On the morning of the 2005 general election, the young man who sat opposite me at work asked, ‘How did you vote?’

‘That’s none of your business,’ I replied, in a silly, prim voice.

A cruel look passed across his face. ‘You voted Tory, didn’t you?’ he crowed. ‘That’s why you won’t say!’ He started to point at me. ‘Tory voter! TORY SCUM!’

I was appalled. It was my first experience of tribal politics and I didn’t like it. I can’t remember what I said in reply, but I certainly didn’t reveal how I’d voted. If I had voted for Michael Howard’s Conservative party, I would have been too ashamed to admit it and if I had voted Labour, I wouldn’t have wanted to admit that, either – not if it meant I was now a kindred spirit to this maniac. I was so freaked out by the experience that from that day on I have never told anyone how I voted or intend to vote.

But now I must, because I have an emergency on my hands: I live in the constituency of Holborn and St Pancras and next month we go to the polls to choose a new MP. Having promised he wouldn’t abandon Holborn and St Pancras, our MP, Sir Keir Starmer, has… abandoned Holborn and St Pancras. Plus ça change, Monsieur Demi Tour. So now Zack Polanski for the Greens and Sagal Abdi-Wali for Labour will slug it out for the job.

It’s a very close race. And I really, powerfully, don’t want the spooky boob-whisperer to be my MP. Or anyone else’s MP. The need to keep Z-Pol out of the House of Commons feels urgent.

I am not an expert on Polanski, but at a glance he strikes me as someone who simply wants to be famous at any cost. He tried acting, he tried the boob-whispering, and now he’s trying politics. When the politics fails – please, Lord! – I bet he will try reality TV. And when that fails, surely cleaning product demonstrations beckon. He’s like a single bloke on a night out, targeting increasingly unattractive girls as the evening wears on.

If enough of us publicly declare for Labour, we could see off Zack and his three-day Urdu Duolingo streak

Of course, politicians must all, somewhere in their personalities, quite like fame, otherwise their lives would be intolerable. But sickly attention junkies – cough Lembit Opik cough – ought to have no place. So I don’t like Polanski much. But neither do I want this Green party 2.0 in charge, no matter who is on the ballot paper.

First, practicalities: with the caveat that all councils are bureaucratic hell-mouths administered by dead-eyed psychos who hate people only fractionally less than they hate cars, our Labour council is fine. The bin collections are humane, the police come when called, the schools are ambitious. Change is unnecessary.

Second, ideology: I find the mutation of the gently batty Green party into a mustering point for those who despise Israel and/or Jews outrageous. The conflict in Gaza is a very specific international issue that has nothing whatever to do with better indoor play facilities for the under-fives in Camden or money-laundering fronts on Kentish Town Road.

And I have zero respect for those who don’t have any personal connection to the Middle East or show any interest in other very bloody and unfair territorial disputes – never march about Sudan, have forgotten about Ukraine – suddenly rending their garments over Gaza. It’s shallow and inauthentic.

Up until now the Greens were someone else’s problem, but now they’re on my doorstep and it’s squeaky-bum time. I needed to revisit my various neuroses around politics. I waited by the letterbox and when a large flyer duly came through from Labour, I did not direct it to the recycling, I stuck it in my front window. Red and yellow flyers were popping up in other windows and when I saw them alongside my own, I felt a small glow of self-righteousness.

My husband isn’t happy as he thinks the political flyer-in-window is contemptibly feeble. And I agree. But surely, if enough of us publicly declare for Labour, we stand a chance of influencing Undecideds into a red vote to see off Zack and his three-day Urdu Duolingo streak. This is how to make tribal politics work for you.

As I put my case to my husband, squaring up to him in front of the leafleted window, I suddenly felt rather grand and important. The reason why people love this stuff became clear. I was reminded of the political slogans scribbled in red on the walls of Pompeii, urging fellow citizens to vote for Aulus Rustius Verus. The thought that nothing ever really changes was a comfort.

But then last week a house nearby put up a large board on a post declaring they would be voting Green. No! I thought we were going to be sensible about this. Another one popped up around the corner. Agh! Where is Vesuvius when you need it?

I brooded. I hit follow on Abdi-Wali’s account on Instagram and doled out some likes. I anxiously picked at my cuticles and wondered about the feasibility of making my own gigantic board-on-a-post.

Then, walking down my street two days later, I saw that overnight a pair of anonymous hands had wrenched the Vote Green board sideways, snapping the post. Political violence! Three streets down from Benedict Cumberbatch’s house!

I am desperate to know who did this. Perhaps a Labour activist who feels the Greens are a genuine threat. Or maybe a Green activist who doesn’t think Polanski goes far enough on Israel. Or – twist – did I do it in my sleep?

Whoever the culprit, whatever their motive, it can only mean one thing: it’s a fight, lads. A real fight.