Super! Bozzie requisitioned a dedicated photographer, so it’s goodbye selfies on my trusty iPhone, hello Andrew “Mr Candid” Parsons and – I hope – some sustainable No 10 glam!
Love Andy’s work but we set some guidelines: no historical photographs if my roots need doing and we must have another go if it does not look natural, like on election night when he completely missed the moment when Bozzie noticed I was there. No takeaway boxes. No blonds between the ages of 16 and 40. Maybe 43. And we’ll want some with Nimco, Dom too, so that people in the future don’t think we lived on fast food in a messy service flat with no friends except Stanley and Dilyn.
Andy: “Deal. What about Dom’s arse? Wasn’t Boris having a word?”
Good point. Typical. Remind Andy not to photograph broken crockery. Where is Bozzie? If I ask Stanley he’ll only go on about his gong.
Stanley: “Dear girl, if I told you I would very sadly have to kill you, but rest assured the very survival of this great country depends on extended absences by my son the PM. Now any news on my gong, old girl, tempus fugit, that’s ‘hurry up’ in Latin, Carrie – Carrie?” Oh. Dom’s added “or textiles” to the sign saying “No girls or dogs”.
Me: “Dom?” The moaning stops.
Dom: “Not learned to read yet?”
Me: “It’s about your latest, er, look.” The door flies open. Oh God. He’s naked.
Dom: “My bum? Too much of a cognitive challenge?”
Me: “Of course Bozzie’s a huge fan, but Andrew’s not sure–”
Dom: “Ever even heard of high leverage ideas?” A pause.
Dom: “You have now. Tell Parsons I’m ready for my closeup.”
As told to Catherine Bennett
