I never thought the day would come. I can’t even remember when it happened; some time in May I think, maybe June. I was sitting alone at home – where else? – and it hit me: a deep, painful yearning for the House of Commons’ own-label wine. If you are reading this, you have probably drunk it before. If you haven’t, imagine wine, but worse. I was sitting there, a few miles away from Westminster, and all I wanted was to be in a room in parliament that was either too cold or too hot, and I wanted to grimace as I took each warm, acidic sip while talking to someone I did not want to be talking to. Like a child idly daydreaming of summer camp in early September, I thought of receptions in the Thames Pavillion on the terrace, which were somehow designed to only ever look so empty to be soul-crushing, or so heaving they felt claustrophobic. I longed for drinks in those fancy rooms on Carlton House Terrace, where the ceilings are so high it never gets warm and everyone has to awkwardly stand the...