Treating himself to glass after glass of Merlot. Calling in minister after minister. Feet on the desk, feeling utterly chillaxed. Waving the bottle expansively at Cheryl, telling her he didn’t see why the Welsh needed a Secretary anyway. Telling Caroline that he was axing her from Environment before the crow’s feet got any deeper. Deciding, on the spur of the moment, that Jeremy’s cheerful little face would be much more suited to Health than grumpy old Andrew’s.
Justine had been a particular low point. She’d sat there, on the verge of tears, pointing out that she hated flying, and didn’t much like foreigners, and that International Development wasn’t the job for someone whose idea of exotic was the Isle of Wight. And hadn’t she only been keeping to the manifesto over Heathrow?
Tough, Dave had replied, warmed by the glow of a particularly fine Burgundy. It was, he’d told her, sky way or the highway. And anyway, he didn’t have time to listen to her snivelling.