Boris awoke with a start and looked around the darkened room. A shaft of light from a gap in the curtains fell on the mantlepiece where, propped against the digital clock, he could see Himmler, the battered, much-loved teddy bear of his childhood. He must have slept on the sofa in the study again. That would explain the cricked neck, though not the headache.
Why was he on the sofa this time? Ah yes, it was coming back to him. Boris remembered now, he had been out late at a party. Such a beano too, but he couldn't remember for the life of him what it had all been about.
All he could remember as he rolled over to make himself more comfortable was that ravishing smile flashed in his direction by Henrietta Strumpet, the gorgeous Roedean girl who made the tea for that frightful man, Lynton Crosby.
Frightful oik, he insisted that Henrietta always use one of those toxic teabags he had imported from Alice Springs: "Billabong Extra Strong."
Boris squinted at the digital clock again. "Still it's Saturday," he thought . "Only 9.30 too. Plenty of time for a lie-in." Good old Marina would know he was under the weather and keep the kids out until lunchtime at least. Boris picked what appeared to be a crumb of bread roll from his hair and scratched himself contentedly.
But he could not settle. Something was nagging him. Why had that Crosby man been bullying him so often lately? Come to think of it, why had good old Boris been more than usually the centre of attention at last night's party? It can hardly have been his rendering of Eskimo Nell.
All his friends had heard that one more times than any of them cared to remember. The same went for the Boris cover version of Come on Baby, Light my Fire. Boris had a vague notion that his imitation of William Hague had been funnier than usual.
It was what had prompted Henrietta's come-on smile."Good old Hettie," he thought. "Must give her a ring in a quiet moment next week after things get back to normal."
Boris's mind was slowly piecing together recent events which had made him feel, quite frankly knackered. He had been running for London mayor. Did it as a favour for Dave. Old mate, good bloke, school, wall game, girls, Oxford, more girls. And he could hardly refuse a favour to a fellow-member of the Buller, could he?
Well, now it was all over. Things could return to normal, he thought. Bliss. Yet the sense of unease persisted. He distinctly remembered Crosby saying as he helped him into a taxi at Annabel's - or was it Tiger Tiger ? - "you'll have to get a grip now, you little Pommie bastard, you won't have me and Bruce to look after you from tonight. We're sodding off. Had enough of this rain-swept little island, full of folk who don't shower much except outdoors."
Boris suddenly remembered that the bruise on his left buttock had been sustained when he fell out of the table cloth and landed on a waiter. That was it. They'd been giving him the bumps! What had they all been singing? " For He's a Jolly Good Mayor," that was it.
Boris sat up on the sofa with a shudder that chilled his blood. Oh my God, he'd won. He'd have to be mayor for months, probably for years. It wasn't meant to be like this. Dave had promised him "just do your best, old chap, good loser, that sort of thing".
Just at that moment he heard the wail of a police siren which stopped as a car, possibly several cars, screeched to a halt outside and his mobile phone rang. Boris found it only with difficulty and pressed 121. " Morning Mr Mayor," said a cheerful voice. "Your car is outside, your first appointment is in Lewisham. We have half an hour to get you there."
