“Steve’s had this idea,” I say to my wife, Sam, over breakfast. Sam scowls.

Steve is Steve Hilton, the party brain. Sam isn’t very fond of his ideas. To be fair, she prefers them to Zac Goldsmith’s ideas which have included coffee cups made of mud and woven nettle nappies. Still, she isn’t fond of them.

“What is it this time?” she says, irritably shovelling tofu into a toddler. “Shellsuits? Does he want me to get fat? I don’t need to have another tattoo, do I?” I laugh, because I think this is a joke. Then I stop, because I realise it isn’t.

“No,” I say. “It’s about supermarkets. Steve thinks we can make a fuss about them selling food that pretends to be British, but actually comes from somewhere quite different. Steve says the green lot will like the idea, because it sounds like it might have something to do with global warming, and the Daily Mail lot will like it, too, because it sounds just enough like we’re saying it’s OK to hate foreigners. I’m pretty excited about it, actually.”

“Can Steve get me British tofu?” asks Sam. I promise to check.

Tuesday

Steve is in his office. He’s in his gravity boots and hanging upside down from a beam. He’s wearing combat trousers and a red T-shirt that says “Suck My Revolution” across the front. He is so much cooler than anybody else I have ever met. Sam thinks it’s because he didn’t go to Eton.

“The supermarket idea,” I say to Steve. “It’s a goer, isn’t it?” Steve doesn’t say anything.

“Zac likes it,” I say. “And David Davis likes it, too, although I can’t imagine he’s eaten food that doesn’t come from Britain for ages. And Oliver Letwin says he doesn’t understand it, which means it must be good.” Steve doesn’t even blink. He just hangs upside down and looks at me.

“In fact,” I say, “the only person who isn’t keen is Sam. She’s worried about what it might mean for tofu.” Steve still doesn’t say anything. I think he might be a genius.

Wednesday

Bit of a puzzler today. Some journalist phoned and wanted to know if I still shoot. Didn’t really know what to say. I mean, I do still shoot, obviously. A person needs to have hobbies. Like Zac and his politics. Like Sam and her tofu. But should I say I shoot? I can’t figure it out. I suppose shooting might be regarded as nice and green and sustainable these days. Zac does say that he’d rather be a pheasant than an oven chip.

It’s difficult, being me. Tony Blair just needs to know what he thinks. I need to know what I am supposed to think.

Thursday

Uproar at party HQ. Steve has the day off and Milly, one of the girls in the press office, came in wearing a tie. Nobody can figure out whether this is allowed. Strangely, David Davis thinks not.

Friday

I pop in to see Steve in his office, first thing. He’s silently bouncing up and down on a huge green space hopper, staring at a wall. I clear my throat, and he bounces around to face me.

“Nice T-shirt,” I say. “Che Guevara? Or . . . wait. It’s me, isn’t it? It’s his hair, hat and beard, but isn’t it my face?” Steve just bounces.

“Anyway,” I say. “I’ve had an idea. About shooting. I thought that maybe I could say that I do still shoot, but that I only shoot foreign birds. Because that’s sort of green and patriotic, isn’t it? Just like the supermarket thing?” Steve bounces back to face the wall. After a while, I let myself out.

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