I am not fooled by this.

John Twonil has volunteered to do charitable work, driving the Community Bus. Since then, he has been extolling the virtues of the role and trying to get us all to join him.

“Just because you got press-ganged in the Village Shop,” I point out. “Anyway, I think you’ll be the ideal bus driver.”

John Twonil persists, but I am adamant. I already do my good work with the snooker club, restocking the bar occasionally and doing the sausages when it is my turn. I cannot be expected to devote my whole life to charity, like Bob Geldof.

The subject is changed. I twist awkwardly on my bar stool. Due to the ongoing washing machine situation, I have been wearing the same pair of pants for three days, and I am relieved that nobody has noticed. I would not want to be the cause of comment.

The next morning, I ring the Washing Machine Repair Man once more. The awaited part has arrived!!! But they have sent the wrong part. He will have to order the part again.

I take a basket of pants round to Eddie’s. He does not know how to use his washing machine, but his wife, Eddie, leaves it programmed with detergent in it, so all he needs to do is press the button. Eddie washes some pants for me. I thank him, but I feel that I am taking the community’s goodwill a bit far.

“Of course it is,” I reassure him.

“Are you sure that’s ok?” I ask, in turn.

“No problem,” affirms Big A, on the other end of the telephone.

Relieved, I grab some of the most urgent washing and stuff it into a bin bag, before taking another black bag from the cupboard, trotting outside, and filling it with some spare straw for his chickens. It is neighbourly transactions like this that make communities go round. I scoot down the garden path, feeling all community-minded.

It occurs to me, as I am half way across the road, that I have no identification on me whatsoever. No credit cards, no driving license, nothing. And it also occurs to me that, should the worst happen and I am run over by a passing haulier, the police will be faced with the task of piecing together my entire life based on the profile of an unidentified accident victim found with one black bag of farmyard straw and one black bag of womans’ used panties.

I do not wish my life to be reduced to ‘Body – STRAW/PANTIES’ on a whiteboard in some anonymous police station somewhere. Thank God for the upcoming ID cards – I wish we could have them sooner.

Big A is waiting at his front door, and takes the straw gratefully. He shows me to his washing machine.

“How does it work?” I ask.

He looks blank. “Search me,” he replies.

I shake it angrily, before giving it a bash.

This is not good news. Unfortunately, when I ordered the thing, I plumped for the cheapest one on the Internet, figuring that I wouldn’t really use it much. This was a bit like Dylan Thomas wandering into his local pub and ordering ‘just a half’. I am lost without it. I mourn by whimpering slightly and rocking from side to side, wondering what I am going to do. This is the worst possible scenario in my life.

The washing machine breaks.

I stare at it for a long period of time. I have a huge mountain of washing to do before the LTLP returns home, in the time that I would have spent on my laptop. This could be serious. I worry that it is somehow my fault, for not using the manufacturer’s recommended detergent.

I perform some diagnostics, by plugging it in to a different socket. It remains broken. It strikes me that this is going to cause some inconvenience, as I return my mountain of washing to the basket. I call the Washing Machine Repair Man.

The Toddler shuffles in. “I’ve done a wee in my trousers,” she confesses, shamefacedly. I shout at her a bit.

I contract the ‘flu.

My temperature shoots up before plummeting; my body aches – especially, I note with interest, my fingers. I might have some rare form of influenza of the fingers. The LTLP is sympathetic yet sceptical about this. My fingers feel as though they are going to drop off, which concerns me. I would look it up on the internet, but my laptop is broken. Meanwhile, I sweat buckets, generating laundry. I ring the Washing Machine Repair Man again. I am at my lowest ebb, and things cannot possibly get any worse.

The ‘flu is joined by diarrhoea.

Someone is out to get me. Someone, somewhere, has it in for me and has smitten me down with unfortunateness. I receive a further apologetic phone call from the Washing Machine Repair Man, who is now the man who I am most in need of in the world. I would look up other Washing Machine Repair Men on the Internet, but my laptop is broken. I curse my stupidity in leaving four pairs of perfectly good pants in Canada. The Toddler looks very smug. I shout at her a bit.

“It is the Piano Tuner!!!” I explain to the Toddler, as I spot a car drawing into the drive.

It is, indeed, the Piano Tuner. I throw open the door and greet him effusively, before leading him through the narrow passage to the room with the piano in it.

“This is the piano,” I explain.

He looks grateful for my assistance, and gets his tools out, opening the top lid to reach in for the pegs. ‘Ting!’ goes his fork tunefully, as he plinks on a note and listens hard to ascertain its pitch.

“It’s quite an old historic one,” I continue. “From about 1910 or a bit earlier.”

“1906, I’d say,” he replies, looking up, before doing another ‘ting’ and starting his careful listening again.

“What’s the man doing, daddy?” asks the Toddler.

“He is making a noise with his fork, and then listening very hard to see what sound it makes,” I explain. “It’s very difficult. Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask him.

The piano tuner puts down his fork and looks up again. “Yes. I would,” he replies. He makes to start another ‘ting’ but holds off until I have left the room, so not to interrupt our conversation.

Two hours later, he announces that his work is done. I am extremely pleased, as the piano has not been tuned for a couple of years, and was sounding a bit wobbly.

“It’s a fine instrument,” he affirms. Sitting at the piano stool, he takes a deep breath and launches into an array of pieces, demonstrating the incredible warmth of the sound. He plays ‘Rhapsody in Blue’, then ‘Maple Leaf Rag’, then a couple of classical pieces that are probably by Rachmaninov or somebody else from the past. It is amazing. The room fills with sound – wonderful, incredible music. The Toddler stands transfixed and spellbound, a broad smile beaming across her face as if this is the most fantastic thing that she has ever heard in her life.

I am a bit pissed off by this. I play her the piano all the time, and she has never once stood transfixed or spellbound or with a broad beaming smile. He has probably slipped her some sweets or something. I wait for him to finish and then shoo him out the door.

When he has gone, I pull the Toddler back into the piano room. I play all my specialities, the theme tune from ‘Minder’ and the song that Iggle Piggle sings. But there is no beaming smile. The kid is tone deaf and it is a disappointment to me.

It is the US election!!!

I have received hundreds of messages and emails frantic to know which candidate I endorse. But I do not think it right to unfairly influence the outcome of a foreign election. I am sorry – you must choose the candidate that you think is right for you without any specific direction from me.

It used to be easy to recognise politicians, via the ham sandwich system. This puts you in a village in the third world, after a horrible disaster. Miraculously, an aid convoy has distributed food and water to all – apart from to one man, who missed out. He struggles towards you, desperate for food. All you have on you is a ham sandwich, the difference – for this man – between life and death.

A right-winger would not give the man his ham sandwich. To give him his ham sandwich would force him to become dependent on aid, this removing his chance to better himself out of poverty. You may as well be killing him.

A left-winger would not give the man his ham sandwich. Instead, he would cut the ham sandwich into tiny fragments, distributing them equally between the man, everybody else in the village, the Land Rover driver and the BBC’s Orla Guerin. That is fair, and to do it any other way would be back to the bad old days of means testing.

I am not sure how this helps in the current US election. As far as I can work out, the difference between the candidates’ policies is subtle, and would involve, before any ham sandwich is handed over, ascertaining the starving man’s position on gay marriage and arguing over exactly how much of the bread to return to hardworking Joe the Baker.

In Britain it is even more complicated, as we have so many options to choose from.

The Labours would give the man the ham sandwich, whilst introducing a new ham sandwich tax and then subtly briefing the newspapers that it is cheese.

The Conservatives would generously give the man the ham sandwich, and a hug, because it might get them elected. After which they would take the ham sandwich back, beat him up and close down the ham sandwich industry.

The Libdems would promise the man the ham sandwich, and promise everybody else in the village one as well, and some pickle.

The Liberals would request a vegetarian option; the BNP would not give the foreigner the ham sandwich, as then they would be able to give every indigenous Briton a free ham sandwich each; the Socialist Workers would set a date to pass a resolution applauding the rights of the man to his ham sandwich; the Greens would be concerned with the rights of the ham sandwich itself; the Scottish Nationalists would give the man two ham sandwiches if only it wasn’t for the English; the Scottish Socialists ditto, deep-fried; the Welsh Nationalists would be able to talk about giving the man a ham sandwich but have no powers to actually do so; the English Nationalists would not hand over the ham sandwich when there are so many more important things to discuss like unsightly wind farms; the Libertarians would do what they liked, but want to know what little overpaid fuck from the state dictated that the filling must be ham; the MEP’s from any party would gladly hand over the ham sandwich, only for it to be subsequently discovered that the sandwich had been paid for five times over and three-quarters of the ham had been eaten.

I do not know what to make of it all. What I DO know is that the LTLP agreed to go on the Parish Council, when drunk. She was a bit mortified the next day, and there is not yet a vacancy – but posters have already started appearing in Short Tony’s window.

I do not know yet whether she will be our Obama or our McCain; our Palin or our other one. But whatever happens, it is exciting to see the great democracies at work. I will be getting up early to watch the results on my Sky TV. To all our American readers – I wish you all the very best for this momentous day.