Ruth liked having a headache when she was going over her correspondence; it made her feel like she had a real job. As the wife of an MP, she received the kinds of letters which, it was imagined, men would never be able to understand.

Over the past year, she had grown used to a number of catchphrases.

First, were the openers. There was the standard ‘Mrs. Spencer.’ There was the feminist ‘Ms. Spencer.’ There was the over-familiar ‘Dear Ruth’ – or just ‘Ruth’ or, horror of horrors, ‘Ruthie’ – as if the letter were a note scribbled in haste from her oldest friend. There were also the amusing: ‘To The Power Behind The Throne,’ or ‘To The Person Whose Husband I Voted For So I Could Send You This Letter.’

The opening sentences were also repetitive – and would never be addressed to a man. There was the desperate: ‘I am truly at my wits’ end,’ which Ruth did not like particularly, because of its assumed chummy female solidarity: Men don’t notice such things, or care if a woman is at her wits’ end, but you, as a woman, will care! There was also the falseness of: ‘I really don’t know who else to turn to.’ If you are turning to strangers, you have surely widened your options to more than just one stranger! There was also the instant-intimacy of: ‘As a woman, I know you will understand when I say…’ Or the back-story of: ‘When I was young, I never expected that this would happen to me.’ There was also the uselessness of: ‘I have not written to ask anything of you, but thought you might find the following history informative…’.

There were also the paper-cutters. A surprising number of people followed her career, and sent her photographs of herself in the newspaper, often with fashion or makeup tips. An elderly woman in Yorkshire disapproved of almost everything Ruth wore, circling with a heavy-inked pen all the flesh left exposed by her outfits. It seemed that Ruth would only find her approval by appearing in public in a burka, or a small pup-tent. Instructively, a divorcee in Cheltenham thought that Ruth’s costumes did not show enough skin, and warned her that ‘men do not like to stick around a woman who is not appealing, and if he leaves you, you lose the power to strike blows for women.’ Obviously, thought Ruth, her parting with her husband was neither mutual nor amicable. Another woman was always giving her advice on how to manipulate Quentin: ‘just wriggle up to him, sit on his lap, cup his cheeks, kiss his forehead, and ask for a little favour in a breathy voice. Don’t be afraid to pout!’ she added helpfully, though that made Ruth sigh deeply, toying with her hair. I think that Quentin has had quite enough pouting from me!

There were, occasionally, simple, direct appeals. ‘My husband was lost at the Somme, but he enlisted too young, and they keep cutting off my benefits.’ ‘My neighbour’s dog keeps barking.’ ‘They start construction on my street at 6am, and I am a shift-worker.’ ‘What do I do if am owed money by brothers of mine?’ ‘My son is missing, and the police are doing nothing about it!’