I suppose a garden in south London is a strange place for an epiphany but then that's the nature of epiphanies. Alcohol might have had something to do with it. But there I was, the worse for a bottle of Rose, or 'day wine' as it is known in our house, discussing politics with friends. When suddenly it struck me. I had missed my calling. All this time I've been churning out books when what I really should be doing is standing as a Conservative MP. I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me before. I am a natural Tory girl. I have a plummy voice and a peachy bosom, I am against crime and the causes of crime. I'm for education, education, education (even if Stalin did say it first). And I'm soft on porn, hard on drugs and clearly David needs me. His short lists are so short that even ex-Coronation Street actors can make them. In fact he is so keen on the ladies joining his party that if you put your name on the list you're in. Like a provincial nightclub where the girls get in free, David's so desperate for dollies that I might actually stand a chance.
But before I shell out on a turquoise power suit and some vote-me shoes, my friends remind me that I don't exactly have the most unblemished of pasts. In fact, it is more podium in a nightclub, than pillar of the community.
As the former Rave correspondent of the Independent newspaper (yes, there was one) I did spend quite lot of time enjoying the great outdoors until the early hours of the morning. I did gather in convoy on the M25 and, along with 10,000 or so of my closest friends, tip up somewhere to listen to loud records. A few vitamin pills might have been involved in me staying up all night, but I have to say that was due to pressures of work. They are, of course, something that I deeply regret. I was foolish. I whole-heartedly condemn them now, although I'm sure I didn't actually swallow. And, in line with the teachings of the book of Dave, it is something that I won't comment upon again, as I am moving on.
With the small matter of hardcore drug abuse dealt with, my only other real skeleton is my old communist past. But surely no one really cares about that? These days the only thing the public seem to really get worked up about is lying. You can be pissed as a fart when leading your party or regularly taking your secretary over the office desk, but just as long as you say you did it, and that you are terribly ashamed of your behaviour, and that you might seek some sort of help or counselling, then no one seems to mind at all.
So I'll put my hands up to the communism thing straight away. It is, after all, not like I wasted my time selling Socialist Worker. I just got wasted with socialist workers, and students and artists and anyone who was bunking off when I was studying Russian at Kiev University in the 80s, during Perestroika, which wasn't really communism anyway. I did also spend some time working on a kibbutz in Northern Israel, picking cotton and filling up tubes in a toothpaste factory. But that was all part of the learning and growing experience and as some bright spark once said: "One who is not a socialist at 20 has no heart, and one who remains a socialist at 40 has no head." With me it was just a little more extreme and the conversion happened a little quicker, because I am still obviously very youthful, very now, very noughties and very capable of riding a bicycle to work should the photo opportunity arise.
Demons exorcised, the question is, as member of Dave's Dollies, what can I bring to the party? Well, I'm sure I'd give great local garden fête. Having spent my childhood holed up with the gin and jag set of Solihull, I am used to bitching, backbiting, competitiveness and listening to the same stories over and over again. All important attributes when it comes to judging jam and listening to the vicar.
In fact I think my provincial upbringing could be a real asset to Dave. I know my spring onions and one end of a black labrador from another. I also own a set of green Wellington boots, which can only help bring out the rural vote.
But that's not to say that I am naïve and unaware of urban issues. I have toughed it on the front line of Notting Hill for the last 15 years, so I know what really drives the inner city, like the desire for more off-street parking and better delicatessens.
Now all I really have to do is sit back and wait for Dave to return my call. I have left him a few messages now. I have even dodged the wind turbine and popped a letter through his front door. I can't think what is keeping him. I am raring to go. I mean, what other party is a girl to join? Blair's Babes are already so last century. The Brownies were always losers who wants badges on their uniforms? And I just couldn't call myself a Minger. So I'm with Dave and his Dollies. I'm a Cameron Cutie, at least until the end of the conference season that is.
Imogen Edwards-Jones is a writer and broadcaster. Her most recent book is the best-selling exposé Fashion Babylon, published by Bantam Press
