Diary

22 November 2008

The daughter and I spent the last few days before the American election in Arizona.

The daughter and I spent the last few days before the American election in Arizona. On our first morning in Tucson we went running. She, nearly eight months pregnant, annoyingly still able to beat me into the ground. Considering we were in his home state we didn’t spot a single McCain poster. But plenty for Obama.

By the next day, when we checked into the Canyon Ranch Spa, where nearly everyone except us had arrived in their own jet, there was no such confusion. We were surrounded by Republicans, several of whom had arrived billionaires but, as Wall Street continued to drop alarmingly during our stay, possibly left down to their last $900 million.

To a man these Masters of the Universe were appalled at the choice of Sarah Palin as McCain’s running mate. On the other hand, on Spa hikes in the Santa Catalina mountains, often for hours along a single track, it was a fair bet that any woman nearby with glitter on the side of her sunglasses could only see goodness in Mrs Palin and couldn’t care less if she preferred shopping at Neiman Marcus to studying the US Constitution. ‘She’s a mom,’ they would say enthusiastically. I now loathe the description and groaned on hearing Michelle Obama insist that her most important role at the White House would be that of ‘a mom’.

But politics has always been about creating preposterous images. Covering the 1984 election, I recall watching the then Mrs Thatcher sweep majestically into the Ideal Home Exhibition at the Birmingham NEC, stop at a stall, wrap a pinnie around her waist and with an electric whisk in her hand, announce implausibly: ‘I am here mostly as a housewife.’

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