David Cameron announced this week that anyone can apply to stand as an MP on behalf of the Conservative Party. No word yet on the criteria, but given the recent expenses debacle, I’m guessing candidates must know for sure what house they actually live in and display the ability to clean their own moat.
The current political shake-up has got me thinking that perhaps I should throw my chocolate Hobnobs into the ring. My family would, of course, be right behind me. I just told husband and his head is still on the kitchen table. The fact that I truly believe he’s overcome with emotion and enthusiasm makes me deluded enough to match up to most of our current crop of bloated members.
So, yes, I’d like to be the MP for somewhere nice. Somewhere that I’ll be proud to represent. Somewhere that embodies who I am and what I stand for. Shari Low – Member of Parliament for the county of Matalan and Mothercare. I’ll even have an emblem – I’m thinking of an ornate crest crafted from a photograph of two nipple shields and a breast pump.
Okay, so that last line just lost me the male vote.
But back to my motherhood manifesto. There would be rules. Serious rules. Number one – children must get up first time you wake them in the morning. It’s the law. Note to Low junior: sticking one foot out of the bed and thumping the floor doesn’t fool anyone.
Next on the list: packed lunches. Or, as they’re known in this house, the work of evil. Healthy, balanced packed lunches will be delivered to every home first thing in the morning. This will, of course, have the spin-off advantage that the divorce rate will plummet. And husband, it’s your turn tonight and, no, strawberry jam sandwiches don’t count as one of the five a day.
The MPs’ expenses fund will be reallocated to give all children a new pair of trainers every month because I’m going to have to remortgage the house to keep up with my boys’ feet growth. The eight-year-old is a size five, the seven-year-old is a three. It gives me some comfort that, if they go for a comedy career with the circus, they’ll be able to wear their own shoes to match the checked suit and the curly wig.
Ironing will be declared an illegal activity, punishable by two weeks of listening to Jeremy Clarkson talking about gear sticks and torque. The latter of which I’m led to believe has no relation to a seaside town on the south coast.
It will be prohibited for any stars to be photographed in full make-up and size-zero jeans until their babies reach an appropriate age. I’m thinking around seventeen will just about do it.
Every child will be trained in the musical instrument of their choice. As long as the junior Lows reject the recorder, the accordion or the bagpipes.
Heated shelters will be placed at the side of every football pitch in the land, because it’s a miracle that I escaped six months of freezing, soaking Saturdays last winter without hypothermia and a foot infection.
All the money that is currently spent on useless, politically correct, bureaucratic pointlessness will be rechannelled to build a sports centre and a cinema in every town. And entry for familie
s will be free.
Childcare will be regulated and 100 per cent subsidised by the government.
And most importantly, on the financial front, the going rate for the Tooth Fairy will be restricted to a national limit of 50p. A ban on moaning ‘but Mu-u-u-um, my pal Steve got a fiver’ will then be strictly enforced.
Forget the Tories, forget Labour, forget the Greens. Vote for me. I’m the MP for Matalan and Mothercare and I’ve got all the requirements for the job: passion, dedication, a desire to serve, two nipple shields and a breast pump.