The other mystical ceremony here is the afternoon briefing of journalists by the Prime Minister’s press secretary. Under the rules of the Lobby, we are not supposed to reveal that these briefings take place. We listen to what the PM’s representative has to say, statements he has prepared in advance or elliptical answers he improvises to our questions. When we write them up, we are not allowed to attribute the quotes, or make any reference to a source. We report them either as simple facts, or the authentic view of the PM. It turns us, the members of the Lobby, into all-knowing oracles. And it allows the PM and the government to disseminate whatever is in their interest, but with no strings, no possible comeback. We are the soothsayers, they are the gods. Or, to put it another way, it is a shabby and incestuous system, a stain on our democracy.

Around forty of us are nattering as the PM’s press secretary arrives, out of breath, flanked by two note-taking younger officials. Sebastian Mendes is a high-flyer at the Treasury who has been seconded to the post. Bright red socks are his bold defiance of convention, and he is more irreverent than most in this post – arching his right eyebrow when he wants to distance himself from one of the less persuasive views of his boss, Sir Peter Ramsey. ‘Afternoon, afternoon,’ he says. ‘Sorry I’m late. Shall I start by giving you a run-through of the Prime Minister’s day?’

Wilkinson nods. He is the elected chairman of the Lobby, and chairs the meetings when they take place in the Palace of Westminster, our home turf. There is a morning Lobby as well, in Downing Street, and because it is on government property it is run by Mendes himself.

He runs through a few of the meetings the Prime Minister has had today or is scheduled to have: no useful detail of what’s been said or agreed with ministers or foreign counterparts or business supplicants, a briefing shaped to hide more than it reveals.

Mendes wraps up. ‘I haven’t got much else to share with you today. Government seems strangely quiet at the moment.’

Polite laughter. Everyone knows the government is focused on the coming election.

‘Maybe if we go to questions . . .’

Wilkinson calls on the man from the Mirror, who wants to know the PM’s view on an MP who has left his wife and moved in with his children’s nanny. ‘The Prime Minister would take the view that these are private matters, though he prides himself on his own strong family values.’

More laughter, less polite.

I catch Wilkinson’s eye. ‘Gil,’ he calls.

I have been doing this for years, often twice a day, yet today I feel a churn in my stomach as if it was my first time.