Good morning. Three minutes after 10, quite a lot to talk about today. But I'll begin, if I may, with a revelation that has shook me to my core. It's not, I grant you, the single most significant element of the skipfire currently burning at the heart of Downing Street. Indeed, it's probably not even remotely important, but I cannot quite believe.

Carrie Simmons, the Prime Minister's current partner, is reported to have wanted this refurbishment desperately

because of the John Lewis furniture and decor that they inherited from Theresa May.

Now, I know I grew up in Kiderminster, but I did go to public school.

I like to think I know a thing or two about poshness.

I thought John Lewis was posh.

We had a wedding list there.

I thought John Lewis was sort of something you can aspire to.

Something that you, when you grow up in the back streets of Kiddham,

you dream of a dining table from John Lewis or perhaps an occasional table.

Are they called occasional tables because you use them occasion?

No, never mind.

Or because they're for special occasions.

I do not know, but I don't know.

I was brought to my attention this morning by a colleague, and I didn't

quite understand at first. It didn't even enter my tiny bourgeois brain that John Lewis could be,

what I think one of the Mitford sisters described as non-you, as in something that the sort of

self-appointed Uber Toffs would look down their noses at

it just sort of reminded me as well of two other elements

that just perhaps knitted together

will construct a compelling case for caring

about this story which I understand completely

...