and tucked her hair behind her ears as usual. Then it was quite obvious that Ginny had been at the dye again.

Later Clive came home and committed the worst sin a husband can make - he didn't notice Ginny's hair. Then Jake asked if someone had been drawing on Ginny's cheek. Then Ben asked where Ginny's moustache had gone. Nick kept quiet - sensible lad.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Puzzles solved

'Mum, come quick! My wee smells,' the desperate shout came from Jake, the nine-year-old.

Ginny rushed to his aid. Then another shout from the upstairs loo. 'Mine does too.' It was Ben, the 11-year-old.

'Mine's alright,' said Nick, the 14-year-old. Boys pee in packs in this house.

'Clive, come here,' Ginny shrieked. Clive rushed into the already crowded downstairs loo.

'What's going on?'

'The boys stink.'

'Thanks Mum.'

Clive wrinkled his nose. 'That's asparagus.'

'What?'

'We had asparagus for tea didn't we? Asparagus makes your wee smell. It's a well known fact.'

'It doesn't make my wee smell,' said Ginny.

'It doesn't make everyone's wee smell. It's like being able to roll your tongue, you can either do it or you can't - it's in your genes.' And with that Clive returned to perusing the horse racing form.

Nick immediately logged onto the internet and typed asparagus and urine into Google. 'Wow that's really interesting,' he exclaimed. 'Did you know: the body converts a substance in asparagus into a metabolite called methyl mercaptan, or methanethiol, which is a sulphur-containing derivative of the amino-acid methionine.'

'What does that mean?' asked Jake.

'It means your wee smells,' said Ben helpfully.

'There's more,' Nick continued. 'Did you know that some people make smelly urine after eating three or four spears of asparagus while others can eat a whole pound of the stuff and not make any smell. And about 40% of the population have the genes that make smelly urine from asparagus . . .' he scrolled down the page.

'And,' he continued. 'The ability to smell asparagus-tainted urine is also inherited. And, it says here, don't panic because it's not harmful. And asparagus is highly nutritious and the richest known source of folic acid known.

'Well there you are! More asparagus anyone?'

As Nick was reading aloud Ginny had gone very quiet. She was thinking.

'Ben, when you said Arrow's wee smelt the other day did it smell like your wee just now?'

Ben wrinkled up his nose, pressed his forefinger to his lips and answered: 'Yes. I think so.'

'Clive, has Arrow been in the vegetable garden?'

It was Clive's turn to look thoughtful. Various scenarios were playing out in his mind. Including the one where Ginny hits the roof because Clive was meant to have fenced off the vegetable patch but didn't quite have enough chicken wire to go all the way around so he skimped and left quite a decent hole at the back, just out of sight, by the ivy.

'Errrr,' you could tell he was weighing up whether it was worth lying. 'I don't know, has he?' he ventured pathetically.

Ginny was on the warpath now. She stormed out to the garden and patrolled the fenced off veggie patch.

'Clive! What's the point of this?' She'd found the botched fence. 'No wonder my asparagus hasn't put in an appearance this year, that b****y puppy has been eating it before it's even got through. You were supposed to fence this off . . . . '

At this point the boys and I stopped listening. Ben and Jake turned the telly on for The Simpsons. Nick went up to his room to practice bar chords on his guitar. I curled up in my basket hoping they'd all ignore the fact that I'd been gorging myself for several days on choice asparagus tips. From the garden the faint hum of argument rose and fell. At least the mysteries of my smelly wee and Ginny's disappearing asparagus have been solved. And Ginny has one less thing to worry about. With all that asparagus I won't be suffering from vitamin or mineral deficiencies.

Puzzled looks all round

I did return. The V-E-T is none the wiser. Ginny is none the wiser. I am puzzled at being hauled off when I feel fine - never better in fact. Ginny's a bit annoyed at the waste of her day. She whizzed to the V-E-T in her little red Peugeot 206 - she really should get a job with the motorway patrol. Speed limits hold no fear for her. The V-E-T closes for lunch at 12 noon. We left at 11.50am. The five miles from Aston Peverell to Evesham passed in a blur of lush green fields and pinky-white apple blossom as Ginny's 206 sped along the country lanes. She didn't stop to think that hurling me around in the back of her hatchback might leave her with a bigger V-E-T's bill than the one she paid out for investigation of my smelly urine. I arrived shaken and stirred, just in time.

Ginny described my symptoms but as she'd neglected to obtain a sample she had to hang around the V-E-T's car park waiting for me to perform. When I did she grabbed my front paws lifted me up and caught my sample in a little jar. Talk about undignified.

The sample was duly passed around the whole of veterinary surgery. Everyone had a good sniff. The V-E-T swirled my sample around in the jar, held it up to the light, inhaled deeply, then recoiled - it was like watching a top wine taster trying out Vino Collapso.

They're truly perplexed. The V-E-T looked in his Big Book of Dog Disorders but couldn't find anything about smelly wee in a dog my age. The veterinary assistant said she'd smelt that smell before but couldn't place it. Everyone looked at her very strangely after that. The V-E-T advised Ginny to keep an eye on me and come back if I develop any other symptoms. 'And that will be £18.95 for today's consultation Mrs Philpott.'

Ginny sighed, took out her cheque book and handed over the dosh.

Back at home I was restless. I'd missed out on my walk and now Ginny had to catch up on some work. She let me out into the garden and settled down to her computer. Overnight the vegetable patch had thrown up some more of those tasty titbits. So I had a little nibble then settled down for a snooze in the sunshine.

Later Ginny took me for a walk. We stopped at the farm shop, well more of a shed by the side of the road where the farmer leaves eggs, potatoes and veggies for people to buy. 'Home-grown Gras For Sale only £1.50' said the sign outside. As Ginny was filling her carrier bag Pete arrived - he's the farmer.

'I'm glad you've got asparagus, Pete, mine doesn't seem to have done much this year,' said Ginny.

'It's a good crop. We've been picking for a couple of weeks and there's still plenty more in the ground,' said Pete.

'I can't understand why mine's not growing. We had a fantastic crop last year,' said Ginny, looking puzzled.

'P'raps the roots have rotted,' Pete suggested helpfully.

I was getting impatient. Walks are for walking not chatting about asparagus. I pulled Ginny away and we spent a happy hour playing ball in the field.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Emergency dash . . . again

So it's all over. Ginny and Clive drowned their sorrows in Cognac as they sat up to witness the Labour victory. At 1am they finally staggered to bed. Clive had a bit of trouble getting up for work this morning.

Life is definitely returning to normal. Ben took me out in the garden before school this morning. 'Arrow smells,' he reported to his Mum at breakfast time.

'Charming!' I thought. 'He smells too but do I complain?'

'What does he smell of?' Ginny asked, nose buried deep in the paper.

'Sort of metallic, especially his wee.'

Ginny's ears pricked up. As a health writer she is attuned to these things. 'Let's have a sniff.'

She picked me up and sniffed my nethers. I didn't mind actually. That's what dogs do to each other and if I can train my humans in the basics of doggy greeting that's no bad thing.

'Smells alright to me.' She plonked me back down on the floor and poured herself another steaming mug of Yorkshire Tea.

When the boys had gone to school and Clive had finally hauled himself to work Ginny let me out into the garden. For a few days now I have been investigating a very interested section of Ginny's vegetable plot. There's a row of very tasty morsels growing just under the soil. I don't know what they are but the tops are delicious. Bright green, tender shoots, with an unusual, but very satisfying flavour. Each day there are new ones and each day I have been nibbling the tops off just as they pop through the soil. This morning at least six or seven new shoots had appeared. FEAST TIME!

Later Ginny took me for a walk. As usual I stopped on the corner for a quick pee. As I let rip Ginny shrieked. 'Arrow you stink!'

She picked me up and sniffed hard, wrinkling her nose in disgust. 'Oh no! I'd better get you down to the vet now. This could be serious.'

What on earth is wrong with me? Am I at death's door? I don't feel ill. In fact I've never felt better. Spring is well and truly here, the sun is shining, my tummy is full. The only blip is that Ginny has cut short my morning walk. And now I'm on my way to the V-E-T. Will I ever return . . .?

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

The jackets are off

Election fever has hit the Philpott household. Both Clive and Ginny are in a quandary about who to bless with their vote. Living in true-blue Tory land they reckon it's unlikely that a vote for anyone other than their Conservative candidate would make a difference. He's got a huge majority and it would take a major postal vote fraud to shift him - come to think of it that's not so unlikely.

Ginny has the advantage over Clive in having met all three of the main party candidates for this area. She gave Clive a run-down.

'Labour - pimply, ambitious youth from Birmingham, reminded me of a little terrier. Just been put in to make up the numbers. No chance.

'Lib-dem - dour, middle-aged lady no sense of humour, wants to tax us into the grave. Bad teeth. Might have a chance if the Tory voters don't want Michael Howard to get in.

'Tory - seasoned campaigner. Smooth, oily, works a crowd well, pro-hunting. Dead cert.'

Tony Blair's decision to campaign in his shirt sleeves has left Ginny fuming. 'Does he think we're so thick that we'll see him in his shirt and say "oh yes, he's one of us, we trust him with our vote".'

Ginny is intrigued to know how Tony has managed to stop sweating. 'He sweated like a pig last time they let him on stage without his jacket. What have they done to him? Do you think they've zapped his sweat glands to stop him getting moist? Or is he wearing a super-absorbent vest?' Ginny scrutinised the telly. 'I think it's a special vest,' she declared. 'What a wuss.'

So that's how the nation will decide its next Prime Minister - on the basis that his super absorbent undergarments have stopped the sweat staining his shirt.

Now that Michael Howard and Charles Kennedy have taken their jackets off for the campaign trail Ginny is really fuming. 'Why are they playing copy-cat? Don't they have minds of their own. Who am I going to vote for now? I can't vote for anyone who thinks it's okay to walk the streets in a shirt when it's tipping down with rain.'

The TV news reported Charles Kennedy as brimming over with confidence. 'His stomach's definitely brimming over his waistband. Put your jacket back on Charles,' Ginny shouted at the telly.

Clive filled in a questionnaire in The Daily Telegraph to find out where his opinions put him. He is Labour verging on Socialist Worker with a dollop of Green thrown in. One question: why is a socialist reading The Daily Telegraph? Quite how Clive's political views square with his constant carping over Blair and Brown's stealth taxes Ginny can't fathom. 'Clive do you realise that your New Labour government now takes 70% of our income in stealth and not-so-stealth taxes. We are middle-class and it's hurting. How can you be happy about handing over your hard earned cash to be spent on things like lesbian outreach dance projects in the Outer Hebrides. We don't even get free dentistry any more.' Ginny and Clive's dentist has just gone private. They now pay £30 a month for the privilege of staying on their dentist's list. 'How can that be right when Labour have promised not to charge for healthcare? I don't get it.'

Ginny filled in the same Daily Telegraph questionnaire. She is UKIP and Green. 'UKIP!!' Clive nearly exploded. 'How can you be UKIP? Think how easy our holidays would be if we were in the Euro. Green!!? Are you going to get rid of the car, get a composting toilet and start weaving your own clothes from Arrow's hair?'

Don't bring me into it Clive. On the evidence of The Daily Telegraph's helpful questionnaire the one thing that is certain is that Clive and Ginny are totally incompatible. Roll on polling day and we can all settle down to the usual arguments about who's left the toilet seat up and whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher. All this politics is getting in the way of normal family arguments.