What do Theresa May, Angela Merkel, Margaret Thatcher and, ahem, me have in common? We are all daughters of the clergy. Thatcher’s father was a lay Methodist preacher, so she’s not strictly in our camp, but the coincidence is close enough to call.
When I was young, I secretly harboured the suspicion that I was royalty and I courted this suspicion by making sure to always wear flouncy dresses on Sundays, a habit I still haven’t quite relinquished. I wonder if Theresa May’s well-charted interest in leopard print shoes has similar origins.
Growing up in a vicarage is a unique upbringing, and creates a kind of brotherhood (or sisterhood) among fellow vicars’ kids. It is not unusual to find a homeless man facing sexual harassment charges chatting to a hereditary peer across your kitchen table. Nor is it strange to come home to find your bed is taken by a teenage girl who’s been kicked out by her mum’s fifth husband and she’s just staying for a couple of days, except, six months later she’s still living there and calling your mother ‘Mum’.
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