Icabalde stood alone in the Cabinet Room at Number 10. For a moment he studied the heavy damask drapes and then cast his eyes critically over the heavily patterned carpet. With the practiced proficiency of a yoga master he exhaled deeply. When his lungs were empty he held his breath and listened. The ticking of the two clocks in the room filled his ears, far off he could pick out the progress of a heavy truck grinding its gears down Whitehall. In the house, not a sound disturbed his meditations.

Quickly he dropped to the floor and lay flat out, face downward and pressed his nose flat into the carpet and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the musty aroma held deep within the piles. His head filled with a jumble of memories. The musky autumnal leaves he had collected when he was six and filled the garden shed with, the boys changing room at school, full of the mysterious odours of leather bats and feverous activity before games started, the straw laden cardboard box he'd kept his hamster Jack in, to keep it hidden from his parents. For a few moments his body stiffened with the tremors of ecstasy bought on by the decades of history lurking deep within the woollen fabric. Then, his needs sated, he got to his feet, carefully brushed down the front of his blue Saville Row suit and briskly walked up and down the room straightening the chairs around the huge boat sized mahogany table.

The door burst open, Icabalde spun around, to be met by the sight of the Queen elect bustling into the room.

The PM cocked his head. 'Icabalde I didn't expect to see you here. Do we have a meeting planned?'

'No PM,' Icabalde drew his notepad from his pocket. 'Just reviewing the seating plan for next week's Presidential ....' He stopped mid flow, perplexed by the sight a little wreath of ivy on the PM's head.

'Presidents, in the plural, I think you mean, Icabalde.' said the PM. Then following Icabaldes line of sight. 'Ah this little thing. I was just testing it out.' He thrust his chest out and threw his head back. 'What do you think?

'Late New Year party, PM?'

'No Icabalde, don't be obsequious. You know, for State occasions? The Queen has her crowns and state regalia, I can't wear those. I was thinking about having this done up in gold, laurel leaves of course. I could wear it an special occasions.'

'Shopping perhaps, PM?'

'That's just silly, Icabalde.' The PM lifted off his crown and tossed it on the table. 'You know we don't do the shopping. Like everyone else, we have the Au Pair do it.'

Looking at the ivy crown on the table triggered a memory for Icabalde. The last time he'd seen a crown like that was at the Roman Baths in Clapham, on the proprietor's head at a toga party. He loved the Baths, the smells, the company, and the birch twig thrashings. Just like school. He wondered if he'd ever have the courage to ask Lesley down there. He tucked his note pad away in his jacket inside pocket and headed for the door. 'Yes, PM, of course, the Au Pair. I'll see you in the morning.'

'While you're here, Icabalde, I'd like a word. Take a seat.'

Icabalde sat on the chair closest to the door and watched the PM stumping up and down the room like a caged hyena. 'I'm glad you're here, Icabalde. I'm just about to have a chat to Liz.'

'Her Majesty, PM?'

'Yes, yes, you know who I mean. I'm glad the business about the dog shooting has died down. She's been a little concerned about the safety of the Corgis. I've told her it's all sorted now. It is all sorted isn't it?'

Icabalde nodded. It wasn't but he was not sure his chairs could take the strain of any more visits from Sir Berty or having to contain his irritation at having the slippery Devon Piper wriggling around his room corrupting the air with his asinine remarks. Anyway he needed Berty to focus on the mole hunt before the knowledge of the death of an MI5 employee at Thames House crept into the press. He'd had his DA Notices on standby to produce should anything get out of control.

'And the cat, Icabalde?'

'Ah, the cat,' Icabalde rolled his pen through his fingers. 'We have netted over the planters as a precaution and doubled physical security. Additional armed security from MI5 will be in attendance next week during the President's visit.'

'So you're saying the animal has not been apprehended?' the PM faltered, his hind legs almost catching up with the rest of him.

'We have captured its image on CCTV and have shown it to local vets to determine possible owners in the area. The Metropolitan Police are conducting door to doors enquiries now.'

'You need to bring Springer in. He'll get this sorted out.'

'I fear Springer would, PM. By six o'clock tonight every lamppost between here and Tyburn Gallows will have the carcass of a dead cat hanging off it.'

'It would get the job done. But I see what you mean, the man does overreact sometimes. We need a more moderate solution.'

Icabalde held up a reassuring hand. 'The Chief Veterinarian has given a physiological profile to us of the animal. He told us that in all probability we looking for a male taken from his mother early in life. Possibly the runt of the litter, bought up in a socially deprived area and neglected while young. He has feelings of resentment about his peers so has taken to spraying in order to compensate for his impotence in a world that he sees has offered him very little.'

'I thought so, wait till Thelma hears about this,' The PM's face flashed with irritation.' A total delinquent by the sounds of it, probably high on cat nip, going around crapping up the lives of every decent resident in the area, the little bastard. Don't blame his upbringing Icabalde, cats like this are animals, you know that don't you? Socially inept, unable to do anything productive in their world, just wanting to spoil it for everyone else.'

'Well, let's wait and see before we judge, PM. The Chief Vetenarian has the habit of rubbing two sticks together and producing a cooking range. It will all be wrapped up soon.'

'Wrapped up in a sack and floating at the bottom of the Thames, then justice will be done. Bloody hell, I'll chuck it in myself for all the grief I'm getting from Thelma.'

'As I said, PM, let's wait until we catch it.'

'No, listen to me, Icabalde. I don't care how it's done but I want this dealt with terminally. It's not getting off this. No pussy footing around, when you catch it. I don't want to be seen as soft on this sort of appalling behaviour. So do what you have to, and do it discretely.'

'I'll do what I can.' Inwardly Icabalde fumed.

Icabalde fumigations were disturbed by a light knock at the door. It opened and Peter Porters disembodied floppy haircut floated through the opening. 'Oh hello, Icabalde. I'm sorry to disturb you PM but her Majesty is on the phone.' A finger crept round the door and pointed at the phone as if to remind the PM what it looked like.

'Yes, thank you, Peter.' The PM strutted over to the phone, gave Icabalde a knowing look and lifted the receiver. 'Hello, Ma'am, how are you today?'

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'Good, good.' The PM leant back on the desk and checked the tips of his claws for any snags. 'Well Ma'am. I was just touching base with you about our meeting next week. I thought a picture of you, me and the French president outside Number 10 would be rather jolly, you know, keeping the good old Anglo-French union ticking over in these difficult times.'

With a slightly distressed look the PM held the phone away from his ear. 'Overbearing.... garlic noshing... bucket of frogs.'

The PM span his finger round his head, pointed down the phone and mouthed to Icabalde 'losing it' and put the phone back to his ear. 'I didn't know you felt that way about him, Ma'am.'

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'I'm not sure I'm familiar with that word, Ma'am.'

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'I see, well would you do it as a personal favour to me then?'

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'I'm not sure I know that word either.'

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'Well for your Country then? Hmmm hm. Ah I see, you've met Springer. I hope he didn't cause any offence to your person, Ma'am. No? Most amusing? I see. Well if you can do the photo shoot I'm sure my office can arrange for him to be at more state functions. Yes? Good. Well that's agreed then.'

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PM tapped the table impatiently. 'Hmmm, I see. Well of course I'll ask Thelma not to keep bringing up the subject of you saying that she could have one of your corgis.'

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'Ah no. Thelma would never make that sort of mistake, maybe you just forgot.'

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'Yes you've already called me that Ma'am, as well as the French President. I'll have a word with her.'

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'Earl Grey. Yes we can do that. Biscuits?'

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'We can do those little pink wafer ones if the corgis like them so much. Jaffa Cakes?'

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'Good. I'll get Miss Trimble, Icabalde's secretary to give your social secretary a call to sort out the details. Lovely talking to you, as ever, Ma'am.' The PM winked at Icabalde and dropped the phone back onto the receiver.

'Well that's it then, Icabalde. You'll gather Springer's been over there oiling up to her, get him put on the list for some of her do's will you, she's taken a shine to him. And you are sorting Rex's bikes out aren't you. Good, good. I'll leave the details to you for the meeting next week. Lots of press present please.' The PM waved at the phone. 'Jaffa's, wafers and get some French stuff in for the President will you. There's a place called Fat Fannies I've been hearing about over in Covent Garden, try that would you.'

'Yes, PM I'll get that sorted. Jaffa's you say.' I'll bend over and pop out a few figs cakes while I'm at it.

'Yes, Jaffa's for the Corgis. Must be off. Thelma and I are drafting my acceptance speech for the Presidency. I've been doing my faces, so important for the photos don't you think. How do these look, I've been practising.' The PM pulled a face that reminded Icabalde of Munch's, The Scream.

Suppressing, his urge to pick up the phone and connect it bodily to the PM, Icabalde assumed an air of a wine connoisseur tasting a fine wine, allowing a look of creeping recognition to slowly take over his expression. 'Innocent surprise, PM.'

'Yes!' The PM cocked a finger and fired an imaginary shot at him. 'How about this?' He wiped an imaginary tear from under his eye.

Icabalde slipped into gradual enlightenment mode. 'Overwhelming...pride?'

'Bang on!' The PM fired off another finger shot and gurned up another face.

My hands wrapped around your neck wringing the bloody life out of you. 'Pain perhaps?' Icabalde said hesitantly.

'It's resignation, Icabalde. Over the fact that the party have chosen me. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm obligated to take on the role of Presidency thrust so unexpectedly upon me.'

'Oh, I see PM. Very good.'

'Well, it's just the first run through.' The PM dropped his head and pushed his hair carefully back into place.

'Indigestion,' Icabalde hazarded.

'I've finished the faces Icabalde, you can stop now.' The PM said tautly. 'Thelma thinks the grey suit, the one I met Yasser in, it made me look rather broad shouldered don't you think. Shall I top up the tan?'

Only if orange is the new brown. 'Might not go amiss, PM.'

I'm getting Dolores over to do some photos outside as well. The French press likes Dolores, you know, big and bouncy and all that. When we've done the photo shot, can you pop over Icabalde, take Liz aside and have your little word and then let her go home. Just let her know that the Party are behind me and it's a fait accompli and she'll go quietly I'm sure. Oh, that's French isn't it!' the PM chuckled. 'I'll brief the French President and we can roll into my short address in front of the press outside.' A shadow of doubt flickered across his face. 'The party are fully behind me?'

Icabalde smiled. 'The Chief Whip has it all in hand, he assures me, PM. A slicker change in power you could not imagine.'

'Goodo.' The PM beamed. He paused at the door. 'There is one thing.'

'Yes, PM.'

'Flutterhead, I think Liz called me. Are you familiar with the expression? It is flutterhead, isn't it?'

'Near enough, PM.' Said Icabalde reaching for his notepad.