MRS. CRACKENTHORPE

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ello my lovelies. Now November may seem a bit of a blah month, trapped as it is between the joy that is conference season and the tinsel-wrapped ecstasy of Christmas partydom, but that doesn’t mean Mrs C hasn’t been up to her usual mischief. Here’s what has tickled her fancy this week…

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ross-patch Dominic Raab continues to twist in the wind over claims he is a wee bit, shall we say, exacting to work for. Mrs C hears when he was at the MoJ he was so difficult new civil servants were given a five-page dossier on how to handle the dear boy.

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alking of difficult workplaces, Mrs C hears one brave soldier of a civil servant on the cusp of going over the top into the no man’s land that is the Home Office was told by their soon-to-be boss to “prepare for a very toxic working environment”. Lummie.

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rs C adored former No 10 svengali Nick Timothy’s impassioned defence of his mate Gavin Williamson over bullying allegations (which he denies, natch). “Like it or not, politics and whipping are not like running a business.” mused Nick, a mere 24 hours before Gav stepped down. Nick was indeed no stranger to the whip in the heady days when he ran the country – Mrs C winces at the recollection of the chastisement meted out to a foolish Downing St official for tweeting “well done” to Ed Balls after a Strictly appearance.

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eports that Michael Gove attended his oppo Lisa Nandy’s recent book launch reminds Mrs C of the time she found herself at a similar event where she got chatting to a sweet older lady. It took a moment or two before the penny dropped: this was JRM’s fabled nanny – both past and present. “We’re off to Claridge’s after this,” the wonderful woman confided

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o The Great Northern Conference, where business leaders, lobbyists and more congregated to hear how HMG plans to return us to the glory days described by Mrs Gaskell. But where could our new Levelling Up Queen Dehenna Davison be? Alas, unable to attend in person she provided a video for the assembled. On it came, and she explained… how PMQs works. “Everyone was looking at each other confused,” says Mrs C’s Manchester mole.