It had been a busy day for Tracey and Phil, he had made a few million pounds by shifting his clients - or playmates', as he called them - assets away from the British taxman, which is what he did for a living, and she had appointed a new foreign seckaterry, and, quick off the mark,
Boris was busy making diplomatic approaches to foreigners.
I have the honour to be Her Majesty's Secaterry of state for Foreign and Commonwealth but definitely not European Affairs;
allow me to present my credentials.
Tracey had retained the previous govament's war seckaterry and even now Mad Mick Fallon was engaged in sensitive talks with his opposite number in the Pentagon.
At the home office, Tracey's new Obedience Minister,
Amber Madd, was introducing herself to senior civil servants.
explaining her views on lawnforcement.
Everything in Tracey and Phil's life was looking rosy.
The govament benches were filling-up with gargoyles and grotesques, exactly like herself; a supine and stupid MediaMinster press corps was camped on her doorstep, wetting itself, as though anything was about to change and Michael Spit, for so long her antagonist would, as we speak,
SPITTING STRICTLY PROHIBITED
be begging young newly-wed, Rupert Murdoch, for his old job back.
Once he had been the wordiest gossip columnist on Fleet Street and now,
Oh, the stories he could tell.
Time, Tracey thought, for some quality time, together,
the nation's first couple.
Sipping a glass of diabetic wine, the prime minister settled back to enjoy her husband doing one of his favourite turns for her.
The ghastly old crow reflected that all was well.
In her world, anyway.
And that's what mattered.
Phil was getting into his stride.