Woe to all politicians who put their children in the limelight

Newsnight called the other day to ask if I fancied coming on to talk about David Cameron’s new idea of parenting classes. They stood me down in favour of Kirstie Allsopp in the end, which was understandable, particularly as I couldn’t figure out whether Cameron’s idea is a good one or not. I just kept thinking about how he’d exploit it come the next election. He’d be there with his kids, wouldn’t he? With a big frown on his shiny red face, as he pretended to learn about CBeebies and the naughty step. Awful.

I am not balanced about this stuff. I’m just not. Florence Rose Endellion Cameron is doubtless an adorable baby, and I’m sure she sicks up that glutinous white stuff onto her father’s shoulder most prettily. But it’s just not right that I could probably pick her out in a line-up. As could most of the country. Especially when she’s had no say in the matter one way or another. Especially when she’s still at an age where they all basically look the same, anyway. One of the nicest things about Gordon Brown (maybe the only nice thing about Gordon Brown) was the way his two boys were always off limits. I can only remember them being paraded in front of the cameras once, as they waddled hand in hand down Downing Street after the nation kicked him out.

This one comes from the heart. Whenever people ask me what it was like being a political brat, I always say I don’t know, because I wasn’t one. The archives do not hold a photo of me as a toddler in a blue rosette. My sister and I did not have pride of place in electoral literature, nobody ever filmed us eating burgers, and we were not expected to knock on doors.