Like poor Mr Prescott, I am
absolutely gutted. But
I can still sink my perfect gums
into the pink heart
of the body politic. I've been under
sedation, under the weather, the wraps.
Now (may I just say)
that the Prime Minister is not a
patch on all my eye. Let me scratch
his particulars, his itch.
I am Margaret, I am Meldrew, I am Morse.
I am Milosevic. I will be
barking in my sarcophagus,
though it irks. He's
not the daughter of Xerxes.
