A momentous week in No 10. A major crisis. I need to concentrate on forward planning; the task requires serious consideration. I need to establish a strategic plan of campaign.
I’m not helped by the air of panic around the place. The atmosphere in Downing Street has been getting steadily worse over the past fortnight. For example, on Monday I was sitting quietly with the Boss, minding my own business, as we cats are wont to do, when Sam suddenly went off the deep end. She told the Boss that she’d had enough of “that bloody woman”; it was bad enough that being forced to socialise with the bitch had ruined Christmas, but now the Boss’s refusal to dump her was making him a laughing stock. Did he not realise that she was just another social-climbing parvenue? And, as for that little creep, James … Worried that she might start throwing things, I took myself off and found a convenient bolt-hole under Hilts’ desk. He’s usually a laid-back character (bare feet and jeans, unlike the other flunkies) and, surprisingly, he’s been particularly cheerful this week.
A day later, I heard the Boss on the phone: “Look Beks, it’s only temporary. In time, we’ll be able to get back together ... I’m sorry you feel like that about it ... No, it’s not the end of the world … Honest, babes, there’s nothing else I can do … Beks, Beks, try to understand …” The phone call ended abruptly.
I ask you, how is a cat supposed to concentrate with all this foolishness going on? Anyway, to get back to my problem. I’ve got to find a way to get into Osborne’s office and deal with his newly acquired budgie. I’m a conservative cat, after all - it is my role in life to destroy the lower orders.