Red, blue or yellow - this time voting by my nail varnish won't cut it

I usually wave my flag of political allegiance based on what nail varnish I am fancy at the time.
The way I see it that nails are a key way to identify people. If eyes are the windows of the soul, then nails are the windows to all those surface things that are the true way of getting to grips with a person.
Dirty ragged nails on a man is a clear warning to stay away. I once went out with a mechanic who had dirty nails all the time, and, while the sex had the potential to be great I could never relax into it because he kept leaving greasy black marks on my White Company furniture.
And don’t get me started on chipped nails on ladies. The height of slovenliness. If they can’t keep their fingers in tip-top shape then I dread to think about their pores, armpits and worse.
As far as I’m concerned they represent the worst of womankind. If I can look pristine while I juggle a high profile job, look after a menagerie of animals - which let’s face it is far more demanding than having a child - AND attract the highest class of man, then so can every other woman.
But I digress.
The 90s for me were a very red moment, I was a power woman with red lips and red nails for most of that decade. So when Tony Blair came along with his mesmerising Cheshire Cat grin - it’s a bit harsh to reduce QC Cherie to that description, but if the cap fits - well, I was sold. Swept away by the power of D:ream and the rugged mix of the Gallagher brothers plus how great red looked on me, then it was clear I was voting Labour.
I didn’t vote last time because it coincided with my 6 months living on a kibbutz for my award-winning memoir, What’s Yours Is Mine and What’s Mine…..Well It’s Still Mine. And No, I Won’t Breast Feed Your Child, He’s Six.
But this time round I’m back in the UK ready to make my mark. I’ve watched the debates, read the newspapers, spoke to some of the candidates. Had dinner with the PM and his rivals, and I must say they flattered me greatly.
There are aspects I am impressed with all of them.
Firstly I was one of Nick Clegg’s famous 30 women. I was number 29, aka the one that got away, and he really did wow me in the bedroom the first time round. That was mainly cos I was expecting very little from him, so anything above average was a winner. However, all that excitement soon died down. I think I was distracted by his hair, it’s so fluffy. I can’t trust a man who doesn’t know how to tame his fluffy boy mane.
As for DC, I was truly impressed to hear that some of his party had proper superhero powers and could change people by the “power” of prayer. But, then I discovered they were squandering their abilities trying to turn pray gay men straight. Who would design my clothes and tell me I am beautiful and worth it when yet another, older and uglier female friend gets married?
Sorry DC, I can’t vote for the party that wants my favourite group of the male species to wither and turn into football-loving, feet-picking thugs.
That means I’m left with Labour, but like padded shoulders on jackets I feel that particular trend has set sail.
So, as a responsible member of the polling card gentry I have only one choice. Janice the gerbil will be left overnight with the board game Twister, and, on polling day the colour without any droppings on it will be the one I choose.
It’s like some form of dirty protest, but this way I get to keep my nails completely clean.


This week: I started to look into adoption like Sandra Bullock, it could be my next memoir, maybe I'll adopt a poor Northern baby