An Improper Use Of A Pantry

The plot thickens with much stuffing.

Who Shot Tony Blair?

“Do you promise you won’t tell anyone?”

An anxious Mumsie looked up into the flushed face of Boris’ butler, Snetterton. The face she had, for the last ten minutes, been kissing quite indecently.

“Never a soul, my lady,” replied Snetterton, with uncharacteristic vigour. “But… don’t you think the Prime Minister has a right to know?”

Mumsie’s brow crinkled and she sighed, gently releasing herself from the intense embrace of her amour. Snetterton just about managed to veil his disappointment with an expression of most earnest concern.

“No, you’re right,” said Mumsie. “I think we must tell her. I must tell her.”

The previously blistering atmosphere in the pantry had turned a little tepid. Snetterton was most dissatisfied. He had spent the best part of the day trying to track her down and he didn’t want to waste time now. After much searching, he finally came across her in the kitchen…

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