It used to be said that the two most commonly broken promises were: “The cheque’s in the post”; and another one.

But that was yonks ago.

Times change and we’ve moved on to bigger, braver, better fibs. Promises, promises, who counts on any of those being kept now?

We can add any number to those original two pledges these days. Strong and stable; do or die; for the many, not the few; get Brexit done; take back control; no magic money tree – to name but a few.

General election campaigning now underway, we’ll be served up many more over the next few weeks. On that we can rely. Pause for heartfelt groan and a double dose of Prozac.

Not that it matters much. We’re immune to soundbite offers of honesty now, because we’ve learnt they’re, well, largely dishonest. The more they’re repeated, the less we believe any of them and the more we wonder – who writes these blinking inanities? Is dreaming up irritating earworms actually a proper job?

It’s probably evident that I’ve wearied of this campaign – still in infancy – already. Perhaps it’s because it feels to have been going on for years and real life seems to have been suspended in a thick soup of game-playing politics since Nye Bevan was an embryo.

MPs we thought were permanent fixtures are throwing in the towel and doing a runner... to London, for instance?

Others we’d almost forgotten existed are crawling out of quietly comfy woodwork for selfies in their bewildered constituencies. And the twittering classes are giving lessons on how to vote tactically for their preferred end result.

It’s a rum do and no mistake. Up at the top of the power tree – which magically has sprouted loads of money for endless promises – there’s speculation about who will get into bed with whom.

“Not exactly chummy Anne, but four tribes ain’t going to solve Brexit,” a Cumbrian Lib Dem councillor told me.

Excuse me but I never did think bedroom shenanigans were a spectator sport. I’ll look away, if you don’t mind. And since he mentions it, I’m not big on tribal allegiances either.

Back in the real world there’s warning of heavy weather in the weeks ahead. Snow will fall and duvet days will become more attractive than ever.

“Nooo...!” wailed my Labour supporting friend. “What if half the country is snowed in on December 12?”

“What if it is?”

“Labour voters will be stuck at home.”

“As will all the others.”

“But there could be a mail strike. How will postal votes get through?”

I kid you not. The poor guy is distraught. He’s at his wits’ end.

Not even the real world is safe from this nonsense. How long can we make our duvet days last before we go stir crazy?

Downhearted and depressed? Me? If fed up counts, then yes, probably. Brexit won’t be done by a general election, neither by another referendum. Even Brexit won’t get Brexit done. And if that’s what all this is about – which it appears to be – you lost me at “Done”.

All that said, there is a genuine need to register to vote – if that simple task hasn’t yet been completed. Really, why would you not?

There are all kinds of noble reasons to do it. People died to give us a voice; women chained themselves to railings and threw themselves under horses; democracy is precious; wars were fought for it; you have to be in it to win it and all that. You’ve heard chapter and verse umpteen times before.

But – and I’ll grant it’s a big but unless you’re a tribal, bed-hopping tactician – there’s always a chance that at some stage someone will turn up with a half-way credible plan which requires no soundbite slogan or meaningless poster daub of impossible persuasion.

Also, the way to show them how fed up we are is not to give up our hard-won rights in fits of pique. It’s to let them know how we feel.

And – to coin another increasingly dubious mantra – your vote counts. At least it used to. Sometimes.

What the heck, it’s still worth a shot... snow or no snow.