Last Wednesday, I went to a meeting of my local Labour party to support whoever I fancy for leader, because I am eligible to do so, I think. But Olivia hasn’t a clue whether she’s eligible or not, although she was last week, but now she isn’t, and even though our preference will not have “any direct impact on the election”, I went anyway to support Jeremy Corbyn, just in case it does any good.

The meeting was packed to bursting, mostly with JC supporters, thank heavens. Naturally I kept my arms folded – so no one could twist them. I spotted a groupuscule of Owen supporters to my right looking rather crotchety, but kept clear of them because I am sick to death of arguing about Jeremy, even with some of my misguided chums.

“I hate him, I hate him!” shouted Rosemary, very unreasonably I thought, as she got into my car. Naturally I asked her why, but she only bellowed: “No! Let’s not talk about it again, because I’ll sneer and you’ll go on and on …”

What sort of an argument is that? A fairly typical one, sadly, at the moment. Olivia is also having ferocious arguments all over the place. She was out to dinner, and in came a “friend” of hers who shouted: “I could kill him!” “Why?” asked Olivia, and out came all the usual dross. “He wasn’t enthusiastic enough about Europe, blah blah, leadership qualities, blah.”

Olivia blew a gasket. “No, NO, NO! Rubbish,” she roared, “and who would you have instead?”

“That Chuka Umunna,” blathered this person, who now thinks Olivia doesn’t like her anymore, and then she had another row with someone who fancied Keir Starmer for leader. “Think! Think!” bellowed Olivia, rather bossily. “He’s only been in it for a year!” And then she had to apologise profusely to the hostess for screaming at guests, but why not? What’s the matter with everyone? I promise you Olivia and I are not fantasy Bolsheviks keen on gruel, boots, trudging through snow and killing each other. We’re just fairly mild and reasonable socialists, just like JC.