There was really no reason for him to feel morose. Buck up.
This was absolutely what he wanted, and he’d been in a good mood yesterday. Just need to settle in, bound to feel a bit bumpy-
‘What’s wrong darling?’
‘Nothing. I’m happy.’
‘You look quite down in the the dumps.’ Carrie looked over cold tea and croissant crumbs at her Prime Minister in the new morning light. She reached a hand across the table, as far as it would go and rested it on the table cloth. ‘Darling?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m just a bit tired. I’ll pull out of it.’ Boris clapped his hands together to rid them of pastry flakes and heaved out of the chair. The light in the room, was it always going to be so grey and bleak, or was it just another symptom of today’s doldrums? He really should feel happy. He walked through the hallway trying to appreciate the art, trying to appreciate where he was and his extreme importance. What are these, watercolours of some sort?
He had lots of important work to do. He was important, and next week he’d really get stuck in. He looked down at his slippered feet, they felt damp. I hope I’m not getting a fungal infection.
Maybe he’d just go get a glimpse of the front door, that would cheer him up.
He nodded to the policeman stationed there and stuck out his hand, ‘Boris - pleased to meet you’. He shook the mans hand vigourously. But this is very nice, I feel very looked after. I like this a lot, very regal, no not regal, much better than that. People don’t vote for a king.
‘Sir.’
I like that polite little nod. Deferential.
‘Very good morning, lovely day.’
Am I mumbling? In a bad way? Are policemen, the common stalwarts of law and order, going to find that charming? Do I have more freedom now, or less?
He sighed.
‘Are you planning on going out sir?’
Boris looked up, ‘Eh? oh yes maybe, maybe’, and shuffled off. Must look regal. No not regal. Better than regal.
At the bottom of the stairs, when he realised he was still in his dressing gown, he glanced back at the straight face of the policeman. Was he taking the piss? Did he know he could have him fired, or transferred, just like that? Or had he actually pushed his jolly act a bit too far? Not that he would fire anyone. But he could, and he really wanted people to know that.
In the bathroom he stood, eyes-locked, in the mirror. Is this really the face of the most powerful man in Britain?
Great Britain.
God. I wish this had happened when I was a little bit younger. Ten years ago maybe. I was irresistible! They’d have put me on a stamp! No, not a stamp, but on a coin or a bank note surely.
It’s all looking a bit… thin.
But.
They like it. They love it. I must doing something right, yup, perfectly right, absolutely right.
Come on Boris, get it together.
Carrie came in behind him. She was young, looked young, was he making a mistake there? Did he look like a fool, or worse, an old fool? Oh God, could he really go through fatherhood again?
‘Should we get dressed darling? Take Dilyn-pickle for a photo-op.’ She slipped away to choose their outfits. Of course she looked chipper, she has nothing to loose. Just need to get through Brexit, and then blame it on the Germans. You can do this Boris.