Everything just felt wrong. All the joy had been sucked out of Suella Braverman’s life. The early mornings at home used to be a time when she connected with her family. A time when she and her husband laughed with the kids as they fought over the toast (no woke granola for her). Now it all just felt like a chore. A daily treadmill of counting down the minutes until everyone was out of her hair. Suella also used to enjoy the morning ride into the Home Office in the ministerial limo. That sense of importance she got when the driver said “Good morning, home secretary”. That half hour to herself when she could update herself on various WhatsApp chats as the car raced through several red lights. Rishi’s latest desperate ideas to make himself electable – that had always been a laugh. Now, not so much. Work had always been Suella’s comfort blanket. Her go-to happy place. Even when she was feeling really depressed, she could be certain to find something at the Home Office to cheer her up. When all else failed, a trip to a detention centre to watch some luckless small boat arrivals get deported to a country they had never heard of could be guaranteed to lift the spirits. The news that the Bibby Stockholm had been riddled with legionella had kept her going for weeks. She just couldn’t understand why the authorities had felt the need to remove the refugees, the spoil sports. Now, though, she felt flat. Dead inside. She needed a change. Some inspiration to kickstart her life again. To give herself a sense of purpose. It was time to ask herself the big existential questions. What would the great minds like Jordan Peterson and Douglas Murray do? Where could she find the life-affirming simplicity of the congenital moron? Then it came to her. She could make herself homeless. In one bound she could free herself from the structures holding back her personal development. She could be the person she had always wanted to be. For the first time in weeks, Suella felt at one with herself. She told her diary secretary to cancel all her appointments and got the driver to take her home. There was admin to be done. First a call to the solicitor to have her name taken off the title deeds to her home. You couldn’t be homeless if you still had a home, after all. Then there were the bank accounts to be taken care of. The ministerial credit cards to be cut up. Phone to be deactivated. Pack up the tent she hadn’t used in years. It would be just like Glastonbury. Not that she had been. Maybe some other glampers would offer her some coke while singing along to Paul McCartney. Finally there was a note for her husband and kids: “I’m off to find myself. I may be some time. Don’t forget to feed the cat.” Suella closed the front door and waited on the pavement for 10 minutes. Silly me, she said to herself. She had quite forgotten the government driver wasn’t going to be taking her to where she would be making herself homeless. First stop, M&S. They would be sure to have the most comfortable cardboard boxes. Almost as good as the Tempur mattress she had had back home. When she had had a home. Four hours later, Suella pitched her tent under a railway arch near Waterloo station. Even so, the rainwater got everywhere. Under the canvas, on to the cardboard, and through her jacket. This was everything she had hoped it would be. Time to get to know some of the neighbours. “Hi, I’m Suella,” she announced. Everyone ignored her. “I said, ‘Hi, I’m Suella’,” she shouted. “Who are you?” “I should move if I were you,” a homeless woman eventually replied. “You’re in Jim’s usual place. He’ll get violent if he finds you there.” “Well, this is fun, isn’t it? It’s so lovely to see so many of you here today. Far too many people lack the get-up-and-go spirit to make themselves homeless these days. It’s good to see you all embracing the lifestyle. There’s nothing to beat a campfire sing-a-long. Now, would anyone like a glass of wine?” “Christ. This one’s got even worse mental health problems than us.” “I used to be in the cabinet, you know,” Suella sobbed. “Of course you did. We all did. Next you will be saying you know Nadine Dorries. Now that one really has lost it big time. We saw her round here last week, howling that the Illuminati were out for revenge and had sent Michael Gove to assassinate her.” “Did someone mention me?” said Michael Gove, taking another long hit on his crack pipe. Mikey had changed out of all recognition during the three weeks he had been living on the street. The epitome of zen. Sometimes he quoted Gwyneth Paltrow. Suella lapsed into silence. Sitting outside her tent as the rest of the world ignored her. Pretended she didn’t exist. That was just the kind of validation she had always needed. It was all going so terribly well. She was hungry though. She hadn’t thought about that. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to queue at the soup kitchen. Maybe she should try shoplifting from Tesco instead. Just then she saw an old friend walking by. It was Lee Anderson. “Oh Lee, could you just spare us enough money to buy some food for the day. I’m awfully hungry,” Suella asked. “You’re kidding me,” Lee barked. “You think I can give you 30p? I’m not made of money. £100k a year from GB News doesn’t go that far when you keep having to make donations to avoid being sued for libel.” Suella bunkered down for the night. She was desperate for the toilet but didn’t know where to go. Truly her cup runneth over. She was living the dream. Depraved New World by John Crace (Guardian Faber, £16.99). To support The Guardian and Observer, order your copy and save 18% at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.