Ever since he had attended his first meeting at Number 10 Icabalde Mayheme, Deputy PM, Home Office Minister had been captivated by the heady aromas of the Cabinet Room. This morning a cacophony of delightful odours crowded the senses. A large tray of hot tea cakes diligently prepared earlier by the cook blasted out a rich spiciness of sticky currents wrapped in warm soft, sweet bread. The luxuriant aroma of the expensive wax used by the cleaners danced lightly over the expansive polished Cabinet table. Jenny Garson's pungent perfume invaded the room struggling to overcome the oozing mustiness of the panelled wood walls. Icabalde closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and bathed in this luxuriantly sensual mix of fragrances.

The PM was droning on interminably about the poodle incident, bad press and the French President's imminent visit. Icabalde shared the common view that neither poodles, tabloids nor the visit of an egotistical, snail wolfing Hexagone was worthy of Icablade's serious attention. He serenely drew in another soothing concoction of euphoric odours. Slowly opening his eyes he looked at the ornamental antique clock that stood on the mantel piece in the Cabinet Room at Number 10. The whole thing with the poodle was bloody irritating. If the PM didn't get a move on then he was going to be late for his next meeting which given the headlines in the rash of early morning papers spread across the table in front of him he had an urgent need to attend.

The attendees of this morning meeting consisted only of the hard core cabinet ministers who wished to usurp the leader. Icabalde cast his eye around the table at this well dressed band of conspirators. Apart from Peter Porter the PM's fop haired, bespectacled Press Secretary and the doe eyed Dolores only Icabalde, Jenny Garson and Hugo Beare were in attendance.

Icabalde sensed an air of general disinterest in the PM's ramblings. Only Dolores Dawn appeared to be interested in the PM's litany of woes. Dolores Dawn, 'Desirable Doris', Secretary of State for Media and Sport, diminutive, plump, buxom, peroxide blond sat next to the PM. Dolores the PM's only real ally patted him reassuringly on the arm and rolled her big beagle eyes sympathetically at each utterance of the word 'poodle'.

Jenny the efficient, workman like, potty mouthed Secretary of State for Work and Pensions was impatiently tapping her pen on her Filofax occasionally letting out a sound like a punctured tyre whilst she sat staring despairingly at the ceiling.

The young, suave, physical, well spoken, public schooled, Hugo, Chancellor of Exchequer was taking casual peeks down Dolores top hoping no one would notice. Catching Icabalde's eye he smirked, nonchalantly placed two tea cakes suggestively on his plate before winking lewdly at Icabalde.

Icabalde looked away. The PM rambled on, seemly unaware of the general feeling of impatience welling up in the room around him. Given the state of the press's view on his Leadership the PM should be more concerned about those vultures gathered in the room about him rather than canine shootings in deepest darkest Croydon. In Icabalde's view the PM was playing Caesar to Jenny's Gaius Longinus and Hugo's Marcus Brutas. Together with Icabalde they formed the Triumvirate that would upset the PM. When Parliament returned in the New Year there was likely to be an unpleasant incident in the Forum.

The PM eyed the papers suspiciously and slowly picked his way through the pile before pulling out one that caught his attention.

'Police Pounce on Pink Poodle.' His eyebrows arched as he read the first few lines of the lead article while he absentmindedly reached for another paper. Having absorbed the gist of the story he flipped to the other paper, 'Premier Powerless as Police Persecute Poodles.' His eyebrows furrowed further. 'I don't suppose Peter there is any relief from this?' The PM tossed the papers irritably aside.

Peter Porter looked flustered, glanced nervously around the room at the assembled Cabinet and began rummaging through the pile of newspapers strewn across table. 'Here's one,' he said with relief picking out a paper and passing it hurriedly to the PM, 'Father Christmas seen in Croydon High Street.'

'I think you'll find Peter that Father Christmas was there to save Croydon's poodles,' said the PM pointedly. 'Isn't there anything else?'

'Well the FT has gone with -Christmas brings little cheer as Economy crashes further.'

'Not helpful Peter,' reprimanded the PM.

'But it's not poodle related,' replied Peter optimistically.

The PM gave Peter the withering look he reserved for the Leader of the Opposition at PM's Question Time in the Commons. He turned to Icabalde.

'Icabalde have you spoken to the Yard about this?'

'Well, I've had a short conversation with Jack Springer this morning, just after the first editions came out.' Icabalde slipped on his wire rimmed glasses and checked his notepad as if to remind himself of the particulars of the conversation.

'Ah Spring Heeled Jack, our esteemed Head of Special Branch. How is he?' enquired the PM in a tone of general disinterest.

'Pretty miffed I must say PM,' said Icabalde recalling the stream of expletives that had shot out of his ministerial phone early that morning. 'He claims it was a joint operation with MI5 and their operatives bungled it and shot the dog.'

'And what has Sir Berty got to say about that?' asked the PM picking up another newspaper which bore a graphic illustration of a pink poodle with a revolver to its head. He petulantly tossed the paper away.

'I'm seeing Berty and Devon after this meeting ends. I'm sure we'll get some answers then.' Icabalde drew a little noose in his notepad.

'Good.' The PM turned back to his Press Secretary,' Peter, what's the fall out on this?'

'Well PM, with Parliament in recess at least you won't have to take questions about this in the House. I'd give it a couple of days and it will die away. Once Christmas is here it will quickly be forgotten I'm sure,' reassured Peter gathering the papers up in an attempt to bring an end to the discussion.

'Yes Peter but it appears my name is in the frame for this one when really the responsibility lies with Icabalde and someone in his Department. After all they are responsible for the Police and the Intelligence Services. Is the canine vote important Peter?'

'Well I don't have any specific figures PM but I would suppose it would disenfranchise a fair number of voters if the government were seen as partisan when it came to the treatment of canines.'

'Well I need something more specific if we are to allocate the blame for this incident.' answered the PM pointedly leaning back in his seat and placing his hands together across his chest.

'PM,' said Peter cautiously, 'you must be careful about using such terminology. Blame is a very emotive word especially for a Government that espouses fairness, openness and accountability.'

'Of course, of course Peter that goes without saying,' the PM waved his hand dismissively in the air. 'We around this table are all committed to those values. After all it's in our Charter to the British public. But in this particular case I feel someone should be held responsible and therefore be fully accountable for their actions. As you always knows buck always stops at the top in this room.'

'You PM?' Peter asked slightly incredulously.

'Are you trying to be flippant Peter?' asked the PM, 'No, in this case the responsible person is Icabalde. We around this table all take full responsibility for what happens in our own departments. Don't we Icabalde?'

'We do,' said Icabalde as all eyes turned to look at him. It dawned on Icabalde that things were somewhat worse than he'd originally supposed. He stopped his work on his noose and surreptitiously wrote, 'Poodle, Shift Blame.' By it he added a little stick man kicking a little stick dog. He sat back and nodded reassuringly to the PM and considered that if the pink poodle was in the room at that very moment he'd quite happily kick its' little furry butt all the way back to Croydon.

'Good then, we understand each other Icabalde. In the meantime you will no doubt investigate this as a matter of urgency and report back to us.' said the PM clearly won over by this entry in Icabalde's notebook.

Jenny had stopped looking at the ceiling and following Icabalde's example had put a small notepad on the table together with some vouchers and begun to ostentatiously write down a shopping list. Hugo unable to plumb the depths of Dolores's top any further had rolled up six small pieces of paper in front of him and was about to embark on an Olympian effort to flick them over the room into the confidential paper waste bin in the far corner.

'I said, if anyone was listening that I don't think the Queen particularly likes me,' repeated the PM. Icabalde felt a collective sigh run through the cabinet room. Jenny glanced longingly toward the door and began working on her exit strategy.

'Oh God,' thought Icabalde, he's going into one of his maudlin moods. We could be here all morning. He looked at Jenny. She glared back and mouthed 'Say something'. Icabalde wondered why they always expected him to talk the PM up when he got like this. He looked at the clock. He was already five minutes late for his meeting. He took a deep breath. 'I'm sure that's not true PM. What makes you think that?'

'Well every time I meet her she seem to find a way of leaving me with her husband and disappearing off to talk to someone else. I'm sure everyone notices. Have you heard anything Icabalde?'

'No, no I haven't PM. Have you considered that given that her husband's a bit gaffe prone she's making sure she's leaving him with someone she can trust, someone who'll keep him on the straight and narrow while she circulates.'

'That's it, it's a demonstration of her trust in you.' Hugo smoothed up.

'You think so? 'The PM brightened slightly, 'Yes I suppose so.' The PM considered this for a moment 'Can you ask around Icky just to be sure. Ask her Equerry or whatever he calls himself. Will you do that?'

'I will PM.' Icabalde confirmed. Icky! He hated being called Icky is sounded like sickie or thicky. He hurriedly started to clear up his papers and at that signal the others started to grab handbags and briefcases.

'Oh wait a moment everyone,' the PM raised his hand, 'we've still got to go through the seating plan for the service at the Abbey this Sunday. Is the Dean of Westminster here Peter?'

Icabalde cursed inwardly .Jenny mouthed, 'For Christ sake,' and slumped back into her seat.

They waited while the Dean was shown into the Cabinet room. Small, grey haired, bespectacled in a black cassock and with an unassuming voice he pulled a large roll of paper from a cardboard tube and using some spare cups pinned it down on the table.

'Well, what do we have here?' said the PM somewhat excitedly as the Cabinet stood and examined the document.

'It's the seating plan for this Sundays Memorial service for Anomalous Rex.' said the Dean. The Deans hands were shaking slightly.

'Yes of course it is. So where I am then?' inquired the PM rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

'You're here PM. As requested, with your wife in the seat next to you at the front. With Rex's family.' The Dean placed his finger on the plan and pronounced, 'Aisle 1 Seat 1,' very slowly for maximum effect. The Dean looked pointedly at the PM to ensure this had sunk in. 'Right at the front opposite the pulpit where the Archbishop will make his address.'

'Good, good,' said the PM patting the Dean on the back. 'Now Dean that wasn't so difficult for the Archbishop to sort out was it? I don't know what all the fuss was about.'

'The Archbishop was rather surprised you wanted to attend Sir, he didn't know you were a fan of Anomalous Rex.'

'What? I was a great friend and supporter of Anomalous, Dean. I saw a number of his exhibitions didn't I Icabalde?' The PM turned to Icabalde for support.

'You did indeed.' Icabalde assured recalling that when the PM had heard of Rex's death in a fire in at his studio he had pronounced rather pointedly - 'Good thing too, that arrogant, cocky little bastard.'

Anomalous the famous artist had not endeared himself to the PM. When the PM had visited one of his exhibitions and had expressed surprise of the variety of work Anomalous had produced. Anomalous had replied, 'Well PM, I'm good with my hands. Ask your wife, she'll tell you.' The comment was later reported widely in the press much to the chagrin of the PM. However, the PM knowing that celebrity bought votes had stuck with Anomalous being sure to be seen at any of his exhibitions regardless of his thoughts on Rex's manual dexterity. During his life Rex had bequeathed a number of his works to British Institutions and on his death somehow had been elevated from being a national treasure to a popular folk hero and a the clamour for his recognition had culminated in a memorial service at Westminster Abbey.

'I wanted to attend Dean so I could carry the Nation through this difficult time. I am after all the pivotal vessel that represents this Country and I should be seen to be present to embody the countries sadness at seeing such a great talent taken from us all at such an early age.'

'Well the Archbishop has had to ask some members of the family to give up their seats for you,' admonished the Dean.

'Well they've done it for the good of the British public Dean. We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good. Tell you what I'll do, I'll send them a letter of condolence and how about some signed pictures of me. Yes that should do it. And what are these?' said the PM pointing to the plan.

'Cameras Prime Minister,' said the Dean cautiously.

'And why are there so many on the other side of the aisle, the family seem to have only one on their side,' the PM scratched his head doubtfully.

'The celebrities are on the other side. The Head of Formula One, the Olympic 100 meters World record holder, all the celebrities are in the front row so you can imagine there's a lot of TV interest.

'Why wasn't I told?' the PM looked irritated and the Dean picked up the tone in his voice.

'You especially asked to be with the family to show your support for them through this difficult time Sir, which is what the Archbishop has arranged. Row 1, Aisle 1.' The Dean flushed angrily.

'Well I can hardly show my support if it's not on all the channels can I?' said the PM with obvious annoyance, 'You'll have to move me to the other side.'

'But PM!' the Dean looked bewildered,' At this late stage....'

'I'll hear no more of it Dean. Off you go. Between Sir Tommy Free and the England Football Captain I fancy would be most suitable.' said the PM pointing to two central seats on the front row. 'A seat for me and one for my lady wife.' The PM quickly rolled up the plan and passed it to the Dean, slapped the tube on top, hustled him to the door and quickly pushed him out. 'My regards to the Archbishop.'

'Christ that was hard work,' said the PM slamming the door behind the Dean. 'What's wrong with these people, sorting out a simple seating plan? Can you imagine if we ran the County like they orchestrated a church service? We really need to sort out the Archbishop Icabalde. Can I remove him, he's clearly getting a bit happy clappy. Can I do that?'

'I fear it is the Church Synod that holds that responsibility PM,' assured Icabalde.

'And the Queen? She's never liked our politics. You know that, don't you? Can we do something about her?'

'It's a hereditary title. Her son will take charge if she dies or steps down.'

'I know that Icabalde. Well I get on alright with him I suppose. Can something be arranged then?'

'I'm afraid the Intelligence Services remit lies outside the removal of the reigning Monarch but she may be receptive to stepping down if you'd like to bring it up with her.'

Hugo made the sign of someone's throat being cut.

Icabalde ignored him, completed his sketch of the PM's head and tightened the noose around it. It was a very good likeness. Anomalous Rex would have been proud.