As excitable new MPs are escorted around comfy offices in Portcullis House, we ‘departing members’, as we’re known, are guided around small, unglamorous rooms in Richmond House, the scruffier Westminster neighbour, to be told about the winding-up period. I’m the only Labour MP here. I hug one of my favourite Tories and swap loser anecdotes with another former MP. At least the pain of losing is softened by my party’s win.
A woman pointed at me and shrieked: ‘Everything’s awful!
It’s time to leave parliament. The staff of an MP friend carry things I don’t want to risk putting in the removals van. I take a different route from my office, lowering the chance of bumping into newbies. They tend to rush up to me and say: ‘You helped me so much in my campaign – so sorry you’re going’. It’s very kind, but it’s getting tiring saying: ‘Don’t worry about me, new chapter, I’m so proud of you, let me know how I can help’.
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