I never imagined this could happen, but Theresa May reduced me to tears last week. Not because of what she was saying, but because I can’t imagine how she manages to get out of bed each morning with the nightmare she knows is ahead of her from which it is impossible to wake up.
Mrs May has never been easy to warm to. She has about her the dull stolidity of the do-gooder who, even though they are doing the right thing, bores you rigid. What in some people would be applauded as principle, in her is seen as stubbornness.
What in others would be viewed as pragmatism, in her is portrayed as weakness. Her insistence on sticking to her oft-repeated script makes her conviction sound utterly robotic.
But really, after the week that she’s been through, you have to give her a little bit of love – I don’t think she would appreciate a stranger’s hug – for the incredible achievement of being still standing.
May addresses the media inside Number 10 Downing Street last week as she insisted she would not be forced out by her Tory rivals
There must have been one brief, heady moment when she thought it was a wonderful idea to become Prime Minister.
But the past few days, in fact pretty much the whole of the past two years, must have consigned that to the far recesses of memory.
Imagine being barracked so ferociously by a baying mob of MPs that you have to raise your voice to a shriek to be heard in Prime Minister’s Questions. Having to jump to your feet every two minutes during what was effectively a three-hour show trial in Parliament where each questioner, high on the scent of blood, tried to go for the kill.
Standing at a lectern in front of a press conference full of journalists who had no interest in what you’d achieved or were trying to say, only hunger for the gory details of what they hoped might be your imminent demise.
And having to do it all without looking like a bag lady. Lipstick freshly applied, checking that the eye make-up hasn’t trickled into the creases, ensuring that your hair hasn’t gone frizzy and your nail polish hasn’t chipped. Whereas men can appear worn and a bit scruffy after a long night negotiating, in women that kind of thing makes you look as if you are out of control.
Mrs May (pictured with her husband, Philip, in Hamburg) says she will continue to fight for the future of the country as Prime Minister
At a time like this, Mrs May won’t be wanting a single word of the coverage to be about her kitten heels, but she will still need to demonstrate her invincibility by looking immaculately put-together.
Some commentators (usually men) have suggested that, as a woman, the PM will find this relentless criticism, the endless precariousness of her position and the betrayal of those around her particularly unpleasant and hard to take. But that’s far too simplistic. Women are often at their best dealing with a crisis and, if anything, May has demonstrated very feminine characteristics in her stoicism.
Women can handle huge amounts of detail, they do it all the time at home.
They are master of the dull necessities (after her tumultuous Thursday, Mrs May returned home by 9.30pm ‘so I could get the washing on and leave it to dry overnight’) as well as doing their demanding day jobs: being pilots, CEOs, teachers, Prime Minister.
Mrs May has survived by knowing she is in control of the minutiae of the deal – plodding ahead one step at a time instead of getting caught up in the often more alluring ‘big picture’ thinking of men.
She has been able to see the stark reality of what’s in front of her rather than getting lost in the fantastical possibilities dreamt up by her detractors, particularly the men who so often suffer from male pattern blindness – being unable to see what is there in front of them, so busy are they scanning the glorious horizon.
In her elegant tweed jacket and white top with a discreet string of pearls, Mrs May was a picture of calm
She has refused to indulge in bullyboy name-calling or rise to the deeply unpleasant verbal aggression she has been subjected to.
Instead she has attempted to sound gracious and conciliatory even though privately she must have frequently wanted to commit murder. And she’s still found the time to consider a change of jewellery each day.
Most of our recent male Prime Ministers have been intoxicated by the power of high office, treating politics like the most thrilling game in the world. Tony Blair loved to deploy his chess pieces in reckless wars across the globe. David Cameron flung us into the biggest roulette wheel in memory by calling the EU referendum.
But Mrs May, like most women, is not interested in playing the game of power. She just wants to get the job done. Even if the job is impossible.
I believe that she genuinely does think her deal is the best she can achieve for the country and she will continue to try to see it through and take responsibility. In that, she’s acting rather like a parent.
The Prime Minister (pictured in her Downing Street office) is determined to stay the course despite heavy criticism this week
Because, as many mothers know, there are often times when you have doubts about a course of action that you are trying to persuade your child to embark on. But on calculating the odds, it seems to be the best alternative.
As you try to convince your recalcitrant offspring, you certainly don’t indulge in a load of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ and ‘on the other hands’. You try your damnedest to appear utterly sure.
But who knows what Mrs May feels like when she gets home at night to Philip after yet another day of battering, another day of trying to herd rats. I was glad to read that on Wednesday night he poured her a large whisky and sorted dinner – even if it was just beans on toast.
I hope he also runs her a bath, listens to her download – and yes, then gives her the biggest hug.
Insult that proves my old heroine’s not been beaten by a stroke
Joni Mitchell, the original lady of the canyon, made an appearance at a recent tribute concert – her first since suffering a brain aneurism two years ago. Back in the 1970s, young women like me were captivated by Joni’s inspirational image – that of a beautiful, artistic, vulnerable, love-lorn minstrel who had affairs with all the rock gods of the time.
The truth, however, was somewhat different. Joni, above, was known, by those close to her, to be wildly competitive, tricky, waspish and often sulphurous in her opinions of others.
As she recovered from her stroke, a visiting ex-lover told her of the death of Leonard Cohen, one of her many famous past boyfriends. Her growled response, ‘Not a fan’, reassured him that she was, despite illness, still the same old Joni.
The great divide: nibbles or not
Alison Steadman’s dinner party was satirised in Abigail’s Party
A friend of mine was bemoaning how she hated ‘nibbles’. ‘They ruin the meal and leave my hands sticky,’ was her verdict.
Some people feel it is rude not to offer guests pre-dinner snacks – quails eggs, salami, mini croque monsieurs, smoked salmon on rye. Others (myself included) think they’re unnecessary and that, having made an effort to produce a main meal, you want guests hungry enough to eat it.
Where you stand on the nibbles debate is one of the great social divides.
We may have come a long way from the days of Beverly, the cheese-and-pineapple-wielding hostess – played by Alison Steadman, above– whose dinner party was satirised in Abigail’s Party, but she still gets the last word. ‘I told you nobody’d like olives, Laurence’.
I’m about to remove a huge lime tree that blocks the sun in our London garden and replace it with something smaller and more decorative.
Long ago I realised that impatience rules me out as one of life’s gardeners and most of my planting decisions are based on how quickly the result can be seen. But there’s something rather splendid about planting a tree which will only reach its prime after I’m long gone.
It’s like giving a gift to the future and I’m taking forever to decide what to select. All suggestions welcome.