Hallelujah, we may breathe a sigh of relief for our agonising wait is over. Finally, socialist grandad himself has emerged, bruised but triumphant, to take up the reins.

Two rival slates battled it out: “The Many” (Corbyn’s lot) versus “Grassroots Left” (Zarah Sultana’s crew). Corbyn snagged 14 seats, leaving Sultana just seven.

Outside, myself, the Communist Party of Great Britain, Workers Liberty and the Spartacist League were left to ponder what decisive political force was being assembled in the warm and luscious conference centre from which we had been barred.

They were very serious people, you see. Far too serious for trivialities like electing a leader.

No doubt like many readers, I was mournful to learn that nothing had been decided. Everything was chaos. After three days of bickering, it was decided that several months more would be needed to elect a committee to decide who would run the show, but only after presumably several other meetings to decide that as well.

Now, Chairman Corbyn declares, the “real work begins”. One wonders what the previous six months of squabbling, purging and counter-purging were, if not work.

Sultana, meanwhile, who is absolutely, definitely not grumpy that Your Party will not be Her Party, has graciously called for those expelled to be readmitted. There must be “no more witch-hunts or stitch-ups”, she insists.

But finally, they can crack on with the vital, vital business of setting up some branches. Perhaps publishing another newsletter.

Across the allotments of Islington, Tilly and Tarquin may breathe a sigh of relief.

The revolution is here, and it has a leader. Just don’t mind the rest of us if we fail to notice.