Iain Duncan Smith perched on the edge of his seat, clutching a small, silk cushion with the letter C embroidered on the front in both hands. When a man has just found his conscience after years of tireless searching, he’s keen not to let it out of his sight. IDS leant a little further towards Andrew Marr, his head cocked to one side and his eyelids fluttering helplessly.

“There were three of us in this marriage,” he said, fighting back the tears. “Me, the little people of this country and the Treasury.” Marr looked a little taken aback by this unexpectedly intimate Princess IDS moment. This wasn’t an incarnation of the former work and pensions secretary with which he was familiar, and he was understandably confused; not to say sceptical, pointing out that he had always seemed quite happy to shaft the poorest and most vulnerable members of society for the past six years and it was asking a lot of the public to believe that secretly he had always been on their side.

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The princess tilted her his head a little further to one side, willing a tear to form in his eye and slide gently down his cheek. His blinks became more urgent, but moisture came there none. He pressed on, his voice lambent. “I love the little people and the little people love me,” he said, remembering to choke his words. “Our love for one another is pure. But all through our relationship the Treasury had abused the sanctity of our marriage. I put up with it in silence because I wanted to help the needy, but finally last Friday I felt I had had enough.”

Marr tried to look concerned but his eyes betrayed the thrill of TV gold. Weren’t all the cuts to disability payments that were featured in the budget actually your idea in the first place, and hadn’t you endorsed the changes in a letter after the budget, he asked. The princess coughed nervously. “These cough were only cough proposals that we put out cough as part of a wider cough consultation,” he said. The princess coughed again. There was something sticking in his throat. The truth possibly.

The princess glanced down at his silk conscience, begging it to help him out. The conscience remained impassive. The princess had done without a conscience for years; he could wing it alone for another 10 minutes. “I felt isolated and semi-detached,” the princess said appealingly. “I became depressed that the Treasury was becoming between me and the people whom I adore and that I had increasingly become locked in a loveless abusive relationship.”

There were several million people in the country who knew exactly how he felt, but the princess was no longer thinking of them. This was all about him, him, him. Me, me, me. Me the wronged princess. The longer he spoke, the more the princess managed to convince himself. He lowered his eyelids. There was a tear, he was sure of it. Not one that anyone watching the TV would notice, but he knew it was there. It must be, surely? His conscience looked up quizzically from his lap. It remained to be convinced.

“All I’ve ever wanted to do was to make a difference,” he continued, wisely not mentioning whether it was a difference for the better or worse. And what of suggestions that the timing of his resignation had rather more to do with him being increasingly sidelined in government because of his support for Brexit and he would never have a better chance to stick two fingers up to David Cameron and George Osborne?

The princess channelled shock and hurt. A deep, deep sadness lined his face. “I’ve never had any personal ambitions,” he insisted, leaving many to wonder why he had ever put himself forward as one of the least effective leaders of the Conservative party in living memory. “To say that my resignation was about anything other than my love for the little people who are all in it together with me is just a lie.” At this point the conscience tried to wriggle away, but the princess gripped it tighter. The conscience was not going anywhere just yet. Not when he was still on TV.

“Do you think George Osborne would make a good prime minister?” Marr asked.

“Sorry I missed that,” the princess replied. “I was too busy wrestling with my conscience.”

Marr repeated the question and the princess replied he was certain George would be brilliant. This was too much for the conscience; with one last leap it was free. The princess thought about chasing after it, but decided against it. He wouldn’t be needing it again anytime soon.