What is the point of the Liberal Democrats? Even to ask the question feels unkind, akin to asking “What is the point of kittens?”. In Knighton, a small town in mid-Wales, a crowd of Lib Dem supporters have gathered to see Sir Ed Davey, the party leader, speak. They all look exactly as you would imagine a crowd of Lib Dems looking. There is a lot of sensible rainwear and a good showing of beards; most look like retired maths teachers; all look like the kind of people who worry about washing their yogurt pots before recycling them. When Sir Ed appears on a bicycle and puts his legs out like Coco the Clown, the crowd, with a rustle of raincoats, clap jollily.

The niceness is not contrived. Most of their policies (less sewage, more nurses) are hard to dislike. Their battle bus—the term feels too martial; “mild disagreement” bus would feel more fitting—is nice, too. Yellow on the outside, it smells of oranges within. Even their attention-seeking is rather sweet: as well as bicycling in Wales, Sir Ed gains it by pretending to fall off a paddleboard in the Lake District and going down a water slide in Frome.