We are all only human - all of us besides politicians at least

I have just returned from a few days in France, where I was blessed by lazy breakfasts, blue skies and undiluted sunshine. Best of all for a self-confessed news junkie, it gave my poor sizzled brain cells a few hours respite from the breaking headlines.

In the light of events in the British government this week, I imagine a couple of ministers would have welcomed the chance to accompany me to the Cote d'Azur. If nothing else, the chance to sit in dark sunglasses behind a newspaper in an anonymous European cafe would have been just what they needed.

One would surely have been Liam Fox, who resigned his post as UK defence secretary on Friday after a desperate (and ultimately fruitless) attempt to stave off professional ignominy following one of the more eccentric scandals of recent history.

Not for him the usual stuff of political intrigue, such as financial misdemeanours or illicit romance. Instead, Mr Fox had allowed an old friend (and best man at his wedding), a fellow named Adam Werritty, to accompany him on 19 official overseas trips. Indeed, so used to this jet-set lifestyle had Mr Werritty become that he had calling cards printed advertising himself as an "official adviser", although there was nothing official about him.

When I left for France on Tuesday, Mr Fox still had the full backing of his employer, Prime Minister David Cameron. But as we all know, whether in football or government, "full backing" is now an inevitable precursor to clearing out your desk a few days later.

Yet if you thought the case of the politician and his unpaid adviser was odd, it was soon to be followed by an even more baffling episode - that of the Conservative grandee and the disappearing documents.

The man in question, Oliver Letwin, was once tipped for high office. Indeed, there were many who reckoned that if only he could tone down his plummy vowels and shed a few kilos, he would have been a contender for party leader.

Alas, Mr Letwin's ascent of the greasy pole of politics stalled after the Conservatives' 2005 elections loss. A particularly damning critique came from a woman on the street interviewed by the BBC. When asked what she thought of Mr Letwin, she answered simply "twit" - and sadly the appellation stuck.

Six years later with his party in office, Mr Letwin was safely tucked away in a middle-ranking cabinet post, his reputation seemingly safe. But then on Thursday, a newspaper photographer captured Mr Letwin casually disposing of official government documents in a park litter bin on his way to work.

The images of Mr Letwin stuffing handfuls of important papers into a public bin seemed to confirm that woman's judgement so long ago. Not only did he look decidedly twittish, but following Mr Fox's inexplicable lapse, it has left Mr Cameron's government looking like a gallery of eccentrics and blunderers.

Indeed, one wag on Twitter has suggested that Mr Fox handed in his resignation letter to Mr Letwin on Tuesday, but the bin men only found it 72 hours later.

Yet the odd thing about both of these furores is the absence of any clear wrongdoing. Mr Fox may have shown a lack of judgement in allowing an old pal to swan around the world with him, but there is only the suggestion of impropriety; Mr Letwin has confirmed that none of the correspondence he discarded contained anything likely to compromise state security. Nonetheless, two hefty political careers have been mortally wounded.

I wonder if perhaps we are becoming too severe on what are essentially human frailties. Time was when ministers could get up to all sorts of nefarious activities without so much as a slap on the wrist. Now their every word and deed is recorded, scrutinised, and weighed in the balance. A single mistake and political oblivion is the result.

In any case, it's too easy to look for dark motives where none exists. I've never been privy to state secrets, but I can recall an occasion in my acting career when, having become frustrated by the director's silence during play rehearsals, I spied him writing furtively in a notepad. Desperate to see his innermost thoughts, I leapt from the stage, snatched the pad out of his hand and read what he had written.

His observations on my performance turned out to be less than inspiring. All he had written was "remember to buy potatoes".

Michael Simkins is an actor and writer based in London