Few people outside politics had heard of Jeremy Corbyn before May, though for a strange reason, I had. Two years ago I moved to a cottage in Wiltshire previously owned by his family. I deduced the last occupants must have been left wing from the ragged copies of the New Statesman piled up in the recycling, and the yellowing pages of The Guardian stuffed between beams to act as draught excluders – a novel use for that newspaper – which continue to do a good job.
