Almost since she took office, I’ve wondered why Theresa May carries on. Imagine you must solve an impossible conundrum knowing your solution will please no one; you must square up to your peers in Europe who mock, pity and delight in your doom; an intemperate opposition, with no clue of its own, shrieks from the sidelines; while your colleagues are self-serving shysters, tweedy totalitarians and privileged bolters who unzip Savile Row flies to hose down your tent.

It’s not as if Mrs May relishes the trappings of power. No kingly Cameronian swanning around Chequers with chums, just weekends at home, at church, browsing her cookbooks with Philip. No preening Tony Blair pleasure in public performance for the most awkward woman alive. She is not young,