"You fell over, Jack"
The time is two-thirty pm. The scene, a family planning centre in Rose Hill, Oxford. Inside, a wall of angry mothers, hungry for blood, fidgeting on their chairs, relentlessly push their nails into their fists to relieve the frustration of waiting. A pack of glamorous journalists sweep around, cameras at the ready, watched calmly by an army of government agents, furtively barking into the microphones sewed into their cuffs. Outside, a baying mob of anti-war protesters spit insults at the barrier of armed police. They are baying for the man they have labelled "Britain's chief war-monger." The Foreign Secretary, Jack Straw, is eagerly awaited.
The place is dead. I'm told that this is partly to do with the security situation, and partly to do with the fact that the family planning centre is no larger than Dr Who's tardis. The wall of angry mothers? Well, there are a few bored housewives here for the free cake, and as for the glamorous journalists, I suppose there's just me and a few distinctly un-glamorous hacks from the local rags. The anti-war protesters, previously considered ubiquitous in this town, obviously protested too much at having to get on a bus to get out of the centre of town.
Outside there are just a few slack-jawed gawpers, munching on packs of Wotsits. It's about as lively as Bob Monkhouse.
So what is one of the most powerful men in the world doing on a windy January morning in the estates on the outskirts of Oxford?
'The Big Conversation' is the short answer. It is an attempt by a government seen increasingly as out of touch to seem to be engaging with people, as we were reminded on no less than five occasions by the great man himself.
It seems that as Mr Blair has effectively taken over operating foreign policy, Mr Straw has nothing to do but nomadically wander from town to town, eating chocolate cake and hearing grievances from local shopkeepers. He must thank his Prime Minister daily.
The meeting was an altogether stultifying affair. A breezy entrance and pre-emptive lap of honour gave way to a stop-start question and answer session, interrupted then and again by a spin-doctor passing wodges of facts for the Foreign Secretary to quote from when it got technical.
Most of the people present had very real grievances about the effects of government policy upon their daily lives; the issue of tuition fees only cropped up once, prompting Mr Straw to say that they would "definitely" pass through the Commons. Benefits, or lack of, were the issue of the day.
The only moment of contention came amidst a misjudged comment by Mr Straw that "life would be very boring if it was perfect."
Easy to say when you're on £127,791 per year, with a big fat pension to look forward to, and as many fine wines and tailored suits as you so desire; not so crystal clear when you're scrabbling around on the dole, as a single mother, trying to make ends meet.
Accompanying the Foreign Secretary was Andrew Smith, Secretary of State for Work and Pensions, and MP for Oxford East.
As the New Labour soldier on the ground and more accountable on a local level, he was all too keen to chip in, backing Mr Straw up on points where Labour was helping in the local area.
I asked him whether this 'Big Conversation' thing was actually any good. Would they really listen?
"The proof of the pudding is in the eating," came the reply, which was something Mr Smith looked like he particularly enjoyed doing.
No wonder there was no cake left at the end.
So on to the man himself. It is natural to be apprehensive before meeting someone whom you've only previously seen on a television screen, usually raised on a plinth, surrounded by minions and applause. The present circumstances couldn't have been much more different.
I was expecting a booming giant; I got a cross between Yoda and The Demon Headmaster. You think Tony Blair looks beaten and weathered? Jack Straw makes the PM look like Brad Pitt.
Putting these thoughts to the forefront of my mind, I asked him whether he had heard about Silvio Berlusconi, the Italian President, having a facelift, and whether he'd had one himself.
"No", came the answer, and looking at the pouches under his eyes, on this one I knew he was telling the truth.
Would he ever consider it? "Certainly not!" What about Tony Blair then? No, not facelifts: would he survive the forthcoming double-whammy of top-up fees and Lord Hutton's report into the death of David Kelly? I quoted the odds of Blair being out of office by 31st January, (20/1 if you fancy it), were they fair? "Don't," pause, "waste your money", came the reply.
It was at about this point that the Foreign Secretary decided to make a swift exit. I don't know if it was the veracity of my questions, or the fact that I couldn't keep my eyes off his nasal hair, but he wanted to make a run for it.
Brushing past me, his foot hit my foot, and down he nearly went, tottering forward like an old man who's just had his stick kicked out of his hand by an unruly youth.
Desperately searching for something witty to say, I pointed at him and guffawed: "You fell over."
Genius.
22nd Jan 2004