Number Ten Downing Street, Theresa May’s private office.
The Prime Minister sits at her desk, a fretful expression upon her pallid features and a crumpled pile of food wrappers from Greggs strewn before her. Her chin is abundant with flaky pastry and bits of sausage. There is a knock at the door. Hastily sweeping the greasy refuse into her top drawer and wiping her mouth on a tailored sleeve, she bids her visitor to enter.
The Right Honourable Jeremy Heywood pokes a troubled face around the door.
“Ah, Cabinet Secretary, do come in!” May offers him her warmest of smiles, which puts him in mind of a vampire on the verge of attack. “Are you quite alright? You look rather unwell. I suppose it is rather chilly for the time of year. Throw some more socialists on the fire, why don’t you.”
“I shall be sure to do that, Prime…
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