The local candidate standing for election for a party I find altogether despicable, is handsome -in a tall, dark kind of way; a Mr Rochester if ever I saw one.
Curiously I find him all the more attractive because his views on life and liberty would never correspond with mine.
Just before seven pm I was cooking chicken pie and making some Cornish pasties. There was a knock at the door.
This could have been the opening to one of the great love stories - or alternatively one of the great erotic fantasies.
Tragically, our dashing hero doesn't play up to the script.
He seemed at a loss, and remarked upon the number of shoes we have in our hall.
Maybe real life can never be like that. No vote here, time is short, many doors to knock on.
But I really wanted him to ask me why I wasn't going to vote for him.
I wanted him to fix me to the spot with a gimlet stare and demand an answer.
And perhaps one or two other things. It's an interesting thought - a candidate responding to an opposition voter with a passionate appeal as a starter for ten. No wife or daughter safe. Would certainly enliven the campaign, one way or the other.
I guess a candidate in a hopeless seat might take a punt. But it would have been a grand, romantic , quixotic and politically highly dangerous gamble in what should be a reasonably safe Tory seat. As the ancient joke puts it, chiselled candidate James Morris didn't realise how close he was to getting in well before polling day.