The PM found no friend in sight. Then she looked across the dispatch box and relaxed
Theresa May checked her reflection in the mirror. No love lost there. She still hated herself. Hated the person she had become, hated the job she was doing. When she had first become prime minister, she had felt almost complete. But now she was little more than a hollowed-out shell, almost unrecognisable even to herself.
Brexit had poisoned her from within. She knew it was a terrible mistake – she had always known that – and everything she touched now turned to dust around her. She wasn’t even making the best of a bad job. She was doing a bad job badly. Most mornings she would lie under the duvet, willing time to stand still. She carried on merely because it was less humiliating than not carrying on. Stubbornness disguised as a misplaced sense of duty.
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