Susan Morrison: We didn’t promise you a rose garden

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So, what sort of a day did you wake up to then? In fact, did you wake up, or have you been glued to the box watching Dumbledore of the BBC gallantly sticking to his post throughout a wild and stormy night, with nary a hair of his elegant coiffure ruffled?

Whatever Dame Dawn brought, you can bet your last Highland Toffee that it wasn’t the sort of morning young Cleggers and the Odious Oaf thought they were going to greet all those years ago when they stood shyly blushing in the rose-scented garden at Number 10, looking for all the world like a dry run for a mono-gender wedding photoshoot.

No, I have no doubt that at least one of the happy couple thought that this particular pairing was a fixed-term contract, and only one was going to be back in the bower this morning. And no prizes for guessing which one was planning to put that matching podium up on Ebay today.

Little Nicky and the Shiny-Faced One probably thought they could fool the country into believing they were, like, really, really good pals when it came to ruining – sorry, running – the country, but could suddenly change, like Wonder Woman spinning around, back into their old selves when the election loomed, heralding the good old days again, when leader’s debates just had three people in them.

What could possibly have happened? Well, when the Cleggster and Oaf watched ol’ Gordon stride away they probably thought that the last pesky Scot had been run out of town.

How wrong can you be? It’s an idea that hits an apocalyptic 15 out of 10 on the “Well, Never Saw That Coming” Scale. Mind you, even if Mr Cameron has made it back among the roses, the sound of Boris selecting his back stabber and the click, click, click of Theresa May stepping out in her killer heels is measuring an easy 10 on the “Nanny Can’t Save You Now” Scale.

Tories are notoriously nasty to those who fail to deliver sufficiently crushing victories.

Little Nicky will be fine. He likes the school run, he says, so if he’s had the ballot box bullet I can see him now, waiting for the kids to come out, swapping recipes for tuna pasta bake.

And what of those whose dreams came reality today? Well, sometimes having your wishes come true has its downside. The drawback with dreams is you have to wake up, and daylight can be terribly harsh.

But, before that happens, I think we are in for some very interesting times.

Promises set in stone can be a heavy burden

The trouble with elections is that politicians suddenly become visible. Most of the time they tend to keep themselves to themselves, like that quiet neighbour who suddenly turns out to be a serial killer.

Come election time, and they’re all over the shop, promising this, vowing that, and doing eccentric things like speaking to the peasantry or getting their party pledges carved into a giant block of stone.

As I recall, back in ’97 the then New Labour outfit put their pledges on little cards, which were roundly mocked at the time, but they were a heckuva lot easier to carry about than a giant wodge of sandstone.

I’m quite sure that Moses, given the choice between two handy little aide-mémoire cards and a pair of tombstones would have picked the former, given that he had a mountain to get back down.

Pigeons look more worried than Cameron

There will be aerial shots. The pigeons of London must be a remarkably hardy breed, living as they do in the constant threat of being sucked into the rotors of chartered press pack helicopters hovering above the city following various black cars, whilst studio anchormen (usually a Dimbleby) tells us who is in the car.

Which we knew anyway, since the camera on the ground had filmed them getting into the car. And the cameras on the pavement photographed them sitting in the car. So we pretty much knew.

There will anxious discussion. People will be pursing lips and people will be furrowing brows.

But not Mr Cameron. There’s a sheen of botox about that smooth fizzog, I tell you.

Nothing wrong with being ‘feisty’

Just one word about one word in the past election. The F word was bandied about and most roundly traduced, with politicians right left and centre denying they were “feisty”. Leave off! Feisty is a grand old Scottish word and one to treasure. Yes, it only describes women, but what of it? I’ve yet to meet a man who can even see the shores of Feisty, so back off.

I have a feeling that we’ll be seeing a lot of feisty in the coming months . . .