Much has been made of George Osborne’s tears at the funeral of Lady Thatcher in London last week. Were they for the lady herself, not implausible given his close association with the party from youth. Or for their membership of the club of high office, as brutal in its requirements now as it was in her own heady days.
There is scurrilous talk on the interweb at the moment, now confirmed, that a dinner has taken place between UKIP party leader Nigel Farage and media proprietor Rupert Murdoch. Whether this involved the warm embrace of likening minds, or the boa constrictor hug of a Mafioso warning off a rival, is hard to say. Nigel is playing his cards close to his chest.
It’s four o’clock on a Sunday in Bath and the long-promised sun has finally come out. I’ve just finished running a training weekend for fifteen adults. The participants are a diverse bunch; a solicitor, an estate agent, a retired teacher, a former employee of Goldman Sachs. There’s even a telecoms entrepreneur who’s just sold his own business.