Today I announce my decision not to run for the leadership of the Liberal party. I know. It's not what you want to hear, especially when my name has been so closely allied with the phrase heir apparent. And especially when the word on the street has been that I'm pumped and primed and eager to stride from the wings and command centre stage and power the resurgence of the Big Red Machine. Or is it Blue? I have some hereditary issues with rods and cones that make it hard for me to keep such things in mind.

My decision, a difficult one, has been fuelled not by the usual considerations of fatigue, family, or attractive offers to sit on corporate boards. Rather, it's rooted in the highly charged erotic dreams I've lately been having about Stephen Harper. It is impossible for me to imagine leading the Opposition against a man to whom I have so willingly ceded so much. Of course, this is nothing new for me. Many are the world leaders who flock to my REM-driven after-hours bar. Bill Clinton comes by all the time, although our exertions are less athletic than once they were, now that he has ticker issues. Tony Blair, also a familiar face, practically wakens me with his Oxbridge importuning and strange hankering after caning.

But not all of my gentlemen callers are gentlemen, nor are they all living. Golda Meir often comes to the counter to take a number for her turn at the pickle barrel, and Winston Churchill is one of my regular clients. Not that I ask for cash, he insists; it's his little kink. I'm habituated to these dreamtime romps-yoo-hoo, Lyndon Johnson!-but never have I had so visceral a connection as the one I have lately forged with the prime minister-elect: a qualifier that would require the adjustment of but one consonant to describe his pelvic situation during our time together. Never has the Land of Nod stood quite so much in the shadow of Brokeback Mountain. I am far, far too discreet to reveal the full details of our dalliances but will divulge that our sessions always begins with me on a horse, looking out over the rolling hills of southern Alberta. Then Stephen arrives, also saddled up. It's cold. The warm breath of our nags-whatever-mists the air. The frosty particulates intersect in the shape of a heart. We survey the stunning vista. He says, "See that over there? That's Turner Valley." I think of John Turner, with whom I've had some very high times. As though reading my mind, Stephen says, "Those days are done, hon. We'll call that Harper Valley some day. Cold, ain't it?" Tent-pitching ensues. Tins of Sterno are unsheathed. We speak of economics. One of us says "supply". The other says "demand". Now a veil must be drawn, transparent enough only to reveal that, come goldenrod season, Stephen has promised I can puff on his inhaler. Bring on the pollen, I say.

Friends, I'm sure you understand my position. I'm sure you will find a way to place your disappointment on a high shelf, and I hope that you will join me in throwing your support behind Belinda. I think she has real potential. The other night, just as I was drifting into the foothills-Ralph Klein rode by at a distance-I had a premonitory glimmer of how we might arrange a-oh, what do you call those things-oh, yes. A three-way. I must mention that to Stephen the next time I see him. I'm sure it will get a rise. Not that that has been a problem. I am going now. Don't forget me. No. On second thought, do. It will be easier that way. Easier, I think, for us all.