“Gordon the Saviour? We’ll see about that when the mortgage rate goes up. Thank God Tony made it more difficult to extradite from America,” thought Cherie as she surveyed the photo with satisfaction.
“Best one of me ever taken. Well, if anyone should look like a Blair Babe, I should! I have to plan my book, have to be me first. Tony’s still playing silly buggers in the Middle East; I told him, ’Look chuck, you can no more get peace there than you can stop a punch up on Saturday night in Croxteth, so forget it and write your bloody book! Or get on the after dinner circuit. If someone’s daft enough to pay me thirty grand to make a speech, I’m daft enough to make it.’”
The phone rang.
“You want to know my views on when Gordon should call an election? It’ll cost you, you know. How much? Then no comment. That’s more like it. I believe it’s a matter for Gordon’s own judgment, and I’m sure he’ll choose the right moment for the party, er, the country! I expect him to be given a mandate to continue Tony’s good work, which was of course due largely to his record as Chancellor.”
“Who was that, Mum?” asked a small boy’s voice.
“Somebody wanted to talk to Mummy, chicken,” she replied, “Mummy’s a bit busy, go and watch that DVD of Daddy’s best speaches.” If that doesn’t put him to sleep, nothing will, she thought to herself. Gordon had better get the election over with; he won’t be so popular when my book’s out!
She rang Harrods. “Cherie Blair here, those things I ordered last week haven’t arrived.” There was a pause as she gasped “What do you mean, I’ve got to pay for them?”
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