It was nine years ago, but every second is etched on my memory. I couldn’t stop fidgeting as I chewed gum, paced the draughty hall and smoked (I still hadn’t given up by then). The hours dragged by, the torture seeming to get only more intense. Every ballot box that was emptied appeared to have crosses for my opponents, not for me. My stomach was in knots, a gnawing dread that my second attempt to win a seat in Parliament would end in failure again.
The campaign had gone well, despite the odd hiccup. “You’ve started early,” said one dazed commuter at Charlbury station as I handed her a leaflet at 6.30 one chilly morning. “The early bird catches the worm,” I replied with a smile. Her response was sharp: “If you call me a worm, I won’t vote for you.”
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