Why as a nation of promise-breakers are we so hard on our politicians?

On the last day of 2006, I happened to be in a chemist’s shop, hovering around while the pharmacist made up a prescription, looking at the marked-down Christmas gift items and wondering if I really needed a leopard-printed vibrating furry box to put my feet into at the end of a hard day.

It wasn’t a difficult decision. Anything to do with feet I avoid. Feet should be discontinued. Our legs should have been finished off with castors or those wheels you get on good luggage, that can spin in all directions and withstand baggage handlers possessed of John Deasy’s random venom.

Standing there, earwigging, I registered an unusual pattern.