My earliest political memory was formed when I was 6 years old, over breakfast. My parents – then paid up PLP members – owned a ceramic egg cup in the shape of Margaret Thatcher’s head; it had the look of the Spitting Image puppet based on her. As my father cracked Thatcher’s ‘head’ that morning, I asked him who she was. He and my mother replied – in unison – that she was ‘a terrible woman, who had done terrible things to society’. It was years before I learnt how the closure of the mines had affected my mother’s family, in Yorkshire, and how my parents had both stood in solidarity with striking miners on the picket lines. Mum and Dad still have that eggcup, and I – now myself a paid up PLP member – can see the dismal legacy of Thatcher everywhere.