Angela Eagle, as befits her oxymoronic name, looks like a cherub and attacks like a raptor. Today her outfit was deceptively mumsy. A no-nonsense jacket, a sky-blue sweater, an arc of pearls, like a smile, laid across her breast-bone. Eagle is the mistress of the poisoned barb and she’d been whittling away at her missile all morning. Up she got and let fly. Her aim was true, her weighting perfect.
‘In June, the prime minister told the country she was the only person who could offer strong and stable leadership. With her cabinet crumbling before her eyes, can she tell us how it’s going?’
And nothing happened. Or barely anything. The gales of hilarity that usually greet Ms Eagle’s questions failed to materialise. A listless snuffling from the Labour benches, like the ripples of a turning tide, skittered across the house.
Extraordinary, really.
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