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’ ...