It’s nearly a decade since I had a mental breakdown, which means I am rapidly approaching 10 years since a well-refreshed colleague came buzzing up to me at a Christmas party and asked: “Isabel, what on earth have you got to be depressed about?” If, however many pints down he was, he meant anything by that question, he did mean it kindly. I had been off work for a few months by that point, having fallen apart catastrophically while trying to cover the Conservative Party conference earlier in the autumn. Now, I am well enough to joke that this was probably a rational reaction to my environment, given the Tories were about to enter their period of turmoil after the EU referendum. Back then, nothing felt very funny.

What a change those 10 years have brought about. Now, it seems everyone has

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