I have had such a hectic week and so much exciting news to tell you.
But please do not put this Newsletter aside to read whilst sat on the loo or in the pub. This one needs to be read whilst seated in your most comfortable chair with the TV off and, perhaps, a cup of tea.
As I mentioned in my last Newsletter I have recently decided to use disguise to conduct research into the economic and social problems that still afflict our country. Disguise was so useful during my investigation into the Greek financial crisis that, this week, I have used it to uncover the truth about the lives of our old people.
Indeed, I was so excited about my project that I decided to catch the train to London on Sunday morning rather than wait until Monday morning.
Anthea (my PA and Research Assistant) who had spent all of Saturday morning learning about theatrical makeup and Saturday afternoon looking at wigs in Debenham's in Oxford Street met me off the train.
My dear constituents - by Sunday night I had taken on the appearance of a working class version of Miss Marples.
By Sunday night I had a hat (Oxfam, £2.50) with feather (Harrod's poultry counter - free because it was lying on the floor - and probably a male pheasant), a cardigan (Littlewood's Over 60's section, £12), a thick skirt (Edinburgh Wollen Mill, Sale) and a pair of rather strange feeling brown tights (also Oxfam).
Unfortunately the tights had what my mother used to describe as a "ladder" in the back of the right leg. I then realized the "ladder" looked far better on the front of the left leg so I wore then back to front and inside out.
By the way, Anthea decided there was no need to wear a bra, as flattery was not something that most old ladies bothered with any longer.
We argued a bit about this as I'd been looking forward to trying one on but Anthea's view won the day. (I hate shopping with women)
Anyway, all this new and second hand clothing was put on in a small cubicle in Selfridges where I had hoped, but failed, to find a decent pair of long, cotton knickers.
Anthea had waited outside on Oxford Street and when I emerged into the daylight she only recognised me by the stubble on my face and the pair of black, Church's lace ups on my feet (essential footwear for an MP).
Having briefly returned to Oxfam where I had already spotted a nice pair of white knickers (a lot of cotton for £2) we realised that my shoes were just not in keeping with the rest of my accessories as I'd also bought a nice brown handbag (£5) in Oxfam, you see. It had a brass clip and a place to put my purse.
So, I popped into Clark's and came out wearing a lovely pair of sensible brown shoes with only the smallest heel that matched my stockings rather well.
The only problem was the young man who fussed around trying to fit them onto my feet. I'm sure he kept trying to look up my tweed skirt. Thank goodness that I was, by then, already wearing the Oxfam knickers and that I'd checked them for stains.
Anyway, all that completed we went back to my flat and Anthea then started on the facial makeover.
Oh, my! What a sight. When I took a look in the mirror I looked just like that old woman Mrs Delloitte. Do you remember her? That old piece of French baggage who lives by betting on horses - and probably off of other immoral earnings - and often tries to steal my seat on the train on a Monday morning).
The only problem at this point was that the arrival of my usual Sunday night frisky-ness was not shared. Anthea had, rather unusually, suddenly lost any latent stirrings. Never mind, I was due to return to Krupton on the last train and, anyway, the elastic in the knickers had somehow got twisted and I had had to roll them up at the waist to stop them falling down.
Despite all that, I took a taxi to Paddington, bought myself a first class ticket and a copy of The Oldie (to get my mind in the frame) and had a pleasant enough journey back to Krupton. Being dark outside by this time, however, my reflection in the train window took a bit of getting used to. I tried ordering a sherry but they didn't have any.
Then, unfortunately, the train got delayed in Swindon and on arrival in Krupton I started to realise my predicament. You see, Krupton taxis mostly avoid fares after midnight on Sundays in case passengers vomit on the back seat.
Also, I suddenly realised that I couldn't possibly go home looking like this. After all, it would have been far too embarrassing for my son, Hector, to be seen being taken to school by his great grandmother.
Fortunately, a police car was parked outside the train station so I wandered over and knocked on the car window. The window wound down and then:
"Allo, Quent, mate. Been at a fancy dress then?"
"I'm not Quent," I said in my best croaky voice, "I'm Ada Marples. Any chance of a quick lift to the Travel Lodge? I've been accepted into Grey Gables Old People's Home and move in tomorrow. But first I need a good night's sleep. Also these knickers are killing me."
I'll tell you more in a few days.