With all the excitement of Fire Wardens and the office move, I have almost forgotten about Mr Haliday and his fight for taxation justice.

“I have decided to approach the press,” he tells me.

“Really?”

“Yes.  I know they are wily little bugg*ers,” he concedes, “But dealing with them can’t be worse than dealing with The Revenue.”

“Nothing could be worse than that,” I agree.   Not even root canal surgery.

“I’m glad you think so. Use your City wiles to see what interest you can drum up.”

“Ok,” I agree. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Since I don’t actually have any City wiles, I think about asking the remaining Marketing Team to help; but then I remember the cock-up they made of the “Energy Initiative” (ending with an injunction and an apology in Legal Week) to I decide to scroll through a list of financial journalists on Google instead.   I choose the one who has the most approachable picture.  But his tone does not reflect his cheery disposition.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi,” I put on my coolest, most intriguing voice, “My name is Helen Bailey, I work for a law firm, CWS, I have a case which I think may interest you.”

“Oh, yeah?” His enthusiasm is palpable.

“Yes!” I try to inject more pizzazz. “I’m representing a client, who has invested millions in a dilapidated old golf course.  He has rejuvenated the area and employed people, but The Inland Revenue has seized upon it because – they say -  he has, breached some obscure rules about roll over tax relief…”

“Sounds a bit dull.  What angle is there for me?”

“Er, well, I was thinking that you would highlight the fact that my client will pay the tax, eventually (whenever the club is sold) but The Revenue is forcing him to sell early, risking 52 jobs.”

“Sounds like they’re saving us tax payers some money.”

“Not at all: the club is contributing a great deal to the local economy.”

“But if he sold it to someone else, wouldn’t that continue?”

“My client has been able to find a buyer.  The reality is that the land would be sold off for housing and all the employees made redundant.  It’s a very sorry tale and one we thought your paper would be interested in.”

“It’s not setting me on fire.” he sniffs.

“But the abuse of the tax relief rules is a tale of national importance, surely?” I persist.

“Not really,” he sighs. “Not unless it involves sex, drugs or Cheryl Cole.”

I don’t thinks so.  Not in Eastbourne.

“Tax doesn’t sell papers,” he goes on. “You’ll have to spice it up.”

Spice it up?  This is the Inland Revenue, not Channel Four.

“In what way?” I keep my temper.

He thinks for a moment. “Are there any endangered species living there?  Great crested newts always make good copy.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Has your client rescued any of his employees from prison?  Is he suffering from a terminal illness?  Has his wife run off with his golfing coach?  You know, anything like that?”

I wrack my brains.  “The club has a very high percentage of OAP members……..”

Even as I say it I can hear Jane laughing.  

“It has the wrinkly vote?”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s more promising…..”

He’s not concerned about the impact on the unemployment figures or the loss of (yet more) green belt land, but he perks up when there’s a ‘wrinkly” angle!

“It, also, runs a ladies coffee circle and a creche, and the clubhouse hosts local charitable events for free,” I throw it all in. Why not?

“Better still,” he muses. “Your client sounds like Eastbourne’s’ answer to Bob Geldoff.”

“He is a very nice man.”

“There’s a problem: ‘nice’ doesn’t sell.  We need a back story.  Was he a hell raiser in his formative years?  Did he have a problem with drugs or alcohol?  Has he found god?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“How did he make his money??”

“He owned a property development company.”

“‘Retired Property Investor in Tax Probe’ is not going to set the world alight is it?  Those sorts of stories are two a penny these days.   I need drama, adversity, excitement!”

“He is not Katy Price.”

“Pity,” he sighs. “If she was involved we would definitely be interested.”

I think for a moment.  “What about if the charities, the mothers and babies and the OAPS staged some sort of protest at the club?”

“Picketing pensioners?” he thinks for a moment. “Getting warmer.   Are any of them war veterans?  The Editor loves a good persecuted veteran’s story.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well find out.  And see if any of the kids have learning disabilities or eating disorders.  And I’ll need a full break down of the charities.  Do you know what they are?”

“The local Rotary club, the Scouting movement and something  to do with Bengali tigers.”

“An endangered species link!  You do have one!  Not only is The Revenue persecuting war heroes and disabled children but it’s prohibiting the progress of vital conservation projects in the Third World.  Is there a local celebrity backing the campaign?”

“There is no campaign.”

“Well, start one and, providing s/he’s respectable, get him/her on board.”

“Oh, ok….”

“And create a Downing Street petition, a Facebook page, maybe even a Twitter account.”

“For the golf club?”

“Of course!  It’s how all the best stories are promoted these days.”

I am so behind the modern media age I might as well retire.

“I’ll pitch it to the Editor and see what he thinks,” he hasn’t finished. “We would need to get a photographer down there with me and interview some of the protestors.   A weekend would be good, so I can get a feel for the area, perhaps take in a round of golf!   We might be able to get a  full page spread if we have a few hardship stories, maybe even a special feature, depending on the photos, we’ll need to have a chat about arrangements……  Sorry, what did you say your name was again?”

“Helen, Helen Bailey.”

“Well, thanks Helen, you have been a revelation.”

So have you. 

Feeling bruised from my encounter with the media, I seek out Jane to see what wisdom she can offer.  But she is preoccupied with her political ambitions.

“Helen!” she exclaims. “I hope you’re not planning to wear that to the Election Warmer?”

I glance down at my sensible black suit and wonder what on earth is wrong?

“Of course, what else do you expect me to turn up in?”

“Well,” she pulls a face, “Something a little more creative.”

“I’m not Zandra Rhodes.”

“No, but you don’t have to dress like a legal caricature, for Christ’s sake.   You know how unpopular City types are at the moment.”

“Bankers,”  I point out.

“Bankers, lawyers, accountants; they’re all the same to the great unwashed.”

“I don’t think the ‘great unwashed’ will be attending the Election Warmer.”

“You know what I mean,” she scowls.

“So, what do you suggest I wear?” I half expect her to produce a dress code.

“Well, it’s too late to change the suit,” she sighs. “But you might find a nice bright scarf or something, to soften it.”

‘A nice bright scarf’!   Is this the same woman who once declared chocolate brown to be ‘unprofessional’?

“I don’t have a scarf.”

“Then borrow one.”

“From whom?”

“I don’t know! Celia?”

 Celia is Firm’s answer to Martha Stewart. 

“Certainly not.” I eyeball her, “If you want me to be one of your groupies, then take me as I am.  I am not dressing up in florals to impress your new Tory friends.”

She folds her arms, in a funk, but I am unbowed; I shall go to the ball wearing the same clothes that I always wear.

But Jane is right: I am the only one dressed in black.  We arrive at the venue (a house in Fulham) to find it awash with bright scarves and comfy brogues.  It’s more like a tea party in the Cotswolds than a slick, urban cocktail soiree.

“Oh, hello!” trills one of the scarf-wearing women.  “Do come in!”

We inch into the hall way and help ourselves to drinks as she introduces herself as the hostess: “Patricia Harkness.  And you are?”

“Jane Black and Helen Bailey.”

“Ah, Jane, you’re one of our new members aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“Marvellous.   And, Helen, are you interested in joining us?” she smiles at me as I imagine the big bad wolf might smile at Red Riding Hood.

“Politics isn’t really my thing.”

“Politics isn’t your thing!” she exclaims.  “Of course it is: it’s everyone’s thing.  Everyone who pays taxes, at any rate.  You do pay taxes, don’t you?”

“Yes.”  Unfortunately.

“Well, then, my girl, no excuse.  I shall make it my mission to sign you up before you leave!  In the meantime, let me introduce you to the rest of the young folk.”

She leads us through the hall way into the reception room where I swear they must have a Tarquin-cloning machine.  Row upon row of earnest little try-hards turn round and stare at us.   Jane is clearly thinking the same thing; her carefully rehearsed casual mood swiftly disappears.

“Hello,” says one, “Are you the new girl?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she sniffs. “Are you an old boy?”

“You could say that,” he chuckles. “I’ve been with the party for a long time.  Hoping for a seat in 2015.”

He can’t be more than twenty two.  I have have filing older than that.  

“Do you think you’ll get one?” Jane takes another drink. 

“One can only hope.  But it’s the inevitable next step.”

From what? Kindergarten?

“I’m in charge of canvassing at the moment,” he goes on. “Can I count on your support in May?”

“If I can fit it in.”

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “Is there is some reason why you couldn’t?”

“My job.”

Another puzzled look. “What is it that you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

They all glance, suspiciously, at one another.   It’s a reaction we often get but not for the same reason.

“Why?” Jane asks. “What do you all do?”

“Most of  us work as research assistants in The House.  Some of us work for Head Office.”

Conservative clones!   So that’s it.  They must manufacture them in the basement of HQ.

“Haven’t you ever had real jobs?!” she exclaims.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Haven’t you worked for anyone other than the Tories?”

Evidently not, judging by the perplexed expressions they all wear.

“We wanted to get as much experience as possible,” one explains.

“But what about experience of the real world?”

Yeah, like the gritty realism of CWS……..

“Hugh worked in investment banking for five years,” he pokes the oldest one.

Yep, that’s up there with social work and midwifery.

“We get seconded to Brussels sometimes,” says another. ”And Patrick made it as far as the Obama campaign!”

“Really?”

“Yes,” ’Patrick’ beams, “I was there on a fact-finding mission for David.  It was awesome.”

The use of ”awesome” and “David” in the same sentence sets Jane’s teeth on edge.  Would Mrs Thatcher have approved of such over familiarity?  I don’t think so.

“Mr Cameron to you,” she pulls him up.

“Oh, no, it’s David, Dave to his close friends.”

“Are you one of them?”

“Not really,” He gives a proud little smile. “But I am one of his Facebook connections.”

Him and twenty thousand others…..

Jane gives her deepest eye roll.

“So what made you want to join the Party?” he asks her.

“I want to run the Country.”

 They think she is joking and begin to laugh like a gaggle of meerkats.

“I do,” she shrugs.

They laugh again.

“I’m serious.”  She gives them one of the looks she gives Tarquin, which shuts them up. 

“Do you have much support?” sniffs one.

“Not at the moment, 99% of the population has no idea who I am.”

“But of the 1% that does?  Do they support you?”

“Of course.  Isn’t that right Helen?”

“She attracts a lot of attention,” I agree.

“How so?”

She throws tantrums, breaks furniture and occasionally bites people. “She makes a strong impression.”

“I’m afraid you’ll find that Politics is a lot more than getting people to like you.”

It will have to be.  Because no one does.

Suddenly we find ourselves engulfed by a swarm of Tory matrons. “Which one of you is the new girl?!”

“I am.”  They look her up and down like a prize specimen.  “This is my friend Helen.”

“Another recruit?”

“No.”  Not at this rate.

“Such a shame.  We need some sparky females in this constituency.  Sure we can’t persuade you?  There are lots of nice young men to mingle with!”

I have no wish to “mingle” with them.   It might damage my DNA.

I shake my head, and mumble something about not having enough time to devote myself to the cause.

“Oh, one can always make time!  Especially in this new IT focussed age when everyone is blogging and tweeting and so forth.  One can make such a difference.”

“I shall do my best.”

“Good, now, let me introduce you two to a couple of our leading lights.”

She ushers us though the hall way, again, and into another reception room, where two new candidates are holding court.

“Richard Sanders and Katherine Edison,” she whispers, “Standing in marginal constituencies.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Richard’s is up north somewhere; Katherine’s is near Brighton I think.  Lovely girl.  So good with the public.   I do hope she wins.”

We inch forward to hear what they are saying.  Richard is blathering on about banking taxes but Katherine changes the subject and begins to talk about the South Coast.

“I’m really hoping to overturn the majority,” she explains. “I love that area of the Country.  My parents are in Eastbourne and I’m really hoping I can move back that way and improve things.”

The mention of Eastbourne perks me up.   I think of Mr Haliday and the miserable journalist. 

“Are you making much progress on the streets?” says one of the clones.

“It’s hard to tell, the electorate seems so disengaged at the moment.”

“There’s a lot of apathy around,” he agrees. 

“You need a good local story to spark some interest,” says another. ”Is there a hospital in danger of closing?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Too many coffin dodgers to keep them busy down there I expect!”

They all laugh like drains.

“I guess so,” Katherine agrees.

“What about a Post Office?” says another.

“All closed already.”

“Oh dear. It’s dreadful what’s happened to them, isn’t it?  I used to love popping in buy postal orders.”

They all agree that the demise of the postal order is a terrible thing.

“You’ll find something,” she reassures her. “That’s the key you see.  They might not care about the national deficit or the state of the Trident defence system, but they damn well worry when their local library is under threat.”

They laugh indulgently about the foolishness of the electorate as a daring scheme begins to form in my mind.  I think might have just the worthy local cause Katherine Edison has been looking for…..