This morning my knees hurt more than usual as I staggered up the escalator at Marylebone, and the prospect of another day’s futile submissions before an uncaring tribunal (whose civil practice leads him to view all criminal hacks as witless shysters who provide some comic relief at their own expense) weighed heavily. The dimly remembered fact it was Friday didn’t lighten my mood. On the concourse waiting for the platform to show stood a man clutching a coffee and looking vaguely expectant. He looked at me. I looked at him. There is something pleasing about the fact that we live in a country where the Chancellor of the Exchequer can travel with such little fanfare. It is somewhat less pleasing that he is George Osborne. He and I were at university at the same time, he is friends with people I know.
‘Hello George, I don’t know if you remember me. We were once in the same room 25 years ago. I abhor you and all you stand for.’ Are the words I didn’t say. Just then they opened the ticket barriers for him and his discreet entourage and he processed quietly to the train along the empty platform while the rest of us waited. My knee began to throb.