Morning Call: pick of the papers

The ten must-read commment pieces from this morning's papers.

1. US has been let down by its leadership (Financial Times)

A deal that extends unsustainable tax cuts for 98 per cent of Americans is no victory, says Nouriel Roubini.

2. Iain Duncan Smith's polemic is politics at its most cynical (Guardian)

How does the secretary of state's conceit, that in-work benefit claimants are fraudsters, serve the public interest, asks Zoe Williams.

3. Cosy up to China – are you sure about that? (Times) (£)

It’s easy to envy the boom, but as Beijing’s influence spreads around the globe we must confront the human cost, says David Aaronovitch.

4. We can end the elderly care lottery (Guardian)

Means-testing winter fuel payments could prevent old people losing their assets and their dignity, argues Paul Burstow.

5. Let taxpayers share rail fare pain (Independent)

More effort must be made to spread the investment costs more widely, says an Independent editorial.

6. Britain would vote to stay in the EU (Financial Times)

The UK electorate would almost certainly opt for the status quo, writes Gideon Rachman.

7. Fighting back against the left-wing guerrillas (Daily Telegraph)

Foes of public sector reform are waging war at a local level – they must be roundly beaten, says Sean Worth.

8. America could still go over the cliff — and take the rest of us with it (Daily Mail)

The American people, and, indeed, the rest of the world, urgently need to revise their view of how economically strong this ailing superpower really is, says Simon Heffer.

9. Christopher Martin-Jenkins: we're all the poorer for his passing (Daily Telegraph)

Our institutions need many more 'outsiders’ with the enthusiasm and knowledge of Christopher Martin-Jenkins, says Peter Oborne.

10. Cosmetic surgery is bad. That women feel the need for it is worse (Independent)

Now even the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons is demanding change, writes Mary Ann Sieghart.

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As the strangers approach the bed, I wonder if this could be a moment of great gentleness

I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do.

It’s 1.13am on an autumn morning some time towards the end of the 20th century and I’m awake in a vast hotel bed in a small town in the east of England. The mysterious east, with its horizons that seem to stretch further than they should be allowed to stretch by law. I can’t sleep. My asthma is bad and I’m wheezing. The clock I bought for £3 many years earlier ticks my life away with its long, slow music. The street light outside makes the room glow and shimmer.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor – some returning drunks, I guess, wrecked on the reef of a night on the town. I gaze at the ceiling, waiting for the footsteps to pass.

They don’t pass. They stop outside my door. I can hear whispering and suppressed laughter. My clock ticks. I hear a key card being presented, then withdrawn. The door opens slowly, creaking like a door on a Radio 4 play might. The whispering susurrates like leaves on a tree.

It’s an odd intrusion, this, as though somebody is clambering into your shirt, taking their time. A hotel room is your space, your personal kingdom. I’ve thrown my socks on the floor and my toothbrush is almost bald in the bathroom even though there’s a new one in my bag because I thought I would be alone in my intimacy.

Two figures enter. A man and a woman make their way towards the bed. In the half-dark, I can recognise the man as the one who checked me in earlier. He says, “It’s all right, there’s nobody in here,” and the woman laughs like he has just told her a joke.

This is a moment. I feel like I’m in a film. It’s not like being burgled because this isn’t my house and I’m sure they don’t mean me any harm. In fact, they mean each other the opposite.

Surely they can hear my clock dripping seconds? Surely they can hear me wheezing?

They approach, closer and closer, towards the bed. The room isn’t huge but it seems to be taking them ages to cross it. I don’t know what to do. In my old T-shirt and M&S pants, I don’t know what to do. I should speak. I should say with authority, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” But I don’t.

I could just lie here, as still as a book, and let them get in. It could be a moment of great gentleness, a moment between strangers. I would be like a chubby, wheezing Yorkshire pillow between them. I could be a metaphor for something timeless and unspoken.

They get closer. The woman reaches her hand across the bed and she touches the man’s hand in a gesture of tenderness so fragile that it almost makes me sob.

I sit up and shout, “Bugger off!” and they turn and run, almost knocking my clock from the bedside table. The door crashes shut shakily and the room seems to reverberate.

This article first appeared in the 12 January 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Putin's revenge