Each week Kemi Badenoch leans a little further across the Commons despatch box at PMQs, edging closer to Sir Keir Starmer. Each week he pretends to be unbovvered. He looks down at his briefing notes, determined not to be hypnotised by her dancing eyes and her teasing laughter. But does he maybe shift his buttocks backwards on the green leather bench, an eighth of an inch one week, a fragment more the next? Nibble nibble, goes Kemi. Nibbling at his nerves.

She asked a succession of questions. How much had energy prices fallen? How many new teachers were there? How many NHS appointments had been lost to strikes?

Sir Keir spooned up replies. Guesses, pretty much. ‘WRONG!’ said Mrs Badenoch, tolling like Big Ben. ‘WRONG again!’ Sir Keir tried saying ‘Liz Truss’, four times. That magic spell always used to do the trick. But as Ron Weasley could tell him, spells eventually lose their potency. No longer does ‘Liz Truss’ stir instant protection from his Labour backbenchers. They need new excuses. Or better still, some government achievements.

Eleven Labour women sat in a line, second row from the back. Miserable. Some I didn’t know but among them were: Rushanara Ali gawping at her mobile; Sarah Coombes gazing at the ceiling; Rachel Blake stifling a yawn; Alice Macdonald scowling; Becky Gittins catching flies with her mouth; Natasha Irons inspecting her fingernails. No chorus of approval came from that quarter. Passengers at a rainswept bus stop might have looked chirpier.

Each week Kemi Badenoch leans a little further across the Commons despatch box at PMQs, edging closer to Sir Keir Starmer, writes Quentin Letts

Kemi B was loving this torment. Her lipstick glistened with merriment as the oblong potato in front of her honked and hummed and tried turning the crank handle by telling the Tories ‘they should be ashamed of themselves’. The engine barely turned. The spark plugs remained damp.

Mrs Badenoch chuckled, playing with him and his Cabinet. There was a new gesture: she whisked her left hand in the air and gave it a little flourish, as restaurant diners once did when they wanted the bill. There at the despatch box in her groovy green trouser suit, she was everything Sir Keir was not: funny, relaxed, modern.

Beside the PM sat Rachel Reeves. On entering the Commons she was asked to sign a copy of the Budget ‘red book’ by Bournemouth West’s Labour MP, Jessica Toale. That autograph may have a macabre value one day soon. Also near Sir Keir was Bridget Phillipson, Education Secretary. Mrs Badenoch singled her out for a drubbing.

Scary Bridget, who so loves to dish out the class warfare, did not enjoy it. She started blinking, triple quick. Down in the gangway sat Alex Davies-Jones, a Justice minister. Normally she is a tremendous roarer of support. One of the noisiest voices in the Commons. Not now. Listening to the attacks on Sir Keir, and then his pettish replies, likeable Alex looked deflated, angry, resigned.

No longer does ‘Liz Truss’ stir instant protection from his Labour backbenchers. They need new excuses. Or better still, some government achievement, writes Quentin Letts

The morning had seen the Chancellor saunter along to the Treasury select committee. She was accompanied by two mandarins, both designer stubbled.

For the first half-hour or so Ms Reeves was quizzed about the leaks that preceded, and helped to wreck, her Budget. Treasury permanent secretary James Bowler, one of those scruffy officials, kept saying there was going to be a forensic leak inquiry. ‘Forensic’ must have been said eight times. Would Mr Bowler let the committee see his inquiry’s report. Good grief, no. They might leak it!

Ms Reeves spoke louder than was necessary in the room. Almost like a deaf person. She bellowed that the leaks (many of which have been attributed to her own team) were ‘unacceptable’ and ‘frustrating’. ‘Myself and my team are very clear about the McPherson principles,’ she roared. Ugh, the grammar.

Mr Bowler clutched his bald head while Ms Reeves said for the umpteenth time how ‘clear’ she had been. I saw him close his eyes, as if in the grip of nausea. Poor fellow having to put up with that voice all the time. He must long for retirement.