Grounded

Last day of campaign and my car has died on me - on the way back from the studio where I did a 2 minute slot for Post Cynta this morning, explaining why tomorrow you should all vote 'Welsh Conservative for a Change'. I'm waiting to be collected by our loudspeaker car - and I'm going to spend the day being driven up and down the streets of Mid Wales proclaiming that 'the end of Labour is nigh'. My car is parked up on the side of the A483 near Abermule - and I've put a notice on it to say "This defunct car's name is Rhodri!"

I've just read the Telegraph reports about the fall from grace of Lord Browne of BP fame. He may be mega-rich, but he'll be feeling desolate this morning - and some current AMs will probably feel the same tomorrow. Some jobs take over your life and it hurts when the phone stops ringing. In fact, the pain is nothing like so intense for a 'list' AM, which I am, because it will not be laced with the bitter taste of rejection. I still remember the pain when I was effectively forced to resign from a high profile Quango position in 1994. I felt the bitter taste then, intensified by a poisonous sense of resentment arising from its unfairness. It's no joke and I will sympathise with the defeated ones. And make a reminder note to telephone them in a months time - when everyone else has forgotten them.

And just had a call from the great Ashok at the BBC, inviting me to do some commentary for Radio Wales tomorrow night - and another call to say that 'the cable had come loose from the alternator and she was losing charge'. Now, I'm not entirely clear what this means - except that my car should be alive and well again by 3.00. Like me, and probably Rhodri, it takes a bit of time to recharge the battery these days.