In all the quite remarkable brouhaha this week anent Nicola Sturgeon’s memoirs, I have been most struck by the dog which resolutely declined to bark.

Curious, is it not? Media coverage of the book has, occasionally, been of the blockbuster variety.

Which is perhaps understandable, given the subjects covered. A deeply personal account of the life and loves of our renowned former First Minister.

And yet the book – which is well and carefully written – does not leave an impression of shock, horror or, indeed, probe. Always there are caveats.

This is decidedly true of her verdict upon herself. For this is a different species of political memoir.

Often, such publications are a blend of bombast and self-exculpation. Look on my works, ye minnows – and declare how great I was.

OK, so perhaps a few minor matters went agley but, as I amply explain, that was never my fault. Or, if it was, history will exonerate me – with a sizeable push from this very book.

Frankly by Nicola Sturgeon is not of that order. Indeed, she takes pains to stress her own self-doubt.

She characterises herself as a “painfully shy introvert” who has “always struggled to believe” in herself. She said in interviews that she spent most of her life thinking she fell short.

At sundry points, this lack of confidence threatened to overwhelm her. During the 2016 Holyrood election, she says she felt deeply unhappy with a campaign founded almost entirely upon her.

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