What about a quick-fire round, I say to Keir Starmer, who is pushed for time on the campaign trail, a few snapshots to help glimpse the man likely to be PM? Starmer is nodding. He’s keen to be helpful, keen to be a sport, although a little unsure of this magazine profile business and the need to talk about feelings. We are in the green room, all mirrors and concrete, backstage at Labour’s Scottish launch in Inverclyde, and unless I’m mistaken he still has on a layer of foundation. Ready? He folds his arms across his chest. “Yes, by all means.”
But then he can’t really say if he’s strictly an optimist or a pessimist and, no, doesn’t know if he’s an extrovert or an introvert, either. “I’ve never really thought about it. I don’t know what that tells you.” He doesn’t know what he dreamed last night – or ever: “I don’t dream.” Just hits the pillow at 11 and – “bang” – is out till around 5. He doesn’t have a favourite novel or poem, wasn’t scared of anything as a child. “Nothing. No phobias.” Hmmm, this is harder than I thought. What about his lovely heather-coloured tie, where is it from and who chose it? He takes it between finger and thumb. “Would you say heather? I had it down as slightly darker.” Quick-fire is perhaps not his format.
