Damn. Why didn’t I think of this….
He sat back and let his left hand caress the smooth leather adorning the arm of his chair. As the scent of antique hide reminded him of the Benches at Westminster, he closed his eyes and let his mind drift to calmer thoughts. With his right hand, he stroked Stobart, the white cat nestled in his lap, from head to rump as it purred gently, like the engine of the Home Secretary’s Jaguar he so coveted.
Number One woke with a start. Mrs Number One, whom he employed as his Executive Secretary at a very reasonable rate of £37,500 to wake him occasionally from his reveries, was telling him that the others were here.
She applied some more powder to his balding pate to ease the reflection of the artificial lighting.
It was time.
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