By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who is ready and willing to accept a post in Trump’s White House

IT WAS the greatest day of the year, Remembrance Sunday, when the door was smashed down and armed police rushed the house.

’I have the shot!’ a policeman cried, the barrel of his Heckler & Koch an inch from my forehead. ‘Repeat, I have the shot! She’s reaching for her phone! Should I take it?’ 

‘Phone neutralised,’ his senior officer said, double-tapping my Galaxy S24 Ultra. (I will not buy Apple. They hate the West.) ‘Sweep the house for back-up devices and laptops. We’re taking her in.’ 

72 hours later, under a swinging light in a wet concrete cell, my interrogation continued. ‘Why’d ya do it, lady?’ said the tough Brooklyn cop, presumably on secondment to the Met. ‘Why’d ya send the tweet?’ 

‘What tweet?’ I sobbed, for the ten thousandth time. ‘How can I know if you won’t tell me what tweet? Please, stop beating me with that hosepipe, even if the bruises won’t show.’ 

‘Oh, you know what tweet,’ he replied. ‘The hateful one. The one that devastated an entire community. The one that caused generational trauma which will be felt for decades. The illegal one.’ 

‘But that could describe any of my tweets,’ I said. ‘Please, my dog knows nothing! Don’t foster my children out to lesbians like you’ve threatened! Don’t turn my six-bedroom Primrose Hill home into a hostel for asylum seekers!’ 

‘Then confess, lady,’ my tormentor said. ‘Sign the confession. Six years inside and a promise never to share your foul, bigoted opinions with anyone ever again, and you could be back walking the streets. Though it makes me sick ta say it.’ 

And that was the moment I was pushed too far. Rising from my chair like a red, white and blue phoenix, handcuffs snapping in the face of my outrage, I declaimed: ‘How dare you?’ 

‘How dare you, a lowly servant whose wages are paid by my taxes, challenge me? A patriot? A true believer? An active supporter of Duke Farage of Clacton? 

‘And on Remembrance Sunday, the Gammon Christmas, of all days? When you should be arresting the real criminals who march through London every Saturday with impunity? Who profit from selling their council homes, yes I mean you Angela? Who vote Green?’ 

He withered in the face of the true British spirit. I marched out of there, collecting my dog, my children, my husband who they had dressed as a woman with pigtails and rosy cheeks. Shouldering my way past the crowd of early-release murderers, I headed home. 

I realised then, at home, vile woke graffiti covering my Wedgwood Blue wallpaper, this is what those soldiers died for. At the Somme, at Dunkirk, at Goose Green and Port Stanley. For my freedom. Solemnly, reverently, I picked up my phone and commenced to tweet.