I was 17 when Jo Cox was murdered. I just rang my mum, who is Yvette Cooper, on my way home from school to complain about the usual things and I distinctly remember her interrupting me to say “An MP’s been shot.”
It was never something that could get her killed.
I am scared when I scroll through the replies to her tweets calling her a liar and a traitor.
I am scared when our house gets fitted with panic buttons, industrial-locking doors and explosive bags to catch the mail.
Surely you can raise your head out of the sand enough to see that much?