IT IS a busy old time in the political departure lounge. Wendy Alexander has bowed to the inevitable and will be able to spend more time with her bairns; Nicol Stephen has announced his intention to demit the LibDem leadership at Holyrood for the sake of his young children; and Gordon Brown, whose tortured attempt to be prime minister is increasingly gruesome to watch, needs to spend a lot more time with his family (there is the story about the university principal who employed so many of his relatives that when he resigned it was to spend less time with his family, but we don't have time today for such diversions).

As the parties cast around for new leaders, it is unlikely the processes will include consulting the general public. If they did, they might find the punters have some sound ideas about the qualities they would like to see in our future politicians.

High on the list of qualifications required in the next leader of Scottish Labour is the ability to count up to £999. A familiarity with tiresome and petty regulations about declaring donations from wealthy supporters will also be useful. As would knowing who is paying rent at your constituency office.

It is faintly ludicrous that both Wendy and Henry McLeish (the rentman) were toppled for such petty amounts of money. It is damaging to our reputation that Scotland's politicos cannot organise scandal on a decent scale.

We assume a person who aspires to run the country will be somewhat brighter than a 40-watt bulb. But Wendy Alexander is apparently "galactically bright". She has three degrees, including an MBA (which unfortunately did not help her through some basic accountancy).

Bright is good. But it needs to be allied with common sense and a common touch.

Now that the public are better informed about parliamentary expenses and allowances, another requirement is that our parliamentarians should not employ members of their family. They must not think they can fool the people by entering into a pact with colleagues about mutual employment of respective offspring.

Our elected members are not that stupid and may already be working on more elaborate systems such as: politician A hires B's son. B finds a job for C's son. By sheer coincidence, C has a vacancy that would suit A's son.

This could be passed off as entirely reasonable. And it will keep the weans in work until they can inherit daddy's seat.

Charisma is another trait you would hope to find in a leader. Someone who can deliver an uplifting speech.

We're not looking for the unctuous histrionics of a Tony Blair. We want somebody less worrying than Wendy and less sleep-inducing as so many members of the Scottish Parliament.

Many of those who would be leaders are really better suited to a non-speaking role - a walk-on part, as in walk in and vote as you're told, pick up your wages, and then walk out again.

Some principles would look good on the CV, especially for representatives of the people's party. It may be old-fashioned, but isn't Labour still the movement that champions the down-trodden, homeless, stateless masses?

If so, why does Tom Harris, Labour MP for Glasgow South at Westminster, take such a hard line on sending rejected asylum seekers back on the first available plane? And how does he, with his MP's pay package in excess of £250,000, get away with telling us we have never had it so good?

As a Labour minister for transport, Mr Harris is resolutely against a nationally-owned railway system. Maybe he hasn't had time to study the publicly-owned trains that run so efficiently in many other European countries (sorry, this article has just gone up a siding somewhere).

An important characteristic of anyone who wishes to lead Scottish Labour should be a commitment to put Scotland first. And working to obtain the best for Scotland need not conflict with a desire to run Britain. Unless there has been major recent legislation, there is no law preventing Scottish politicians from promoting our own wee country at the same time as being in charge down in Westminster.

If Labour have no taste for this, Alex Salmond might just be the chap to do so if the SNP have a large enough squad of MPs after the next election to indulge in a spot of blackmail, or political alliance as it is known.

A major qualification for the post of leader of any party should be that the person does not actually want the job.

Ideally, the candidate should have entered politics with a mission to serve, not for self-advancement and the money. This would be a tribune as in ancient Rome, elected by the plebs to keep a watch on the patrician magistrates.

This tribune would ask if all the expenses are really necessary.

Should a well-paid politician need to be fed, watered and transported about from the public purse? Is it right second home allowances and the John Lewis shopping list are used to build up a fat property portfolio?

This tribune might realise change can only be achieved by campaigning for the leadership. It is a fine and noble concept.

There is a problem though. This tribune would never get through the constituency selection process in the first place.

THE 60th anniversary of the National Health Service is an occasion for a modicum of national pride. I was born a few months before the NHS and feel honoured to share its birth year.

I was a child prone to illness. According to family history (details the sisters have not kept secret under the 100-year rule), I contracted everything going: chicken pox, German measles, whooping cough - the full medical dictionary.

If it had not been for the NHS, I would have been a burden to my parents who were kept busy bringing up the other six children. The Shields family were no strangers to the doctor's surgery.

Unfortunately, pre-NHS, our GP was of a predatory nature. If there was no cash to pay for his services, and often there wasn't, he would take any family valuables, of which there were few, in lieu of payment.

This doctor eventually ended up in prison for resetting stolen goods.

You may have heard this story, but it seems relevant on this diamond jubilee of the NHS.

Luckily for me, I had a childhood of national dried milk, orange juice, malt extract and my mother generally building her sickly wean.

She succeeded to the extent that I became known as Tommy Tucker, as in the nursery rhyme chap who sang for his supper.

I continued to suffer minor ailments but thankfully missed out on scabies and those lurid gentian violet markings.

At about the age of seven, I had a major illness requiring three weeks in hospital. I recall having a raging temperature and hallucinations of monkeys at the end of my bed.

The illness was suspected as meningitis but may have been pneumonia or double pneumonia - I don't know since the information has not been released under that 100-year rule.

Whatever it was, the doctors saw fit to send me to Belvedere hospital, where the seriously or mysteriously infected were isolated.

I remember that once my temperature had gone down and (sadly) there were no more monkeys, I loved my stay in hospital. I had my own bed for the first time ever and my own copy of the Topper comic.

I also had loads of fruit to eat - a treat in a working class house where apples and pears were not for eating but for the display cabinet.

I even received a letter, the first and only, from my mother.

The nurses were angels and I had a soft spot for the strict matron, which left me with a fondness for Hattie Jacques.

I remain a fan and regular customer of the NHS. The nurses are still lovely, even though Hattie Jacques is no longer around.

I raise a glass to the NHS but it has to be of water because the doctors have placed this sexagenarian Tommy Tucker on a strict lifestyle management regime.