I’m presently writing this as a way of avoiding making phone calls on behalf of an excellent candidate who wants to stand for the Lib Dems for the European Parliament at the next lot of elections.

Although I’m certain the candidate will be great, I’m not keen on speaking to people on the phone at the best of times, and phoning strangers, even strange Lib Dems, gives me the heebie jeebies.

Putting that to one side, and doing my duty, I’m phoning around, but fidgeting while I do it.

During the most recent call, to a keen sounding chap in the Derby area, I was standing up with my hand in my back trouser pocket, when my fingers squished something squidgy that really shouldn’t have been there.

Seamlessly continuing my spiel (“… yes, born and bred in the region…”) I bring my finger into the light to see what it was.

I’m mildly arachnophobic at the best of times, so I wasn’t best pleased to see it was the still wriggling remains of a small brown spider that I’d accidentally crushed. Urgh. This is the reward I get for being green and line-drying my washing.

Shaking the damp legs off my finger, I still managed to close the call without letting on to the guy there was anything amiss.

The things we find ourselves doing for the party.