
Aspects of Boris Johnson’s clandestine holiday in a rented Scottish croft were mildly amusing. What sane landlord would trust such a charlatan with an honesty box for using the telephone? And what an astonishing shock of hair baby Wilfred sports just four months after his birth.
I also found myself hoping, quite sincerely, that Johnson enjoyed a decent rest. That is not because I harbour benign feelings towards this uniquely rotten Prime Minister, but because he returns to face an autumn in-tray that makes the mountains of the Applecross peninsula look like molehills. Much as I loathe the man, it is emphatically not in Britain’s interests that he fails.