Love at first sight? Easy, I can do that – which is probably one of the few things I have in common with Prime Minister Theresa May.

Apparently we have both suffered the same mind-blowing, heart-skipping bolt from the blue; the kind with a uniquely dangerous potential to change everything in an instant.

She was thunderstruck by an irresistible passion for her Philip, when she was but a slip of a thing. I fell head over heels for a Dolce and Gabbana handbag in 2003, when I was – slightly – more than a slip.

We both still treasure our hearts’ desires, it seems. The difference is, she knows Mr May was and is the love of her life. My life isn’t over yet. Options remain open.

That interview. Quite a stir it caused when Theresa revealed touchingly how she’d fallen helplessly in love, detailed the quaint division of household duties as distinctly “girl and boy jobs” – he puts out the bins – and credited her shoes with recruiting young, fashion conscious women into politics… which would be remarkable, if true.


Anne Pickles The One Show’s sofa session was a revelation, albeit a vaguely crackpot one. Poor old Matt Baker looked as though he wanted to grab his wellies and head for the hills. Back to Countryfile for tea and sticky buns with Cumbrian sheep farmers.

Who could have blamed him, had he scarpered? He it was who famously asked David Cameron one final question, back in 2011: “Just very quickly – how on Earth do you sleep at night?”

That’s not a mistake any interviewer wants to risk making twice.

However, had he darted back sharpish to more familiar rural surroundings, he’d have found himself in yet another minefield of explosive controversy. There are strong opinions in them there hills and, frankly, they’re not discussing romance or shoes.

On the same day Mrs May exposed her soft under-belly (so to speak), expressing concerns for voting intentions in Eurovision and promising never to take a red box into the bedroom – aw, bless – she decided she wanted fox hunting back. The proper, gory kind.

Crumbs, where did that come from? And why? If only Matt had caught a scent of that one on the breeze, he could have asked her. But he didn’t, so couldn’t.

It’s a puzzle. Especially to the likes of me – and foxes – who had ignorantly assumed the blood sports thing had been laid to rest years ago.

None of us had been convinced it had gone away entirely, obviously. But you know how it is – once a decision has been made, we’ve been persuaded there’s no second shot.

Like with Brexit, for instance.

Do I have strong views on foxes being chased to point of exhaustion before being torn to pieces by hounds, in the name of a good day out? Well, yes – but I’ll keep schtum about them for now.

I’m no saboteur. Too lazy to be an activist. I like my countryside with coffee shops and beer gardens – not horns, horses and hounds.

I could never find motivation for lurking in hedgerows and pouncing without notice on huntsmen. Not in these shoes, anyway. And never having been closely acquainted with many foxes, it’s possibly true I’m not familiar enough with the passions and traditions of country life to offer a valid argument one way or another.

But why now? That’s the quandary. What’s the reasoning behind throwing this ticking bomb into an already volatile election mix? Why drag all that up again?

Presenting in one breath as a model of gentle, loved-up domesticity sits uncomfortably with a second unexpected expression of eagerness to see an animal’s throat torn out on a Sunday morning. Or is it just me?

There may be trouble ahead. Best add it to the list of banned subjects at dinner parties or in the pub.

No religion, politics, sex or fox hunting.

Doesn’t leave much, I know. Try handbags and love at first sight. Mind you, I make no promises for success.

Tickety-boo is tricky to do.