choc horror: If only Howard and Widdecombe could have shared the same planet

This has been a testing few weeks for those of us whose glands produce too much empathy. Plagued by over-active compassion, we find ourselves making excuses for fellating soap actresses and fellated movie stars. There but for the grace of God (a ticket to LA and a Mercedes convertible) go we. Our weak voices are often to be heard in pubs and clubs, attempting to soften the censure that our less sensitive acquaintances happily lavish upon those who transgress.

But there can be remarkably few who, listening to the sad tale of Michael Howard, Ann Widdecombe and Derek Lewis - a story of prisons, of blighted careers, of unhappy dinners, of wilted flowers and of uneaten chocolates - there can, I repeat, be remarkably few of us who did not wet ourselves laughing.

But I am, I confess, one of those few. True, friends often remark upon the sweetness of my temperament, upon my essential good nature. I am a constant receptacle for the confidences of others (only a few of which am I planning to use in my forthcoming book Tales of Adultery).

Let us, for a moment, forget Howard's manacled mums and deported refugees - many of whom have actually survived - and examine the purely human dimension of this tragedy (which is no less awful simply because it involves men and women who recently wielded such power over us all).

According to one version of events Mr Howard is a reptilian megalomaniac, whose meddling and mendacity alienated his erstwhile supporter, who is only now making a clean breast of things. According to another version, Ms Widdecombe, a slightly uneven woman accustomed to eating many chocolates (and to having to buy all of them), was flattered by the attentions of Mr Howard's enemy (Mr Lewis) and, thus seduced, turned against her boss. Most people believe both versions.

I am not so sure. Recent discussions at home have led me to purchase a copy of the mammoth best-seller Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. This useful book explains how inter-gender misunderstandings happen, and how men and women can avoid them. Mr Howard is (metaphorically) a Martian, and Ms Widdecombe (equally metaphorically) a Venusian. They come from different planets and speak different languages.

You see, when a man (sorry, a Martian) says something, a Venusian translates it as meaning something else. Men are withdrawn and live in caves, becoming focused on the solving of a particular problem (such as: prisoners keep on escaping; how can I make sure I don't get the blame?). He is "incapable of giving the woman the attention she deserves". She, of course, sees this as rejection, since her own inclination would be to talk about things openly. The hurt Venusian begins to make demands ("you must not sack Derek Lewis"), and the Martian reacts by shutting her out. His tone becomes more peremptory. Ms Widdecombe recalls that when she sent flowers to Mrs Lewis ("an act of Christian charity," she called it. Presumably the Lewises do not have a garden of their own), Mr Howard bawled her out.

The result of these interplanetary communication failures has been the damage done to Mr Howard's career and Ms Widdecombe's self-esteem. And it could all have been so very different. The book has thoughtfully adumbrated a list of "101 ways to score with a woman" (it means something different in American), and vice versa.

Consider how history might have been changed had Mr Howard acted thus to Ms Widdecombe:

1. Given her a big hug daily;

2. Asked specific questions about her day (eg, "How is the manacling going? Do you need a hand?");

3. Been patient when she was sharing (ie, about the church and the dreadful ordination of women), and not looked at his watch or newspaper;

4. Bought her presents - like, er, chocolates and flowers;

5. Laughed at her jokes and humour (a tough one, admittedly);

6. In the private Home Office cloakroom, left the seat down.

In return she would have made him feel more secure by making fewer demands (no more "I need an extra billion for all these new prisons") and would never, ever have said "I told you so".

It's too late now, of course. What a terrible shame.