It was a Friday morning in 1992, Britain had just had an election, and I was on an ice rink. No special reason. You’re in Edinburgh, you’re a posh teenager, it’s the Christmas or Easter holidays, weekday mornings you go to the ice rink. It was a thing. Maybe it still is.

The truth about being a politician’s child
It’s not that you’re more certain than anyone else. It’s that you find out early how many people disagree with you – and despise you for it

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