Caucus

There's been no hot water all morning. Tom shrieked when he stepped into the shower, called out like a little kid that it was cold. It wasn't very presidential.

I phoned down to reception. They told me that they knew, that they were sorry but that, even at five-thirty, I hadn't been the first person to complain and there wasn't too much they could do.

They'll be a man in this afternoon, they said. Too late for us. We'll be gone. Not to New Hampshire, but home. There's still work to do, of course: photos, handshakes, a speech to polish, I guess, though they could have had it written for weeks.

We've known since Saturday, officially, but most of the staff realised a couple of months ago I'm sure. Apart from Carlton, who maintains that 3% is "something to work with", they've all let it go. It's fine. I understand. But I feel for Tom. He won't have missed it.

I held him last night, when we got back to the room after meeting with Nat and Andy and the others. Before he could sit down and deny it, before there was any bravado, I held him in the doorway and we hugged.

He crumpled and told me he was sorry, again. He didn't have to. He said he was sorry fourteen years ago and that was enough for me, at least.

One more day then and we'll be away. One more day and I can get my husband home.