Nick Clegg opens up his diary
Waiting in the Scottish sunshine to meet the Pope, my eye is drawn up Arthur’s Seat. I feel a sudden, strong desire to climb it. A long walk is overdue, especially after a night on the ‘sleeper train’ — surely one of the crueller oxymorons in the English language. Long walks are my indulgence. But of course I wait dutifully in line. His Holiness is a sincere, softly spoken and modest man. He also wears very red shoes. Redder, certainly, than any in Miriam’s wardrobe. It is one of those things you only notice when you are in close proximity to him.
To Liverpool, for the Liberal Democrats’ party conference. I often criticise the tribalism of party politics. But I admit that being surrounded by friends of old, colleagues from former political battles, is like going home. So tribalism is not all bad. I am not as nervous about the main speech as in previous years, perhaps because I feel certain of my message. ‘Stick with us’ is the refrain — through what are certain to be tough months of a five-year recovery schedule. On the way to conference, I was offered an anecdote by a Liverpool cabbie. ‘It’s like this, isn’t it? If someone’s sick in the back of my cab, nobody blames the person who comes with a mop and bucket to clean it up, do they?’ A little too graphic, I fear, for my conference speech.
After the usual round of receptions, parties and media interviews, I have an early departure to New York. As we fly over Nova Scotia, I take a break from the slab of briefing papers, and look down at the empty landscape. I imagine walking for miles across it.
And then into the surreal bubble of a United Nations meeting. Sirens, security guards, meetings in hotel suites, speeches, ‘side-events’ (which often turn out to be the main event) and dozens of ‘bilaterals’ — diplomatic speak for ‘meetings’. The UK is held in high regard at the summit on the Millennium Development Goals, not least because of our pledge to hit the 0.7 per cent foreign aid target — our decision to stick to this target will (on conservative estimates) save the lives of 50,000 women and 250,000 newborn babies between now and 2015.
Backstage at the MDG summit, I chat briefly to President Obama. He is as relaxed as his reputation suggests, in spite of some serious domestic political pressures. Comparing our speeches, it turns out that we are saying pretty much the same thing. My speechwriter assures me he has not been moonlighting.
From NYC to DC on the train. Fast, spacious, civilised. Why fly? I work obediently through the ‘box’. The Comprehensive Spending Review looms large, even as the lit streets of New Jersey and Maryland flit by.
I have ‘met’ Joe Biden by video conference a couple of times, but in person, over lunch in the Roosevelt Room, he’s even more convivial. With the mid-terms looming, Biden quotes Bill Clinton’s wisdom on electoral fortunes — ‘If it’s a referendum on us, we lose; if it’s a choice about the future, we win.’ We also touch on the work he has been doing on the ‘squeezed’ middle class, and my drive on social mobility. One of the problems we face is a difference in terminology. ‘Middle class’ in America means pretty much everyone — only 8 per cent of Americans define themselves as working class. Explaining to Americans what Brits mean by ‘middle class’ turns out to be quite tricky. Just occasionally we are, indeed, divided by a common language.
A flurry as an earlier speaking slot at the General Assembly suddenly becomes available. We seize it. I use my address to declare that the UK will pursue a ‘hard-headed foreign policy based on liberal values’. Having spoken earlier, a hole is blown open in my schedule. My officials hope to turn me back to the box. But instead, I escape on a trip to the Frick Collection two miles away, on the edge of Central Park. Rembrandt’s portrait of an Amsterdam merchant is my favourite.
On the red-eye home, I manage the final pages of The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet and then some sleep. But I am anxious to see the kids. After a few days, I get scratchy if I don’t see them. On Saturday, finally, I get my long walk — through Richmond Park, a child’s hand in each of mine. Sunday is spent on the A3, ferrying Antonio to and from football and Alberto to and from a birthday party. We get horribly lost looking for a sports centre in Kingston. Where’s the motorcade when you really need it?
Comments