IF Maggie Thatcher was alive today, my partner would be stalking her on Twitter and building a shrine to her in our bedroom.

He loved the Iron Lady so much that I’ve often thought the purchase of a royal blue power suit and a shampoo and set would have more effect on Valentine’s night than the usual stockings and sussies.

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He yearns for the day when Captain Boris takes the helm and steers Britain to calmer (stormier!) waters. And he was proper jealous when I told him BJ had graced Telegraph Towers and smiled brightly in my direction.

It doesn’t usually matter that he’s a blue and I’m a red. He’s a finance director and a proud capitalist, I get that, I really do. But my family has always been big in the Co-operative movement and as a journalist I get to see first-hand how the little man suffers. He lectures me about Labour’s over-spending and I tell him to go and spend a day in a foodbank.

So we agree to differ. I respect his opinion (although it’s wrong) and he tolerates mine. His Maggie and Winston Churchill books are on one side of the bookcase whilst Red Ken sits on the other.

But when it comes to election time the gloves come off. We can be contentedly laughing heartily together at Gogglebox and united in our choice of The Voice contestants, but as soon as the party political broadcast comes on, Scotty sits on the edge of the sofa, fists clenched, shouting “agreed!” and nodding smugly with every Tory utterance.

It irritates me in a way that makes me want to smash his face in with my faux leopard cushions. But instead I’ve stooped to his level shouting like a drunken yob on the terraces, “Go on, Ed. Go on lad. Hit ‘em in the mansions!” followed by a tirade of expletives that would make even my red mother blush.

He tries to reason with me in that cool, calm accountant’s way. “Austerity measures are a necessary evil, Diane”, he says, sounding like the PM. So I rant. “I’ll give ya austerity. Here’s your tea – one bean on toast.”

But I know it’s all a cleverly crafted ploy to stop me putting a X in the Labour box come polling day. So I’ve taken to sticking my fingers in my ears and belting out ‘Things Can Only Get Better’.

I’m so glad elections only come around every five years; at this rate our relationship may not survive a second term.