Ah, Ffion. Poor, sweet little Ffion. So dignified at the count in Rotherham. By then it was clear you were finished, but you stood firm and held your head high for your husband and your party.
And then at 8.30am outside Central Office... you'd obviously been crying, but you managed to maintain such a graceful, gracious presence. British public life will truly be the worse for your absence.
Go on, show us your pants just one more time...
Misery! Wully's lost his job AND Nicky's off to Sydney! What can a poor girl do?
