Never mind the bedpan, it's the PM . . .: Tim Renton, much-travelled former minister, recalls the agony and ecstasy of reshuffle fever

Sunday, May 1979 - I had already been five years on the opposition benches in the House of Commons. I had slaved away asking parliamentary questions and making speeches about our export industry, employment and the unions. I had served on a key select committee and tedious standing committees; I had rarely, if ever, missed a vote.

Now Margaret Thatcher had just been elected Prime Minister and I waited for the telephone call. I was playing tennis with my family and someone shouted 'Tim, the telephone, urgent.' I dropped my racket and ran. It was my wife, ringing from the local hospital to say our youngest daughter had badly broken her leg and would be in plaster for weeks.

September 1985 - It was my turn to be in hospital, having a hip replacement operation. I was a junior minister of one year's standing, Parliamentary Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office, enjoying myself and hoping just to be left in place under the benign eye of Geoffrey Howe. The Cabinet reshuffle had taken place whilst I was under the surgeon's knife and I was groggily recovering, full of painkillers and the aftermath of anaesthetic. The telephone rang as I strained on a bedpan. My wife picked up the receiver. 'It's No 10,' she said, 'for you. For goodness' sake, sit up.'

Within seconds that well-known bell-like voice came down the wire. 'Tim, are you all right?' 'Yes, Prime Minister. Recovering rapidly.' I tried hard not to mumble but to sound on the ball and ready to seize whatever baton was offered me. 'Good, Geoffrey and I want to move you up at the Foreign Office to Minister of State . . . more responsibility . . . so get well quickly . . .' I hardly heard the last words but sank back into the pillows and clutched my wife's hand in a state of acute post-operative bliss.

If you have committed a great deal of time, and of your family's life, to a parliamentary career, waiting for the telephone call on these occasions is, of course, total agony. There are those of my colleagues who say that all they want to do is to be a sound backbencher, look after their constituents' interests, and serve on a select committee. I respect them for that, but parliamentary life is now so dominated by the executive that it is increasingly hard to find a backbench career, whether in government or opposition, wholly satisfying.

For anyone who wishes to contribute to the development of our state, there must be an urge to see inside the red box and to play a daily part in forming decisions. Whether these concern the work of the Child Support Agency or a negotiated peace in former Yugoslavia, they are likely to be the most important decisions you will reach in your life.

Spare a kindly thought, then, for those at the top of the greasy pole and near the age when they could qualify for a Senior Railcard. For months their names have been bandied about in the press. 'Renton overworked/tired/senile' the media chant happily, and you explain to your near and dear ones that, on the contrary, you are in full possession of your faculties, but perhaps it is getting close to when you would like to spend more evenings hearing about their careers rather than talking about your own.

In your private office and among the civil servants around you, there is a noticeable bustle. The consultation paper that you have for months been urging the office to finish drafting is suddenly ready, the last obstacles - so important a month ago - miraculously swept away. 'Minister, we think it would be a good idea if you could publish this next week before the summer break. Could you persuade the Leader of the House to find the time for an oral statement?' The Leader predictably responds that the business of the House is full every afternoon, but you might care to announce your consultation document by way of an answer to a written parliamentary question. Minimal publicity, minimum fuss.

I told the Prime Minister some time before the last election that I thought it was time for my ministerial career to come to a happy and voluntary end. For those who do not take such a pre-emptive step, the buzz passes round Whitehall via the government drivers. Like the tricoteuses by the guillotine, they anticipate each falling head. 'Les has just taken his minister to No 10. Doesn't sound too good.' 'Bert's been asked to drive his minister from Environment to Agriculture. He doesn't know where Agriculture is.'

For the departed, the next day, there is no red box, no typed programme, and the eye of the media happily swings on to your successor. You clear your deck in an hour or two, have a farewell party for your private office, and take the Tube home. You have lost your government driver. Your last action, according to fable, was to leave three numbered, sealed envelopes for the incoming minister, with the advice to open these only at times of grave crisis. The first is duly opened after six months and reads: 'Blame your predecessor.' The second may be opened after 12 months and urges: 'Have a departmental reorganisation.' A further year passes, the minister finds himself with crises coming at him like Exocets, the reshuffle looms, and the third envelope is opened. Its message is: 'Write out three envelopes.'

Is all the heartache worth it? Yes, immensely so. And I wish courage, wisdom and good fortune to all of those who find themselves embarking on a ministerial career. They will be wise, in the words of Milton's Lycidas, to learn to scorn delights and live laborious days, and I hope it will be many years before their thin-spun life is brought to an abrupt end.

Apart from the posts mentioned, the author was a Home Office minister (1987-89), Parliamentary Secretary to the Treasury and Chief Whip (1989-90) and Minister for the Arts (1990-92).