The American elections are over, the end of another piece of theatre which has held me in thrall for a number of weeks. McCain, arms windmilling, eyes popping, little engine whining against the ever-steepening gradient to victory. Obama, cool as a cucumber, bringing his hand down emphatically on the podium and swearing to change the world as we know it. It is so absorbing that I overcome my customary squeamishness and listen open-mouthed to the blame and hope and promises that fly through the air, faster and faster, a manic tornado of claim and counterclaim which is suddenly doused by the climactic election of the first black American president of all time.

According to the rules of Hollywood, the story ends here. Disadvantaged (but virtuous and intelligent) black man overcomes all odds to reach the pinnacle of success. Violins swell. The crowd goes wild. Tears well in the eyes of disadvantaged black man as he accepts their homage. The credits roll.

Reality, on the other hand, is an affront to our sense of narrative. The story is over. Good has prevailed. This is the problem with politics: the frenzied leadup to elections leaves everyone with a hangover.