On a Wednesday morning David Cameron strides along the corridor to PMQ’s.

His aides shuffle and trot alongside in a vain attempt to keep up with him, as he chats and and laughs whilst walking down to the House.

He waves and says hello to anyone he knows on the way and returns smiles to those he doesn’t.

As he walked into the chamber today he was the picture of disgustingly good health. Tanned, smiling confident. Totally at ease with both his surroundings and the task ahead.

His PPS Desi Swayne who entered the chamber with him shuffles along the second row past those of us who were seated, knocking back the jokes about his pretty pink tie, grinning from ear to ear, about to take his important seat behind David.

It wasn’t like that for Gordon.

Gordon walked along the corridor surrounded by his aides in sombre silence.

You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.

His pallor was a deathly waxy grey and he half stooped as he walked, shoulders haunched by the weight of defeat.

His aides looked scared witless. Not a word passed. No one dared speak.

No smiles to passers-by or friendly aknowledgments.

Gordon Brown walked into the chamber and, as he moved along past the Speaker's chair to his place in front of the dispatch box, looked to all the world like a dead man walking.