The most pitiful sight in Westminster at the moment must be that of Patricia Hewitt walking purposefully up and down the hallowed corridors.

It's a tough game politics - one minute you're at the top of your game, Secretary of State with enough offices to house the entire inward contingent of Polish dentists, and next you're just a backbencher; one day every member of the media craves five minutes of your time, and you have so many advisers and staff at your disposal, it's hard to remember everyone's name - and then the phone stops ringing.

A lobby journalist yesterday commented that nanny Hewitt cried when asking her questions at PMQs - I don't think so; she often had problems with her voice when speaking - she does however look desperately sad, as though she doesn't know what to do with herself.

Someone needs to look after her. Jack (Straw) maybe, he is kindly and caring - Jack are you reading this? Get it sorted!

The usual way of dealing with such a blow is to take self-imposed gardening leave for a few weeks, and then breeze back into Westminster, as though one had never been anything other than a backbencher.
Someone really needs to tell her this.

Watching her yesterday, I couldn't help thinking that although I love my job and think it's the best in the world, the level of cruelty it can impose on an individual, with no preparation whatsoever, is almost too harsh.