I try never to write about politics because firstly it's a bit of a minefield, secondly I don't really understand it and thirdly it is usually so deadly boring I'd sooner watch stalagmites form.

The recent fuel crisis was, however, hugely entertaining.

All the Labour ministers who had drawn the short straw and been hustled into television studios squirmed nicely as they tried to avoid answering straight questions or admit that the entire country up in arms was a trifle worrying.

The Conservatives were equally shifty as they veered between crowing over Labour's dilemma in annoying the whole country and praying nobody would mention the poll tax riots. And the Lib Dems just hoped their green policies which seem to involve pricing cars off the road would be forgotten by an excited population.

It was very noticeable, however, that not one single politician actually admitted out loud that our petrol is dearer than any other country in Europe and possibly the world. Nor did I hear anyone speak up for the poorer rural communities such as Cornwall and point out that far from swanning around in open topped gas guzzling BMWs just to show off to the neighbours a large percentage of the population here desperately needs to run a car to get to their unsocial hours jobs in various parts of a county which doesn't exactly have an unsocial hours public transport system if one at all.

What I can't quite grasp about politics is whether we are actually supposed to believe in a system which has one party saying one thing and the other party totally and utterly saying the opposite. I mean most campaigns and ideas have a little leeway, unless you're Adolf Hitler, nothing is ever completely black and white except in parliament. I suppose it's better than the Milosovitch's style of electioneering 'one for your ten for me', but it's still not logical. (and while we're at it, why do national newspapers still persist in calling him Mr Milosovitch. I think he's unearned the right to have that appendage don't you? After all, we don't say Mr Stalin or Mr Mussolini. Just a thought)

My own small dip into politics came many years ago when I was asked to join a pre-election campaign team to canvass my neighbourhood because they were desperate for volunteers. Ignoring this somewhat two edged compliment, and encouraged by their information that they all went to the pub afterwards, I went along.

I won't reveal which political party it was, except to say that we met in an unheated scout hut at the back of the shopping parade and had to take our own coffee mugs, so we're not talking corporate identity here.

We were all issued with a pile of leaflets, a small map , and a tick list to mark down 'our' voters, and went out in twos.

I was attached to an earnest young man called Martin who was wearing a brightly striped knitted woolly hat. I don't know why, but whatever I've joined I always get the one wearing the woolly hat.

Nevertheless, he was nice and I asked him if we had any kind of policy document. 'Just ask them if they're voting for our man', he said. 'But what if they ask me about his policies?' I said. 'Well, just think of something' he said lamely.

With this extensive political training we set off, Martin adding that if people weren't in I should just push a leaflet through the door.

At the outset I may have had an optimistic idea that it was a good way to meet people - Wrong. That most people are slightly interested in elections - Wrong. That the British are cheery folk who offer you cups of tea and home-made shortbread - Wrong.

I did discover that people who make letter boxes are sadists, especially the ones who for some reason put the letter box two inches above the ground and with a spring on it which is specifically designed to remove finger tips in one easy snap.

About half the houses I visited had nobody in, or at least nobody who was admitting to being in. About half of these appeared to own mad wolf dogs which suddenly threw themselves at the front door the second I attempted to insert my leaflet in the letterbox and slavered spit and venom through the aperture.

At least 95 per cent of the ones who opened the door weren't even slightly interested in politics even those who reluctantly admitted to being a supporter. Some, I suspect, could be classed as 'Don't Really Knows', especially the one who looked at my leaflet and said 'Is ee the one with the baldy head?' I had to admit that he was somewhat lacking in the hair department. 'I never trust a bald man', she said, and slammed the door. I was tempted to shout 'he'll get a wig' but resisted.

After a lot of this kind of thing I was quite relieved to find a few ' did knows' or at least I presumed that the man who shouted 'p... off' and slammed the door was an opposition voter.

The nicest people were the old ladies, one of whom thought I was from the council and showed me her broken lavatory seat and the damp in the back bedroom. She was not, however, much good for elections. 'I never vote dear', she said, 'my legs aren't up to it.'

At the end of each street Martin and I met up and compared notes and then moved on. I noticed he was missing out some houses on his side of the street and asked why. 'I don't do houses with drives', he said. 'Why?', I said. 'They'll never vote for our lot if they've got a drive', he said gloomily.

Stunned by this piece of political know-how I trudged on behind Martin who studiously avoided a house with not only a drive but gateposts bearing a small gremlin on each side.

When we finally finished our allocation and got to the pub one of the women was all of a flutter and was being calmed down by her friend and half a pint of Watney's Red Barrel. 'She's had a bit of a shock', the friend explained. 'A dirty old man answered the door in his dressing gown and he wasn't wearing anything underneath it'.

I resisted the urge to make a joke about members of Parliament and left it to Martin to make the tactful enquiry 'was he one of ours?'

This earned him a glare from every female in the group and we finally agreed that a warning note should be added to the file that unaccompanied females should not visit at a time when the said gentleman might conceivably be wearing, or not wearing, night attire.

For the rest of the evening the group recounted their canvassing experiences, although none were particularly exciting and usually involved Corgis with a penchant to bite uninvited callers.

I didn't bother to go again, but week's later I happened to walk past the house which was now marked for ever as politically incorrect.

It had a short gravel drive. Martin would have said 'told you so'.