“Chicken gizzards?”

There is a pause.

“They’re very popular in Norwich,” offers the Duck Lady hopefully.

I pass on the opportunity. I don’t think anybody could call me greatly squeamish in the matter of what I put in my mouth, but I can’t imagine that the LTLP would thank me for this particular purchase. I settle for a boring old duck; the Baby and I move on to the next stall.

There is the sound of a commotion!!!

It takes me a minute to ascertain what is going on. Politicians are pouring into the town square, like daleks springing a trap. They wear suits and brandish big rosettes. Not just politicians. Cliched politicians.

I gaze around, wildly, clutching my Baby to my bosom. She has got over teething, temperatures, nappy rash, vomiting, pneumonia, licking the toilet and having her fingers shut in the door – I am damned if I will allow her to be traumatised for life by some kissing politician. Especially one with a moustache, who is hastening in our direction.

I get on with our local MP reasonably well, or have done in the times we’ve met anyway. He seems to be harmless enough and not want to cause trouble by actually doing anything, which is all one can ask for in a politician. Granted, if he thought a photographer from the local paper would be there then he’d be happy to attend the opening of a new browser window, but it keeps him out of trouble and that is important in this day and age. These politicians are different. They are scuttling around the market, attempting to engage with people.

Hurrying across the street, I resolve to pretend to be a non-voting Estonian illegal immigrant should we be cornered. The worst that can happen is that I get deported or sold into illegal sex slavery, and at least I will get to see a bit of the world and get lots of shags. I tell the Baby to say nothing if approached.

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