He'll take up cooking, they say. They always say that
The departing prime minister jokes about cookery courses and hedge-cutting. His friends supply the jokes to reporters, which is how you know they are worried. The article beneath the jokes is about a man about to wake up to silence, and hear someone on the radio say 'the prime minister', and know it is no longer him.
One friend says it plainly: he doesn't know what his priority will be. Another predicts he'll be 'more Gordon Brown than Tony Blair', which is the kindest available way of saying the phone will ring less.
The realistic path is the international stage — Nato secretary general is mentioned, 'when there is a vacancy'. Waiting for a vacancy: the retirement plan of every man who once had a motorcade. For now, the backbenches, where former prime ministers sit like decommissioned lighthouses, technically still capable of light.
He says he'll be remembered for saving the Labour party, which promptly voted him out. He leaves with pride, a cookery ambition, and two meals. It is more than most get. Winter, as always, is unbothered.