The town of Tewkesbury is submerged in receding flood waters of the River Severn and Avon. Photograph: Getty Images
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The drowned world

As the planet warms, extreme weather is becoming a part of our daily life, but Britain is still ill-equipped to cope with the floods.

I arrived in Tewkesbury on the November day the flood waters began to subside. The Swilgate, the tributary of the Avon that runs round the southern edge of the town, had overflown its banks fours days earlier. The dark brown water had spilled across a car park and playground and was lapping at the edge of the site of the new hospital, which is being built beside the old one. The line of trees rising through the middle of the placid expanse of water was the only indication of the Swilgate’s normal course; even the local man standing on the footbridge that led across the river to his home on the far bank had trouble working out where it normally ran.

Another footbridge further down Howells Road was submerged, and there were sandbags piled against the gate of a builder’s merchant. A man sweeping the tidemark of dirt off his drive showed me pictures he had taken two days earlier when the flood was at its height: the water had reached halfway up the drive, covering the wheel arches of his car, but stopping short of the motorbike and the dinghy parked beneath the windows of the house.

He had not been living in Tewkesbury in 2007, when the house was under 18 inches of water and the town acquired its reputation as the capital of a newly flood-prone country. According to the Environment Agency, 414 millimetres (16 inches) of rain fell across England and Wales between May and July 2007, making it the wettest period since records began in 1766. When between 80 and 90 millimetres of rain – more than two months’ worth – fell on Tewkesbury on Friday 20 July, the saturated ground could not absorb it. Water flooded the streets and encircled the town’s celebrated abbey, the second-largest parish church in the country, which stands at the southern end of town.

“We had people who were trapped in their cars, and slept overnight here,” the Reverend Canon Paul Williams, vicar of Tewkesbury Abbey, told me. “We had 200 in the abbey, 200 in the hall and people dotted round about. It’s something quite deep in Tewkesbury, the idea of the abbey as a refuge: people ran for shelter, and it became an ark.” An aerial photograph of the abbey surrounded by dark brown water was transmitted round the world. Paul Williams says it became as widely recognised as the image of the dome of St Paul’s rising through the smoke of the Blitz.

A local councillor called John Badham was one of the people whose house had flooded. He lives in Abbey Terrace, which lies beneath the abbey, close to the Mill Avon, the canal built in the 12th century to service the mills in the southern part of the town. Yet it was not just the Mill Avon that caused the flood; the Swilgate had overflowed as well, and water swept through his house from both sides. “It was very frightening,” he said. “It brought down all the fences in the garden and it was so powerful that you couldn’t stand up in it.”

The flooding wasn’t over. In the summer months, the gauge on the Mythe Bridge on the River Severn usually records levels of 0.5 metres, but on Sunday 22 July 2007 it reached 5.43 metres, beating the record of 5.3 metres set in March 1947. Both the Severn and the Avon burst their banks.

“When I woke up, it was eerily quiet, and I walked outside and saw the water coming, and the Fire Brigade all over the place,” Paul Williams said. He maintains that the abbey is usually immune because the “monks knew where to build” – the story of the vicar who paddled a boat down the aisle in 1760 is a folk memory of the only time in its 900-year history when it was flooded – but at 3pm on Sunday it flooded again. Paul Williams had to go down to the pub and ask people to help him move everything out of the reach of the water. He held evensong at the gates of the abbey and people came out of the nearby houses to listen. “It was a powerful cultic event. You could see the power of ritual holding a community together,” he told me.

Tewkesbury was cut off for four days. Three people drowned, more than 5,000 homes and businesses were flooded, and the Mythe water treatment works shut down for two weeks, depriving 140,000 people of running water. The pattern was repeated across the country, in Yorkshire, Humberside, Lincolnshire and Derbyshire. In total, 13 people drowned, more than 55,000 homes and businesses were flooded, and the emergency services conducted more “search-and-rescue missions” than at any time since the Second World War.

The floods of 2007 are often described as the worst civil emergency in British history, and the Environment Agency estimates that they caused £3.2bn of damage. The true figure is probably higher, because places such as Tewkesbury suffered a “double whammy”, according to Paul Williams: its shops, hotels and restaurants depend on the tourist trade and many people cancelled holidays in the aftermath of the floods. He says it took Tewkesbury three or four years to recover, and many people in the town are still feeling the effects.

They are not alone: the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs says 5.2 million households in England are at risk of flooding, and the present agreement between the insurance industry and the government that guarantees affordable insurance to flood-prone homes is due to expire in June. On 26 November, as flood waters rose again, the Association of British Insurers (ABI) said that negotiations over a new deal had broken down. It issued a statement saying it wanted taxpayers to provide a temporary overdraft for a non-profit fund that would be used to pay claims in the early years of the scheme before it had a chance to build up reserves, but the government had refused. Defra says that negotiations are ongoing, but the ABI says they have reached an “impasse” that will leave 200,000 high-risk households struggling to find affordable insurance.

There are other points of contention: the last agreement proceeded on the basis that the insurance industry would continue to provide affordable insurance to flood-prone homes on the assumption that the government would continue to invest in flood defences, and the ABI maintains that “investment in flood defences needs to be at a level to match the flood risk”. It is estimated that every £1 spent on flood defences saves £8 on the cost of clean-up and repairs. And yet, no matter how much we invest, flood damage is sure to increase as climate change begins to take effect. A report commissioned by the Department for Business, Innovation and Skills in 2004 predicted that the cost could increase from the current yearly average of £2.2bn to as much as £29bn by 2080.

Natural variations in the weather make it difficult to establish the cause of any one event, but the pattern of increasingly extreme weather we are beginning to witness is probably the result of a warming planet. Ten of the hottest years on record have occurred in the past 11 years, and in September it was discovered that the Arctic sea ice had shrunk to its smallest recorded extent. A heatwave in late June and early July in North America broke many records, and sea-level rise has doubled the risk of flooding in many parts of the US and Canada. There were harsh droughts in China, Brazil and Russia between January and September and severe flooding in West Africa and Pakistan. Hurricane Sandy caused scores of deaths when it struck New York and the east coast of the United States in October, just days before the US presidential election. In early December, the “super-typhoon” Bopha killed more than 1,000 people in the Philippines.

In the UK, the March heatwave that contri - buted to hosepipe bans in the south-east of England seems more improbable now than it did at the time, because the following month turned out to be the wettest April in 100 years. There was more heavy rain and flooding throughout summer and early autumn. In late September, 570 houses and businesses flooded and the River Ouse in York reached its second-highest recorded level. In October, the Devon fishing village of Clovelly was hit by a flash flood that sent water cascading down the main street. Yet the worst flooding was triggered by the heavy rainfall that began on 21 November, with Wales and the south-west of England hardest hit. A woman drowned and 500 households were evacuated in the small Welsh town of St Asaph after the River Elwy burst its banks. The government has been criticised for cutting 294 flood defence schemes that had been approved in 2010, and on the day I arrived in Tewkesbury it announced that it would spend another £120m on flood defences.

When I left the abbey I walked down Mill Street to Tewkes - bury Mill, which stands on the banks of the Mill Avon. The mill had been cut off in 2007 – Paul Williams said the people set up a bosun’s chair to ferry supplies back and forth – and now it was cut off again: water covered the base of the steps leading up to the entrance and spilled through the open doors of the cellar, though it wasn’t until I looked at Google Street View and saw photographs taken on a summer afternoon that I realised how high the Mill Avon had risen, and how much it had altered the layout of the streets. The water that surrounded the mill and lapped at the picturesque half-timbered houses on St Mary’s Road concealed a park and a road, as well as the reed-fringed banks of the Mill Avon and the flat green fields beyond.

As I made my way along the edge of the town, following the course of the Avon as closely as I could, I kept passing steps that sank into the water, and signs directing me towards submerged footpaths. I passed Ye Olde Black Bear, “Glosters oldest inn”, which stands beside the bridge across the Avon Navigation, and turned into a cul-de-sac of terraced houses called King John’s Court. A sign restricting parking to permit holders protruded through the surface of the water at the end of the street. The way the railings at the side of the car park diminished in height as they advanced into the water confirmed that the land fell away in front of me, though it must have risen again in front of the marooned lock-keeper’s cottage, for the bench positioned for looking out across the floodplain was only half submerged.

Trees and telegraph poles marked the borders of the drowned fields, which stretched west towards the confluence of the Severn and the Avon. The still surface of the water mirrored the trees and clouds, and the silhouette of the water treatment works shut during the floods of 2007 was the only sign of human occupation. It reminded me of the descriptions of “the Lake”, the “inland sea of sweet water” that covers central England in Richard Jefferies’s prescient novel After London (1885).

Depictions of post-apocalyptic worlds became commonplace in 20th-century fiction, but Jefferies was a Victorian naturalist. “At the eastern extremity the Lake narrows, and finally is lost in the vast marshes which cover the site of the ancient London,” writes the novel’s unnamed narrator. He does not know exactly how the Lake formed, but speculates that “changes of the sea level” threw up great sandbanks at the mouth of the Thames, while a “broad barrier of beach” obstructed the mouth of the Severn: once the rivers’ eastward and westward flow was blocked, they “turned backwards . . . and began to cover hitherto dry land”. London becomes a foul, decaying swamp, but “the Lake” in the novel is as “clear as crystal, exquisite to drink, abounding with fishes of every kind, and adorned with green islands”.

J G Ballard’s early novel The Drowned World (1962) offers a less idyllic vision of a flooded planet. The rise in global temperatures that precipitates Ballard’s version of the catastrophe is caused not by human activity, but by “a series of violent and prolonged solar storms” that deplete “the earth’s barrier against the full impact of solar radiation”. As once-temperate areas become tropical and tropical areas become uninhabitable, the human population is reduced to no more than five million, who live on the polar ice caps. As the novel begins, “the South” has been abandoned, and Ballard’s protagonist, Kerans, is one of the few people to have remained in London. The city that once lay on the chilly fringes of northern Europe has become a tropical lagoon; giant ferns sprout through the windows of the abandoned buildings and the air is thronged with giant bats and mosquitoes. Reptiles are the dominant species.

Yet it is not only the external landscape that is changing. As the natural world cycles back through its evolutionary history, its human inhabitants are also drawn into what one calls the “archaeopsychic past”. Far from fearing the disintegration of the life they knew, they welcome the re-emergence of a primeval world with which they are subconsciously familiar: “How often recently most of us have had the feeling of déjà vu, of having seen all this before, in fact of remembering these swamps and lagoons all too well,” one character says. “Each one of us is as old as the entire biological kingdom, and our bloodstreams are tributaries of the great sea of its total memory.”

I was contemplating Tewkesbury’s own drowned world when I became aware of a man watching me from the window of the nearest house. It transpired that he was more concerned by burglars than flooding – his neighbour’s car had been stolen the previous day and he was wary of a return visit. Once reassured that I was not a threat, he told me of his disdain for people who fail to appreciate that Tewkesbury always floods, and argued that his house was perfectly safe despite being located on a promontory enclosed on three sides by water. “These houses were built with flooding in mind,” he said, indicating the slab that raised the front door half a metre above the ground.

He conceded that the November flood water had been higher than usual and that it had taken longer for it to subside, but he insisted it had not been a threat: the Severn had peaked at 4.8 metres – only 70 centimetres lower than 2007, but an enormous volume of water was required to effect any rise in the level across the thousands of acres of floodplain. A family had to be rescued in Sandhurst, Gloucestershire, ten miles downstream; flood defences failed in Kempsey, Worcestershire, 12 miles upstream; and even the White Bear, which stands on the main road a hundred metres north of the Black Bear, had flooded; but King John’s Court had remained untouched. “Personally, I don’t see a problem for us here,” the man said. “There is a problem in other places, but that’s the subtle difference with Tewkesbury –we don’t try and stop the water, we just let it flow through.”

It was another version of the two contrasting views that I heard repeated several times while I was in the town. Paul Williams told me that he takes communion to housebound old ladies who used to regard flooding as so routine that they would move upstairs and let the water flush out the downstairs rooms, yet other people were not so sanguine. Councillor Badham, who moved upstairs for six months after the floods of 2007, said that 10 per cent of Tewkesbury’s residents live in fear of being flooded. “It would be nice to have security, not just for me, because I’m relatively well off, but for other people in the town,” he said. “This is a workingclass town. There are a lot of people in Tewkesbury who don’t earn very much, who face enormously increased bills on their insurance – if they can get it at all – and face the anxiety every time the water comes up of being flooded. In some parts of the town, there are a lot of very, very anxious people; often quite poor people, and elderly people: vulnerable people.”

Yet both groups had one thing in common – whether they fear the flood or view it with equanimity, the residents of Tewkesbury are used to living with it. They have made the kind of accommodation that more of us will be required to make if water levels continue to rise as predicted and flooding becomes more frequent. Paul Williams believes that we will have to accept we are not “above nature”, though J G Ballard raises the more disturbing possibility that we already have done so. Perhaps we do not fear the flood, and will do nothing to avert it, because we recognise it as part of the cycle of life on a planet that sustains us, and yet remains indifferent to our existence.

Edward Platt is a contributing writer for the New Statesman. His latest book is “The City of Abraham” (Picador, £18.99)

This article first appeared in the 07 January 2013 issue of the New Statesman, 2013: the year the cuts finally bite

Photo: ANDREW TESTA/THE NEW YORK TIMES/ EYEVINE
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Interview: Nicola Sturgeon's Scottish referendum dilemma

In a candid interview, the First Minister discusses Theresa May’s coldness, Brexit and tax rises – and why she doesn't know when a second referendum will be held. 

Nicola Sturgeon – along with her aides, who I gather weren’t given much choice – has taken up jogging in the verdant country­side that lies to the east of the Scottish Parliament. “The first time was last week,” she says, when we meet in her large, bright Holyrood office. “Loads of people were out running, which made me a bit self-conscious. But it was fine for ages because everybody’s so focused. Then, suddenly, what must have been a running group came towards me. I saw one of them look and as they ran past I turned round and all of them were looking.” She winces. “I will eventually get to the point where I can run for more than 100 yards at a time, but I’m not at the stage yet where I can go very far. So I’m thinking, God, they’re going to see me stop. I don’t know if I can do this.”

This is a very Nicola Sturgeon story – a touch of the ordinary amid the extraordinary. She may have been a frontbencher for almost two decades, a cabinet minister for half of that and the First Minister since 2014, but she retains that particularly Scottish trait of wry self-mockery. She is also exceptionally steely, evident in her willed transformation over her adult life from a shy, awkward party member to the charismatic leader sitting in front of me. Don’t be surprised if she is doing competitive ten-kilometre runs before the year is out.

I arrived at the parliament wondering what frame of mind the First Minister would be in. The past year has not been especially kind to her or the SNP. While the party is still Scotland’s most popular by a significant margin, and Sturgeon continues to be its dominant politician, the warning lights are flashing. In the 2015 general election, the SNP went from six seats out of 59 to 56, a remarkable result. However, in Theresa May’s snap election in June this year, it lost 21 of those seats (including those of Angus Robertson, the SNP leader at Westminster, and Alex Salmond), as well as half a million votes. Much of the blame has been placed on Sturgeon and her call for a second independence referendum following the vote for Brexit. For critics, it confirmed a suspicion that the SNP only cares about one thing and will manipulate any situation to that end. Her decision also seemed a little rushed and desperate, the act of a woman all too aware of the clock ticking.

But if I expect Sturgeon to be on the defensive, maybe even a little downbeat, I’m wrong. Having just come from a feisty session of First Minister’s Questions, where she had the usual barney with her Tory opposite number, Ruth Davidson, she is impressively candid. “When you come out [of FMQs], your adrenaline levels are through the roof,” she says, waggling a fist in my direction. “It’s never a good idea to come straight out and do an interview, for example.” Adrenalised or not, for the next hour, she is thoughtful, frank, funny and perhaps even a little bitchy.

Sturgeon’s office is on the fourth floor, looking out over – and down on – Holyrood Palace, the Queen’s official residence in Edinburgh. As we talk, a large artistic rendering of a saltire adorns the wall behind her. She is similarly in blue and white, and there are books about Burns on the shelves. This is an SNP first minister’s office.

She tells me that she and her husband, Peter Murrell, the party’s chief executive, took a summer break in Portugal, where his parents have a share in an apartment. “We came home and Peter went back to work and I spent a week at home, just basically doing housework…” I raise an eyebrow and an aide, sitting nearby, snorts. She catches herself. “Not really… I periodically – and by periodically I mean once a year or once every two years – decide I’m going to dust and hoover and things like that. So I did that for a morning. It’s quite therapeutic when you get into it. And then I spent a week at home, reading and chilling out.”

In a recent Guardian interview, Martin Amis had a dig at Jeremy Corbyn for having “no autodidact streak”. Amis said: “I mean, is he a reader?… It does matter if leaders have some sort of backing.” One of Sturgeon’s great strengths is that she is a committed bibliophile. She consumes books, especially novels, at a tremendous rate and raves to me about Gabriel Tallent’s astonishing debut, My Absolute Darling, as well as Bernard MacLaverty’s Midwinter Break. She has just ploughed through Paul Auster’s daunting, 880-page 4 3 2 1 (“It was OK. I don’t think it should be on the Booker shortlist.”) She also reread the works of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie before interviewing her onstage at the Edinburgh International Book Festival in August.

The First Minister is now reading What Happened, Hillary Clinton’s book about her defeat by Donald Trump. “I’ve never been able to read any of her [previous] books because literally every word is focus-grouped to the nth degree,” Sturgeon says. “This one, there are moments of frankness and raw honesty and passages where it’s victimhood and self-pity, but that’s kind of understandable and very human. The thing that fascinates me about Hillary, apart from the politics, is just her sheer bloody resilience.  Given what she’s gone through and everything that’s been chucked at her, I genuinely don’t know how she keeps coming back.”

***

Speaking of resilience, does she have any fellow feeling for Theresa May, humiliated by the electorate and, for now, kept in No 10 like a racoon in a trap by colleagues who are both power-hungry and biding their time? “At a human level, of course,” she says. “When you’ve got an insight into how rough and tough and, at times, downright unpleasant the trade of politics can be, it’s hard not to feel some personal sympathy. Her position must be pretty intolerable. It’s tempered, though, by the fact that nobody made her call an election and she did it for purely party-political interest.”

How does she get on with May – who is formal and restrained, even off-camera – in their semi-regular meetings? Sturgeon starts laughing. “The Theresa May that the country ended up seeing in the election was the one I’ve been dealing with for however long she’s been Prime Minister. This is a woman who sits in meetings where it’s just the two of you and reads from a script. I found it very frustrating because David Cameron, whose politics and mine are very far apart, always managed to have a personal rapport. You could sit with David and have a fairly frank discussion, agree the things you could agree on and accept you disagree on everything else, and have a bit of banter as well.

“I remember just after May came back from America [in January], when she’d held Trump’s hand [Sturgeon starts laughing again], she’d also been to Turkey and somewhere else. This was the Monday morning. We sit down, it’s literally just the two of us, and I say, ‘You must be knackered.’ She said, ‘No! I’m fine!’ And it was as if I’d insulted her. It was just impossible to get any human connection.”

Given this, and the weaknesses exposed during the election, Sturgeon is scathing about how the Conservatives fought the campaign, putting May’s character and competence front and centre. “The people around her must have known that vulnerability,” she says. “God, we all make mistakes and we all miscalculate things, so this is not me sitting on high, passing judgement on others, but don’t build a campaign entirely around your own personality when you know your personality’s not capable of carrying a campaign… Even if you can’t see that yourself, somebody somewhere around you should have.”

Sturgeon might not be in May’s beleaguered position but she has problems. Her demand in March, at a press conference at Bute House, Edinburgh, for a second independence referendum by spring 2019 was a serious mistake and it has left a dent in what had seemed her impermeable personal popularity. Polls show support for the SNP and independence now share a similar downward trajectory. Over the next three years, the First Minister must persuade a sceptical electorate that her party deserves a fourth consecutive term in government.

Does she regret demanding another vote on separation?

Here she gets as close as she will go to a mea culpa. “Obviously I’m thinking pretty deeply about it. I think Brexit is a complete and utter car crash – an unfolding disaster. I haven’t changed my views on that, and I think it’s deeply wrong for [Scotland] to be taken down that path without the ability to decide whether that’s right or not.

“I recognise, as well – and it’s obviously something I have reflected on – that understandably people feel very uncertain about everything just now, partly because the past few years have been one big decision after another. That’s why I said before recess that I will not consider any further the question of a second referendum at this stage. I’m saying, OK, people are not ready to decide we will do that, so we have to come back when things are clearer and decide whether we want to do it and in what timescale.”

Will she attempt to hold a second referendum? Could it be off?

“The honest answer to that is: I don’t know,” she says. Her expression of doubt is revealing.

Would she, however, support a second EU referendum, perhaps on the final separation package? “I think it probably gets more and more difficult to resist it,” she tells me. “I know people try to draw lots of analogies [between the EU and independence referendums], and there are some, but whatever you thought of the [Scottish] white paper, it was there and it was a fairly detailed proposition.

“One of the beautiful things about the independence referendum was the extent to which ordinary folk became experts on really technical, big, macro­economic positions. Standing on a street corner on a Friday morning, an ordinary working-class elderly gentleman was talking to me in great detail about lender of last resort and how that would work. You can say the white paper was crap, or whatever, but it was there, people were informed and they knew what they were voting for.

“That was not the case in the EU referendum. People did not know what they were voting for. There was no proposition put forward by anyone that could then be tested and that they could be held to account on. The very fact we have no idea what the final outcome might look like suggests there is a case for a second referendum that I think there wasn’t in 2014. It may become very hard to resist.”

Sturgeon hasn’t found the Brexit process “particularly easy”, especially when the government at Westminster is in the grip of what is becoming an increasingly vicious succession battle. The SNP administration has repeatedly clashed with the relevant ministers at Westminster, whom it says have given little care to Scotland’s particular needs. Sturgeon’s view of David Davis, Liam Fox and Boris Johnson is not rosy.

“Probably not a day goes by where I don’t look at them and think, ‘What the hell’s going on?’” she says. “That’s not meant as a personal comment on their abilities – although [with] some of them I would have personal question marks over their abilities. But they’re completely paralysed, and the election has left them in a position where you’ve got a Prime Minister who has no control over the direction of her government, and you have other senior ministers who are prepared to keep her there only because it’s in their short-term interests to do it. If you’re sitting on the European side of the table now, how can you have a negotiation with a government where you don’t actually know what their position is, or whether the position you’re being told across the table is one that can carry support back at home? It’s a shambles and it’s increasingly going to be the case that nothing other than Brexit gets any bandwidth at all. It’s really, really not in the interests of the country as a whole.”

***

This is an accusation that is directed at the SNP, too – that the national interest takes second place to its constitutional imperative. It is undoubtedly something that Sturgeon considered over the summer as she sought to rebalance her administration. As a result, the programme for government unveiled earlier this month was impressively long-term in places: for example, its promise to create a Scottish national investment bank, the setting of some ambitious goals on climate change and the commitment to fund research into a basic income.

Most striking, however, was Sturgeon’s decision to “open a discussion about… responsible and progressive use of our tax powers”. With the Scotland Act 2016, Westminster passed control over income tax to Holyrood, and Sturgeon intends to use this new power.

“For ten years,” she says, “we have done a pretty good job of protecting public services as best we can in a period of austerity, while keeping the taxes that we’ve been responsible for low. We’re now at a stage where austerity’s continued, we’re going to have economic consequences from Brexit, we all want good public services, we want the NHS to continue to have strong investment, we want our public-sector workers to be paid more, we want businesses to have the right infrastructure. How do we progressively and responsibly, with the interests of the economy taken strongly, fund our public services going forward? Most people would think right now that there is a case for those with the broadest shoulders paying a little bit more.”

I wonder whether the success of Jeremy Corbyn has influenced her thinking – many expect that a revival of Scottish Labour would force the SNP to veer left (it will also be interesting to see how Westminster reacts to Scotland raising the top rate of income tax). “It’s not particularly Corbyn that’s made me think that,” she insists, a little unconvincingly.

Isn’t Sturgeon concerned that making Scotland the highest-taxed part of the UK could undermine its competitiveness, its attraction as a place to live and as a destination for inward investment? “We should never be in a position where we don’t factor that kind of thing into our thinking, but you talk to businesses, and tax – yes, it’s important, but in terms of attracting investment to Scotland, the quality of your infrastructure matters. Businesses want good public services as well, so it’s the whole package that determines whether Scotland is an attractive place to live and invest in and work in,” she tells me. “It’s seeing it in the round. The competitiveness of your tax arrangements are part of what makes you attractive or not, but it’s not the only part.”

As for the immediate future, she is upbeat. She believes that Ruth Davidson, her main rival, is overrated. “I think Ruth, for all the many strengths people think she might have, often doesn’t do her homework very well,” she tells me. “From time to time, Ruth slips up on that… Quite a bit, actually. I know what I want to do over the next few years, and I’m in a very good place and feeling really up for it. After ten years in office, it’s inevitable you become a victim of your own success. What’s more remarkable is that, after ten years, the SNP still polls at least 10 and usually 10-15 points ahead of our nearest rivals.”

Author's note: Shortly after this interview went to print, the SNP got in touch to say that Nicola Sturgeon’s comment, ‘the honest answer to that is: I don’t know’, was about the timescale of the next independence referendum and not whether there would be one. The misinterpretation was mine.

Chris Deerin is the New Statesman's contributing editor (Scotland). 

This article first appeared in the 07 January 2013 issue of the New Statesman, 2013: the year the cuts finally bite