Downing Street was a scene of farce, inside and out. Inside No 10, the Cabinet was informed by Sir Keir Starmer that it could not discuss the one thing gripping City markets and the country at large: his own dicky future. Outside, the tricoteuses of television craned for angles and screamed questions at ministers. The frenzy! The noise! The ratings!
May sunshine lit the cul-de-sac’s blueish brickwork. Chaffinch song drifted from a whitebeam tree. Then the breeze was mobbed by rook-like squawks from rolling-news network aces filling airtime during Sir Keir’s Cabinet showdown.
At 10.35am ministers started scuttling out of the shiny
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