I feel a bit like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Having been sucked into a tornado and deposited for almost ten years in a technicolour world of high political and personal drama in the wake of my other half, Alastair Campbell, I am back, not in Kansas but in black-and-white north London whence I came: being a journalist, hanging out with the kids, rarely getting out of my jeans and trainers, even riding a bike, for God’s sake. I have even got my own version of the ruby slippers — a cupboard full of posh ‘state visit’ suits (essential in No. 10) never to be worn again.
The thing about politics is that when you’re at the heart of it, everything seems so real and urgent. Once you get out, you realise the extent to which it passes the public by.
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