Reshuffle - a CABINET story for Whimword, 11th August 2017
The Prime Minister strode down the corridors of Whitehall, advisors in tow. His neatly cropped beard twitched triumphantly, his eyes steely with resolve.
“Congratulations on your victory, Prime Minister!” said an intern before being swallowed up by his entourage.
The PM continued to walk with purpose. His head advisor drew level with him.
“Prime Minister, can we discuss the new cabinet?”
“Certainly George, follow me.”
The PM swept through a side door and into the crisp, autumn air. A car was already waiting. He gestured for his advisor to follow.
“This won’t take long,” he reassured her.
His advisor’s brow furrowed, but she climbed in after her premier, and they set off. The journey, contrary to the PM’s assertion, was long, and unfolded in a tense silence. Well, tense for the advisor, whose head was awash with urgent questions. The PM remained remarkably sanguine.
Eventually they came to a stop outside a woodwork factory in Islington. The PM, chipper as ever, headed inside, with that self-same sense of contained purpose.
“Walk with me, George,” he called merrily.
His advisor, now thoroughly bemused, followed.
Inside was all manner of equipment, bestrewn with sawdust and rough-hewn slabs of wood. No other people in sight, and the place seemed, though active, somehow derelict, as though used only for very special purposes.
The PM placed a tweeded arm on a large wooden chest, and turned to his advisor, grinning.
“Here it is,” he said, “the new cabinet!”
His advisor stood in silence for a moment, then chuckled nervously, acutely aware of the lost time.
“Very amusing Prime Minister, but seriously, the cabinet?”
The PM’s face fell.
“Whatever do you mean, George? You won’t find a finer cabinet than this! Or newer! Fresh off the line this morning, made with wood from trees planted in my own allotment...”
“How did you grow trees in an allotment?” said his advisor, unthinking.
“This isn’t Question Time, George,” said the PM disdainfully. And with that he opened and closed the ornate doors, and knelt down to demonstrate the sturdiness of the legs.
“See?” he said, chirpily, “full working order!”
George was beginning to lose her rag.
“Prime Minister, I must insist we retire to Downing Street to discuss the appointment of the cabinet, time is not a luxury.”
“Do you doubt its ability to perform, George?” said the PM, hurt and perplexed.
“IT’S A FUCKING CABINET.” said the advisor calmly.
“Precisely,” said the PM, no less confused.
The advisor buried her face in her hands.
“HOW THE FUCK IS THIS MEANT TO RUN THE FUCKING COUNTRY? PRIME MINISTER? SIR?” she said, now bidding fond farewell to her tether.
The PM scoffed.
“Gordon Bennett,” he said, “I don’t expect it to.”
His advisor stared at him.
“You don’t?” she said.
“Not at all,” said the PM brightly, “it’ll still be a fucksight better than the last lot.”
His advisor looked on, mouth agape, as she realised with a pang that she could not reasonably disagree.
THE END
“Congratulations on your victory, Prime Minister!” said an intern before being swallowed up by his entourage.
The PM continued to walk with purpose. His head advisor drew level with him.
“Prime Minister, can we discuss the new cabinet?”
“Certainly George, follow me.”
The PM swept through a side door and into the crisp, autumn air. A car was already waiting. He gestured for his advisor to follow.
“This won’t take long,” he reassured her.
His advisor’s brow furrowed, but she climbed in after her premier, and they set off. The journey, contrary to the PM’s assertion, was long, and unfolded in a tense silence. Well, tense for the advisor, whose head was awash with urgent questions. The PM remained remarkably sanguine.
Eventually they came to a stop outside a woodwork factory in Islington. The PM, chipper as ever, headed inside, with that self-same sense of contained purpose.
“Walk with me, George,” he called merrily.
His advisor, now thoroughly bemused, followed.
Inside was all manner of equipment, bestrewn with sawdust and rough-hewn slabs of wood. No other people in sight, and the place seemed, though active, somehow derelict, as though used only for very special purposes.
The PM placed a tweeded arm on a large wooden chest, and turned to his advisor, grinning.
“Here it is,” he said, “the new cabinet!”
His advisor stood in silence for a moment, then chuckled nervously, acutely aware of the lost time.
“Very amusing Prime Minister, but seriously, the cabinet?”
The PM’s face fell.
“Whatever do you mean, George? You won’t find a finer cabinet than this! Or newer! Fresh off the line this morning, made with wood from trees planted in my own allotment...”
“How did you grow trees in an allotment?” said his advisor, unthinking.
“This isn’t Question Time, George,” said the PM disdainfully. And with that he opened and closed the ornate doors, and knelt down to demonstrate the sturdiness of the legs.
“See?” he said, chirpily, “full working order!”
George was beginning to lose her rag.
“Prime Minister, I must insist we retire to Downing Street to discuss the appointment of the cabinet, time is not a luxury.”
“Do you doubt its ability to perform, George?” said the PM, hurt and perplexed.
“IT’S A FUCKING CABINET.” said the advisor calmly.
“Precisely,” said the PM, no less confused.
The advisor buried her face in her hands.
“HOW THE FUCK IS THIS MEANT TO RUN THE FUCKING COUNTRY? PRIME MINISTER? SIR?” she said, now bidding fond farewell to her tether.
The PM scoffed.
“Gordon Bennett,” he said, “I don’t expect it to.”
His advisor stared at him.
“You don’t?” she said.
“Not at all,” said the PM brightly, “it’ll still be a fucksight better than the last lot.”
His advisor looked on, mouth agape, as she realised with a pang that she could not reasonably disagree.
THE END
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