Well, you know. It is not easy. I don't know if you have ever experienced anything like it, but it is never easy.
We first met out on the street. It was an ordinary Tuesday and it was raining. I stepped out to cross the road and the big black car seemed to appear from nowhere.
The next thing I knew I was lying in the gutter and a chauffeur was holding my bleeding face out of the wet stream. I looked up and... there she was. It was love at first sight. How I remember those first sweet words she said to me.
"Get up you malingering bastard!"
Of course, from that moment I would have gladly done anything and everything she asked of me. Love made me strong and I staggered to my feet. I stumbled towards her, but I fell to my knees. I looked up at her with desire in my eyes.
She looked down at me and almost smiled. "Are you an MP, one of ours?"
I shook my head. I took her hand in mine; she almost jerked it out of my grasp. I kissed her hand.
"Get in the car," she said to me.
Of course, it all happened the way these things usually happen. Secret meetings in number 10, where she would throw me down on the cabinet table and ride me to victory until I lost my deposit. The - supposedly - trips abroad to the European meetings. We would spend all day alone and naked together in those hotels in Paris, Brussels, Bonn, Leeds - all the great romantic cities.
The trips to America. Ronnie Ray-gun was just a cover for us - of course. I once asked my darling Maggie about him, she just laughed and held here thumb and fore-finger an inch apart.
"Why do you think he wants an arms-race," she laughed before grabbing hold of my mandate and making it the enemy within herself. Inevitably it had to end, as these things always do. She started believing all the myths and legends. She began to wear iron-lady underwear. It is not pleasant when a mature lady tries to sit on your face while wearing wrought-iron knickers.
Dennis got suspicious - eventually. I can remember him asking why her meetings with her 'special advisor' always seemed to leave the sheets damp.
As her hold over the party slipped from her grasp, so my manifesto slipped from her grasp too. No longer would she make a grab for it under the cabinet table as John Major droned on in the corner, or 'accidentally' drop her pen on the floor and ask me to crawl under the table to retrieve it for her.
She turned to drink, and started to call me Jimmy Young when we were alone. She developed a new sex-game where I had to dress up as a sheep and pretend to be Geoffrey Howe while she rode me around the number 10 bedroom, whipping me with a riding crop.
Then, in Paris, it ended. She just walked out of my life as she walked out of number 10 and everyone else's life. I would like to think that those tears were tears for me. But I know they are not, and - now - do you still have to ask why I seem obsessed?
(Another one of my earliest – see here for example)
No comments:
Post a Comment