Sliding doors. It had been a while since Rishi Sunak had had a decent night’s sleep. Even when he did manage the occasional few hours of uninterrupted unconsciousness, there was no liberation. His dreams were even more terrifying than reality. Always the same thoughts running through his head. Why had he done it? Why had he talked himself in to going for a July election when he could have waited another six months? When he could have at least enjoyed the summer. Two years in Downing Street would have looked so much better on his CV.
Round and round. The same circular ruminations. He had thought he was being so clever by doing the unexpected. But all he had succeeded in doing was wrongfooting his own party. Hell, he had even taken himself by surprise. He should have known it was a terrible mistake from the enthusiasm with which Oliver Dowden had greeted the idea. Oliver’s one talent was an unerring instinct for his own self-destruction. In a fairer political system, natural selection would have done for him long ago.
