I had a sudden moment of brief optimism last night, the first for a long time, as I watched the clips of the Prime Minister speaking in the street outside 10, Downing Street last night. It was as if he did not believe his own rhetoric, as the crowd bayed for his blood in Whitehall. All the puff and pomposity had gone out of him, as if he had suddenly realised that perhaps, after all, it was not such a great idea to have prorogued parliament, to have upset and alienated not just the fringes of the Tory party, but now increasingly its middle ground, those who may be anxious about losing their seats, those who were told, and believed, that he was a liberal at heart, and, instead, has thrown in his lot with the extremists, the zealots, taking advice only from a non-conservative who has moved his bunker from his father’s estate in Durham and believes that life is a war game. Maybe he will lose the election he may be about to call after all. He looked deflated.