Could c be doomed with a capital D?

Things are going well with the conservative with a little c, I think. We’ve been for drinks, dinner, I’ve stayed the night at his place, made him get up in the middle of the night to get me water, drunk-dialled him several times and we even had a little tiff one night when I told him he wasn’t spontaneous enough for me. The next day, feeling a strange pang of contrition, I text him to say sorry for being a brat and was met with stony silence. “The silent treatment is KILLING me,” I wrote. Later he replied, “I’m just being spontaneous.” All in all, I think it’s going swimmingly. Other people don’t seem so convinced.

On a Saturday night I am sitting in an upmarket London restaurant with my parents and one of my big brothers. “Tell mum about your new boyfriend,” brother says revelling in his little jibe. My mother stares. “Well, he’s probably voted Tory more than once. And I think he believes in God,” I begin. “Oh, and he loves to shoot.” My mother waits for the punchline. When none arrives she asks a question that speaks volumes about my former flames — “Does he have a job?” “Oh, yes,” I say. “He’s a lawyer.” “It’ll never last,” she pronounces helpfully, and then moves back to talking about her favourite topic, which unusually for a woman who has been on a diet for 55 years, is food.

The next night my flatmate arrives home to find me lying on the couch with a half empty bottle of red wine shouting answers at Jeremy Paxman on the TV. “How’s the love life going?” he asks. “Dreamy,” I say. “I’m going to spend the weekend with him in Yorkshire, he’s even promised he won’t shoot anything!” “Good, don’t get bored of him,” he says closing the door.

Why does everyone think things with my conservative with a little c are doomed with a capital D?