Rudd will be going through the darkest, blackest days of his life. After he failed to win the seat of Griffith in 1996 he wrote a monograph called When the phone doesn't ring. I am not sure how often the phone rang for an ALP candidate for Griffith in 1996, but it never stops ringing for a prime minister.

I cannot think of any prime minister who has fallen so far so fast. John Howard had a year to contemplate his likely defeat and was toughened by the scars of many setbacks and disappointments. Bob Hawke could see Paul Keating's shadow looming over him for years. But Rudd's downfall came like the thunderclap in a summer's storm - one minute he was the master of all he surveyed, packing his bags to hang out with Barack Obama at the G20, and then the assassins struck and he was gone.

His best ally was by his side when he said goodbye. Unlike her deadpan husband, Therese Rein's face spoke volumes - the horror and the pain and the sheer black screaming injustice of it all. How could they do this to my husband? How could they do this to him after all he had done for them, after all we had done for them?

And watching her, stoical and strong, I thought of my wife Lucy and how she had stood by me when it was my turn to be battered and bashed by this grim and brutal business of politics.

The spouses have the toughest time in this political game. The politician is in the middle of the arena, beset on all sides. But he can fight back and denounce his critics, strike a blow as the jackals tear him down.