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You could see it, feel it even. There was no escaping it: excitement. It was in their smiles, their giggles and their all too eager eyes. It hung around them like clouds of cheap perfume at a school disco and clung to them like the smell of freshly chopped onions in a hot sweaty kitchen.

FROM the foothills of ideas, through the base camps of suggestions, up the long ascent of debate – stopping off briefly at the bivouac of consultation – to the pinnacle of policy. It’s a long hard climb, enough to separate men from boys, mice and sometimes marbles.

THE political resignation has, with regret, moved on. In the old days it was a lot more upfront: you got caught doing something naughty, you held your hand up and you went, never to be heard of again. The modern resignation is different.