Diary – 28 September 2017

I don’t know why party conferences no longer take place in Scarborough. As a child, I saw many an important politician strolling to the Spa Hall, including Winston Churchill. I am a Conservative party member but I have never been to conference. What would I do? Standing ovate, I suppose. But this year? Hm. Theresa May messed up bigger time than she may ever realise. My local association saw the writing on the wall before the polls closed. A panic email came in. ‘It’s going to be very tight.’ Tight indeed.

Now, the government seems entirely focused on Brexit, and of course it is important, but there are many other matters to sort out and I don’t mean internecine squabbles. Poverty. Housing. Schools. Holes in the road. I understand why many young people are turning away from us. But not why some older ones who should have more sense are Corbynistas. I met some people in their sixties, higher-educated, cultured, thoughtful, intelligent and quite well-heeled, who actually said that not only Jeremy Corbyn but his far-left allies were a good thing. They have lived long enough to know how it actually pans out for ordinary citizens in Marxist countries, and the way their economies always tank, yet still promote a government of the far left here. One such refused to help me with a good cause, saying, ‘I won’t, because this is what the government should pay for and if I give they have an excuse not to.’ Meanwhile, the homeless continue to be homeless. I don’t know how I held back from smacking him.

Golden days. Leaves drifting down, the sun dancing on the North Sea this morning. The autumn equinox. The house martins were more plentiful this year than they have ever been — nine nests, all full.