Draw the curtains, Mabel, and put out the lights; we may as well go to bed for the next five years.
Many of you won't remember what it's like. Well, it's no fun, I can tell you. Skies are grey, the plagues return, even the birdies will stop their singing and Hibs will be relegated.
Expect to be taxed until the pips squeak. They may not increase your national insurance contributions but Georgie-Porgie will have his evil way with VAT and income tax. The bankers will be alright, of course, and the rich will duly escape their liability for inheritance tax. On the other hand, the poor will be ground into dust with savage cuts in welfare benefits. And they'll take away my bus-pass.
Cameron's moonface will be ubiquitous on the telly and I will grind my remaining teeth at his assumption that the natural order of things has been restored. The nasties (think Grayling, think Hammond, think - horror of horrors - Liam Fox) will come out of the woodwork to torment those of a liberal disposition. And that solitary Scottish Tory MP, the one with the uncanny resemblance to the opera singer in the Go-Compare ads, will be on Scottish Newsnicht three times a week.
And don't think they'll do anything serious about electoral reform or parliamentary expenses. The House of Lords will continue to exert its baleful influence and Scottish MPs may or may not be allowed to vote on non-Scottish matters. Calman will put in a drawer and forgotten about, while the howls of outrage from north of the border on this and on the cuts will calmly be ignored.
So prepare yourself for the misery to come. Because, sure as eggs is eggs, a hard rain's gonna fall.