Dick Gephardt, running for the US presidency in 1988, visited Farmington, in the boondocks of New Hampshire, and I was bedeviled by the local Democratic party to cover the event for a local newspaper. They were puzzingly unsatisfied with the following piece, despite no fewer than five anagrams being woven into it. Maybe it will be more appreciated in 2004.

Anagrammatically so!

Ronnie and Holly worked far into the night, making Dumontskee's Restaurant a place fit for a king, never mind a presidential contender. Every Hunter's Special crumb was vacuumed from the carpets, every smear of grease and ketchup was banished. Even the walls were freshened up with a sparkling coat of pale blue paint, and the famous Kennedy Painting was taken down from its hook and scrubbed with a Brillo.

When Ronnie broke the glass in the frame, he replaced it at a cost of $6, greatly increasing the value of the work, and then carefully hung it in pride of place, on the wall adjacent to the photograph of a smouldering Elvis, and opposite where would stand the guest speaker of the evening, Democratic hopeful Dick Gephardt.

By 6:30 on that Sunday evening, a bigger crowd had gathered round the tables to hear the candidate than show up for breakfast on the first Saturday of deer shooting season. Dumontskee's was packed to the point where many people were obliged to move into the barroom next door to make more space. F.B.I. agents, assigned to protective duties, hustled around, subjecting the audience to professionally critical gazes, and chewing gum. The buzz of expectancy grew.

My eyes became enchanted by a menu board in which plastic pieces of alphabet had been inserted to read: WELCOME TO FARMINGTON, DICK GEPHARDT.

Thirty-one letters. Hmm.

Was it the heat? Was it the fervor of his supporters as the V.I.P. sprang into the restaurant with his wife and a small political entourage? The 31 letters began to swirl and reform before my eyes: PTA CITED KNOWLEDGE OF MR. HART COMING

Could this be a mystic message that I alone had seen? Should I tell Larry Kelly next to me? Maybe Hart was coming. Maybe blows would be struck, like in the Men's Ballbouncing earlier that day.

Yet even as Mr. Gephardt was welcomed to Farmington the letters on the board began to shuffle themselves again. Rubbing my eyes I read: WET MORNING! PRACTICED THE GOLF! MAD, OK? But hadn't he been in a debate at Durham university earlier? Perhaps he had shot a round, first.

A couple of easily answered questions were asked out of the crowd, and then Dick motioned towards a man I had seen outside the Post Office campaigning on behalf of someone entirely different. This gent sought Gephardt's response to an enormously complicated enquiry involving Afghanistan, and wrote down the reply. I was relieved to notice that the 31 letters were on the move once more. LARGE FIT MOM GREW HAND-PICKED COTTON came the menu board message, as the man who would be President began his speech. It was hard to understand, this one. Maybe something to do with the southern vote, what with the mention of cotton, but would the feminists like it? I gave my brain a rest from such challenging thoughts and listened to Gephardt for a while explaining that a $10,000 American car was subjected to so many taxes in South Korea that its final cost to those Asiatic citizens was $48,000. This nugget of information swung the room firmly behind Dick's trade policy, but they looked a little puzzled when he waved his arms around the room and said, "This is the Golden Goose, folks," because even the people in the bar knew it was Dumontskees.

There was action back at the sign board as the characters rescrambled themselves to form: A DOGGED MAN WHOM RIFLE KIT CAN PROTECT. Well that much was true. He was persistent, and the gum-chewing brethren were staring down the guy who had asked the question about Afghanistan. Gephardt, recalling that the Golden Goose was in Pocahontas, Iowa, recovered well and attacked Reagan for putting money in the Pentagon, and taking it out of the hides of senior citizens.

"We're gonna keep the faith with senior citizens," cried the candidate, causing a spontaneous "Yes! Yes!" from an elderly lady, and simultaneous agitation of the letters. This time I read: LAWMEN DEMOTE DRAG COP IN TIGHT FROCK

Now this was real news - the stuff that columns are made of, and I checked the F.B.I. contingent to see if perhaps I had overlooked one of their number. They would probable hush a thing like that up, though. Stuff the guy in the back of the cruiser, right off, away from the gaze of a sensation-seeking press. Oh well. When I had finished dreaming of landing the big scoop, I returned my gaze to Dick Gephardt, but he had vanished into the night, heading no doubt, for Iowa, where he might inform a baffled crowd in a small cafe "This is Dumontskee's, folks."