MONDAY

After some last-minute jitters, I make a panic phone call from the airport.

“Of course you should go,” says David Davis, soothingly. “Rwanda is very important. Don’t you worry about a thing. William Hague and I can hold the fort.”

Good old William. And to think some people reckon he isn’t pulling his weight!

He has articles to write, after-dinner speeches to deliver and appearances to make on popular satirical news shows, but he never fails to call me back within a couple of days.

That’s loyalty for you. “Thanks, David,” I say, scanning the departures board. “It’s the Brown bounce. It worries me.”

“Don’t worry,” says David. “We’re behind you all the way.”

Of course they are. And thank God. Because, in politics, as everyone knows, nobody ever stabs you from there!

TUESDAY

Nice and warm here. David Davis calls to say that Gordon Brown is actually starting to look pretty stupid, flogging the dead horse news story of these floods, while I look dynamic and Kennedyish in Rwanda.

“Not Charlie Kennedyish, I hope!” I quip. “Ha ha ha,” says David.

“You know,” I say to him, “it really moves you, David, the way this country has suffered. The way the Hutus rose up to slaughter and depose the ruling Tutsi elite. Thank God we don’t get that kid of class resentment in Britain, eh?”

“Yes,” says David, quietly. “Thank God.”

WEDNESDAY

Seems Davis got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Some of our MPs are close to mutiny.

Back in London, I call a Shadow Cabinet meeting.

I give the meeting room a quick spring clean, then nip out to buy some coffee and a selection of fairy cakes.

“Listen, chums,” I pant, running back in and handing out the coffee. “We have a problem.”

I’m tactful. I’m not suggesting they give up their business interests. Obviously, nobody could survive on the paltry £60,000 a year you get for being an MP. Probably not even in Rwanda. But we simply aren’t behaving like a government-in-waiting. It won’t do.

“Frankly,” I wheeze, “I’m worried that the perception is that I’m the only person around here who does any work!”

“Got any biscuits?” yawns Hague. I rush out to get some.

THURSDAY

My wife, Samantha, calls. She is at our constituency house in Oxfordshire and is stranded because of the solar-powered car.

“Dave,” she says, “I’m so glad I caught you. There’s water flooding into the basement. All the hemp nappies are soggy. I don’t know what to do.”

“In Rwanda,” I tell her, gravely, “100,000 households are headed by children.”

Samantha says she doesn’t see what this has to do with anything.

Some people get it, some people don’t.

FRIDAY

Our polls are disastrous. I’m in the attic of our Oxfordshire home, sitting with a selection of my children’s teddy bears and toys around an old kitchen table.

Technically, this is an emergency Shadow Cabinet meeting. All of the members of the real Shadow Cabinet were too busy with their other careers to come along.

So. “What’s the plan, boss?” I squeak in the voice of the green cuddly hippo representing Oliver Letwin.

“We must take action on these floods,” I say importantly, in my real voice. “Send out a strong signal. Any ideas?”

I adopt the gruff tones of the David Davis Action Man. “Doesn’t the Maldives have a problem with floods?” I growl.

I make the William Hague Paddington Bear give a nod.

“Perfect,” I say, as myself. “I’ll go there tomorrow.”

Ha! That’ll show them! Government here we come!

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