Being prime minister is hard work, stressful, exhausting and plainly unsuitable for those with thin skins. It must also be wonderful fun; not least when you get to go to Washington and be whooshed by motorcade to the White House, flags on your bonnet and motorcycle sirens ahead of you, there to be greeted by the most powerful man on earth. If you don't get a rush of blood at the thought, you shouldn't be in politics. And now it's David Cameron's turn.
This is one of the unofficial rituals of British governance, rather like a tribal chieftain visiting ancient Rome to meet the emperor and pay obeisance. Ritual dictates that both chieftain and emperor pretend it is a meeting of equals; a polite fiction which fools none of the watching scribes, legionaries and senators. It is discovered to general amazement that the two men have formed a close bond of friendship. Laden with friendly words, gold trinkets and sacrificial oxen – or these days, with photos and a press conference – the chieftain goes home and the emperor goes back to work.
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