“Bloody hell, Gordon, you’re freaking me out.” Is that what wives normally say first thing in the morning to their husbands? I don’t know what to expect any more. Gordon Brown, my Heathcliff of a husband, is so volatile at the moment (who am I trying to kid? It’s been like that ever since we started dating, or “stepping out” as Gordon liked to put it). So this morning I did what I’ve learnt to do every day, half-open one eye to gauge his mood. I flipped out. His face was one inch in front of mine waiting for me to wake up. It was such a shock I jumped and nearly smacked him in the face with my head. Once he had my full attention he started rabbiting on: “Sarah, I’ve done it. I’ve bloody gone and done it.”

Today, it turns out, he’s pumped up. Yep, Gordon is the saviour of the bloody universe, a superhero, blah blah. All this talk of him forging a new Bretton Woods, following in the footsteps of Roosevelt and Churchill, has gone to his head. I think he believes there is an actual flesh-and-blood hand of history on his shoulder. Only a couple of weeks ago there were two hands of history firmly gripped around his throat. He’s so used to being ignored when he lectures leaders of the world that he’s “leading the way”; this time they listened.