Forget Eastleigh, Tatchell vs. Hughes was a real by-election

I got a text message the other day, inviting me to a party. This is a nice thing to happen, and not an everyday event. I have become used to all modern forms of communication bringing nothing but trouble; the more modern they are, the more unpleasant will be the message. If it arrives via Twitter, it will usually be a condensed ball of noisome vomit, perhaps containing within it the vestige of a threat. In a sense, we are all Mary Beard these days. The nastiness rains down upon all of our heads, the nastiness from other people. Never mind.

But this was different; not merely an invitation to some sort of agreeable shindig where other people buy the drinks, and perhaps also festive finger food, but one which carried with it the soft thrill of nostalgia, taking me back to a time when I was young and terribly sure of myself, neither of which is true today.