PART way through the business of replacing one Prime Minister with another, Huw Edwards congratulated the BBC team on how well they were doing.

Why, anyone would think they had done this gig before. Oh yes, hang on, it had been all of seven weeks since the last switchover. By now the media could do one of these in its sleep. Or on ice. It may yet come to that.

The morning began with the tiresome business of seeing Liz Truss off the premises. She emerged to a small crowd of supporters and a wall of journalists. It was like Christmas drinks with the neighbours. Everyone had somewhere else they would rather be, and were only there for the sake of politeness.

As in her leaving speech of last week, the word “sorry” failed to make an appearance. She had made some effort, though, quoting “the Roman philosopher Seneca”. It would have sounded impressive but she fluffed the Italian lad’s name. A nation rolled its eyes and, as so often, blushed on her behalf.

Ms Truss spoke about regimes “where power lies in the hands of the few” which was either a reference to Russia or the Tory members who had put her in office.

We do not know what King Charles said to Ms Truss at the Palace, having already used the phrase “Oh dear, oh dear” last time they met. Perhaps they spoke about lettuces.

Professor Sir John Curtice was beamed in from his West End hallway (lovely stained glass panels, sir) to predict Rishi Sunak would have a modest honeymoon with the voters but then the hard yards would begin.

By now Rishi was rolling up to the Palace. There was a woman with him. “Mrs Sunak” declared Huw. Was it? It did not look like her. If it was Mrs S, she had immediately endeared herself to half the population by carrying an array of totes and other bags.

Speculation erupted on mumsnet. “Looked like she was off on her commute or something!” messaged a wellwisher. Someone else added: “Whoever she was you’d have thought she’d have looked smarter.” Ah, the sisterhood.

Back in Downing Street a moment of genuine excitement. A lectern was being brought out! A new one! Gone was Liz Triss’s twisty “Jenga” number and in its place was a smooth oak podium. Not saying it had been put together in haste but you could smell the glue from Glasgow.

A photo had been released of King Charles shaking hands with the new Prime Minister. They both looked jolly pleased to see each other. “Oh to be a fly on the wall,” Huw said. Indeed. Convention decrees that no-one save the participants knows the contents of such conversations, unless they write for The Crown in which case they just make something up.

The BBC’s Nick Eardley had been briefed that the watchword for the new regime was “serious”. There would be no cheering crowd to greet the new Prime Minister. Thanks mate. There we were, thinking Mr Sunak would lead a conga line into Number 10.

Sure enough, the Prime Minister arrived looking like he had lost a billion and found a million. He said his predecessor, Liz Truss, had made “some mistakes”, not from ill-will or bad intention, “quite the opposite in fact”. But mistakes nonetheless. Has anyone ever been called a blithering idiot in such a silky fashion?

The rest of the speech flew by as a series of warnings that tough times were ahead, but never fear, Rishi was here to fix things. As a political credo it owed a lot to JFK, Obama, and Bob the Builder.

Outside the gates of Downing Street, or Coronation Street as it should now be known, the songs played on – the Imperial March from Star Wars as Mr Sunak, a fan, arrived, followed by the Kaiser Chiefs’ I Predict a Riot.

“C’mon,” shouted a photographer as Mr Sunak kept up his “blue steel” pose on the doorstep of Number 10. “Be happy!”

Why should he be when no-one else is?