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 there, still wearing their coats, holding onto their champagne for dear life.

I sighed and reminisced about evenings spent in College Garden behind Westminster Abbey, where it would invariably rain, and the ones in the dark and cramped downstairs of the Red Lion, always held on nights when it was glorious outside. In my darkest moments, I yearned for the awkward layout of that one bookable room in …