DATELINE: Portsmouth, New Hampshire

When we return to the main intersection on Congress Street, the McCain and Kucinich sign-holders, five or so each of them, are sharing sidewalk space with the Richardson folks. We stroll out to do some sightseeing, hoping to view some ancient (in American terms) New England homes and a bit of the waterfront. We get as far as the sidewalk outside the Breaking New Grounds coffee shop. There are an unusually large number of Bill Richardson sign-carriers – maybe 20 people, rather than five or ten. Suddenly The Gov himself hones into view, flanked by a small entourage. ‘Do you want to go meet him?’ Tom asks. ‘Nah, I should let him meet the voters really. Let’s just stand on the outside and observe.’

Richardson keeps shaking hands, moving through the small crowd. He spots me, Tom and Rachael hovering, and within a flash is bearing down on us. ‘Hi, I’m Bill Richardson!’ His jowly face looks tired but his eyes do not. He must be drawing on bottomless energy reserves – he has a firm handshake for a man who must’ve given hundreds every day for weeks and weeks and weeks. I am slightly flummoxed by being accosted by a Presidential candidate against my will; this isn’t really how journalism is supposed to work.

‘Er, hi. I’m Dan Hancox. I’m from London, England, we’re covering the election. We saw you speak in Iowa City.’

‘Well that’s just great. You’ve been all over huh?’

He keeps moving, keeps greeting, keeps shaking, and heads into the coffee shop.

‘Did you get to meet Bill yet?’ one young Richardson ‘08 campaigner asks another. ‘No, not yet’ he says a little sadly. Which doesn’t seem entirely fair, given that we just have. Still, it’s pretty cool though, we reflect, ready to move on from the throng and continue our mission to see the sights. Except.

‘Tom.’ I poke Tom in the arm. ‘Tom. Is that… Look who just came out the coffee shop.. Is that.. Chelsea Clinton? Nah. It can’t be.’ We stand and look at the back of someone’s head. ‘It can’t be her – she came out of the same tiny coffee shop Bill Richardson and his entourage just went into.’ We make to cross the street and head into the residential area. Except… I tug at Tom’s sleeve again.

‘Tom. I think. Is that. Is that. Chelsea? I think that might be…’ Before I can construct anything approaching a full sentence, I’m pinned to the wall.

‘Hi, I’m Chelsea.’ She stares me straight in the eyes, smiling with the warmth of experience.

‘Hi Chelsea. I’m Dan. You know, we were at Oxford together. Um. We’re covering the election, we’re blogging it. Um. Here’s my card.’

Chelsea takes it and officially approves of my college, Christ Church. Which was a wise move – it IS nicer than hers, after all. She shakes Tom’s hand and moves on towards a waiting jeep, a group of big-city press types (proper cameras, neck-fulls of laminates) following in her wake.

Later, grabbing some late lunch in a quiet organic cafe, we accidentally meet Bill Richardson for a second time. We’re not even trying anymore. We weren’t trying to begin with. We just wanted to soak up the atmosphere in a vague, ambient sort of way. But we’re shaking hands with a Presidential candidate again. Tom, Rachael, and I all look a little embarrassed. But Bill is still bursting with energy:

‘Hey guys. You can’t get away from me today!’