It was December 2010 and I was six months into my first job as a political researcher in the House of Commons. A life-size cardboard cut-out of David Cameron stood behind me in the windowless basement that I shared with a motley crew of other MPs' staff. The then-Prime Minister was draped in tinsel and sporting a jaunty festive hat. Beryl Goldsmith, Norman Tebbit’s formidable 83-year-old secretary, was bellowing at someone down the phone; a mouse scurried up the mottled wallpaper beside the bins. My boss walked in. "Look what I asked Caroline to buy for me," he said, gleefully pulling two baby-pink, diamanté vibrators from his shopping bag. This was Mark Garnier, Member of Parliament for Wyre Forest, Caroline was his PA and one of the presents was for a woman working in his constituency office; my first thought – as the sex toy sparkled under the desk lamp – is that this would make a sensational splash in the Daily Mail. It therefore came as no surprise when I woke up one Sunday last autumn to find the story emblazoned across the paper’s front page.

Mark’s dildo debacle was a silly in-joke that backfired when he fell out with Caroline, who later leaked the story. Nevertheless, the scoop kick-started a wave of disturbing sexual-harassment revelations from the heart of Westminster about various MPs and Mark would eventually lose his job as a minister in this month's reshuffle . Yet many in politics will tell you that this was a scandal waiting to happen. It certainly seemed that way to me.

When I arrived in Parliament, I was 22 years old and thrilled at the prospect of working in the corridors of power; corridors that I believed to be buzzing with the country’s greatest minds. The Gothic building was alive with the ghosts of brilliant politicians past. Miles of wood-panelled passageways were stacked from floor to ceiling with bound volumes of Hansard, the official record of every word spoken in Parliament since 1803. I once leafed through the 1987 edition to read Margaret Thatcher and Neil Kinnock’s clash at the dispatch box on the day that I was born. Bronze statues of Churchill and Lloyd George loomed over the entrance to the Commons chamber, their toes rubbed shiny from decades of MPs fingering them for good luck. Men in buckled shoes and tights guarded doorways with swords. The scarf worn by Emily Davison, the suffragette who fatally threw herself under the King’s horse, hung in a glass case on the wall. Its faded green and purple message ‘Votes for Women’ is a poignant reminder that this year is the centenary of when her request was finally granted. The place was exhilarating and daunting in equal measure.

But I hadn’t worked there long before disappointment began to creep in. Despite the unique traditions, the inspiring architecture and some fascinating people, at times I found the Palace of Westminster to be a petty, gossiping, sleazy place riddled with casual sexism.

I would come home every day with a fresh anecdote: one MP referred to me as ‘Big Tits’ behind my back; another introduced their new, male researcher as ‘good, but his breasts aren’t as nice as the last one’s’. A young woman was advised by her boss to take the stairs to his ministerial office because he thought that she was overweight. Hot-headed MPs would break things in anger and torment their staff. I knew a girl who was losing her hair from stress and another who came to me in tears because her boss had thrown his briefcase at her.

It reminded me of a boys’ boarding-school where the smell of wood polish and canteen food lingered in the carpets and girls were considered both mildly exotic and something of a joke. Heads always turned as your heels clicked conspicuously on the mosaic tiles of Central Lobby. Prime Minister’s Questions was like morning assembly where cliques of MPs would gather to be scolded by the Speaker. I once sat in the private gallery where there was no glass separating me from the braying mob below. The women’s jackets offered the only splashes of colour amid the sea of suits yet their softer voices were comparatively inaudible. I often heard grumbles when female colleagues were promoted. One male MP asked me, "Would you rather a woman did the job or someone qualified?" Male MPs were jovially referred to as ‘shaggers’, while scandalised rumours circulated about their allegedly promiscuous female counterparts.



I cringe when I hear that Tories refer to Theresa May as "mummy", as if that is the only way they can conceive of a female authority figure. The Prime Minister prefers to avoid the Westminster watering holes where much of the boozing and schmoozing takes place. I think that’s a wise decision. I remember endless scandals starting in the Strangers' Bar including affairs between MPs and staff, and drunken punch-ups. As it was my first job, I couldn’t tell whether this was normal or not. Did employees usually deliver love notes between offices? Was it customary to be asked if you had a boyfriend during a meeting about the Common Fisheries Policy?

Of course, there were magnificent parts of my job too. I could write Mark’s speeches, watch live debates and sit in on meetings with members of the cabinet. I loved to smuggle friends through a secret door to the roof where we would watch the sun set as the sound of bagpipes drifted up from the buskers on Westminster Bridge. When Big Ben chimed, it made the prosecco in our glasses quiver. I saw Pope Benedict XVI and President Obama speak in Westminster Hall, the same 900-year-old venue where leather tennis balls, believed to belong to Henry VIII, were found in the rafters. MP4, a rock band of MPs, also performed there and as I was dancing (to their aptly named album, Cross Party) I glanced down to see that I was standing on the spot where Thomas More was put on trial.

Perhaps these memories are why I have always laughed the stories off: boys will be boys. What’s the harm in a hand on the knee? Isn’t it hilarious how that MP is older than your father, but thought it was appropriate to lunge over lunch? We even chuckled when another tried to get a friend of mine fired after she politely rejected his advances. It’s only with hindsight that I realise how vulnerable I was. Crude gifts aside, I was lucky that Mark was a thoughtful boss who looked after me, because there is little in the way of support for employees. Subsidised alcohol, late nights and high stress are common excuses for frisky politicians letting off steam. I think part of the problem is that Parliament is dominated by middle-aged men with inflated egos and a sense of entitlement.

After nearly three years I was ready to leave. On my final day, Mark treated me to champagne on the Terrace overlooking the Thames. He gave me a book chronicling the inspiring women in Westminster, from Emmeline Pankhurst to Doreen Lawrence; if only there were more of them. Thankfully, that was my only farewell gift. Not a sex toy in sight.

This piece was originally published in the February 2018 issue of Harper's Bazaar.

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