<|begin_of_text|><|begin_of_text|><|begin_of_text|>You cannot overestimate the mood of paranoia, hilarity and madness that pervades Westminster. Normal looking MPs seem to have messages branded on their foreheads: "tennis court repairs", "wife's tampons", like Hawthorne's scar<wm>let letter of the nation; yet, in these moments, the nation feels that their secrets are best kept hidden.

Overnight, the normal look is a prison in disguise; a world of chaos, in contrast, I had my moments where everything is not a secret. Not always. Not at least once. Like one particular Saturday lunchtime meeting in my chair in parliament. You can be talking, smiling, laughing; yet suddenly an invisible whisper comes to mind like a rumpus of chaos in</wm> the crowd.

Sitting beside you at parliament is not a secret that only you know. Each one