Our revolving PMs are like foster pets from a war-torn city - Susan Morrison

Seriously, is there any point in getting to know them? Prime ministers, I mean. We get attached to them and then suddenly, off they pop. It’s like we’re fostering pets, like rescued dogs from some war-torn city.

It’s Larry I feel for. That poor cat. Just as he gets used to one of them mooching about, he’s got another one to contend with. No wonder he took his temper out on that fox. Name drop time, I’ve actually met Larry. Well, what I mean is Larry stared at me and dared me to try to pet him. I backed down.

Now we’ve got Mr Sunak, who I always thought was very tall and lanky. It’s his suits, y’see. They don't fit properly. Always flapping about his wrists and ankles. Turns out, he’s only fractionally taller than an angry wee Glaswegian bloke looking for a fight in the sort of pub that has fluorescent lighting.

I would have thought he had enough money to get himself a decent suit.

When did the Tories start dressing so badly? Macmillan was never seen without a pocket square. Eden was man for the double breasted and sharp turn-up. Thatcher wore her power suits like couture armour. I think Cameron wore a nice suit, but I can’t remember. Even Theresa had her leopard skin kitten heels.

Boris always looked like a man who had run through a clothes shop in the dark, and by ‘clothes shop’, I’m talking downmarket charity.

Poor Liz, and I fear she is now forever to be known as ‘Poor Liz’, had a tendency to the slightly too tight dress. Mind you, she did get a lot of use out of that little black number. And now Mr Sunak with his suit flapping about his wrists as he was ushered in without a smile.

Boris backed down, which was a mild disappointment. I’d bought popcorn to watch the fight. Well, I won’t be the first woman Boris has let down. But I tell you what, I'm just going to store the snacks for now. Got a feeling he won’t be gone for long.