It’s been a busy few days for a prime minister who prefers to stay hidden indoors. On Monday, he had had his Windsor tryst with Ursula von der Leyen. Quelle tendresse! The brush of elbows under the portrait of the queen. The lingering glances across the lectern. The sweet riens. You’re the best. No, no. You’re the best. Yes. It really had been quite the day. He still hadn’t quite come back to earth. And why hadn’t she phoned like she had promised? Why did he care so much?
On Tuesday, he had been over in Northern Ireland to sell his deal. Doing everything that he liked least. Meeting the little people. Hello, guys. Yes, you guys. Hello, miss. Practising his glottal stop to make it sound as if he had the common touch. Standing around on a cold factory floor. Checking the phone anxiously to see if U had messaged at last. Nothing compares to U.
