Scene 1: David Miliband is typing his weekly blog.
Hello everyone. Gosh it's been a busy week. I've been reading a v. disturbing article in End of the Planet Monthly - a magazine all about how the human race is killing the world - and I learned that breathing in and out puts 67mg of CO2 into the atmosphere per minute. That much! I was horrified. I immediately vowed to breathe less and to keep my mouth firmly shut, especially when I'm asked about the leadership. But don't misinterpret my silence, please. It's not because I'm waiting to see if the electoral wipe-out on May 3rd will panic Labour MPs into a general revolt and sweep me to power. No, it's because whenever I use my lungs I am actually mugging Mother Nature. And we all know it's wrong to steal from little old ladies. Unless you do it through a tax-grab, eh? Pip pip.
Scene 2: Tony's office. Cherie skips in wearing a peasant smock and a garland of daisy chains. She strews dandelions around the room.
Cherie: Hail, husbande of mine.
Tony [wearily]: What's up?
Cherie: How art thou this lovely Aprile morne?
Tony: Cherie? Have you gone mad?
Cherie: Nay, dearest, but I see thee much perturbed by my mode of speache. I learned in a wise booke that Merrie England in ye olden dayes was very organicke and friendlie to the environemente.
Tony: So what?
Cherie: Let us mimicke the wayes of our forebears and hold an ecologicalle springe fayre in ye Rose Gardene. For charytie.
Tony: With you dressed like that?
Cherie: Why yes, my sweete. And Carole also.
Tony: You'll look a right couple of prats.
Cherie: Not if thou too donnest ye garbe of olden tymes.
Tony: No, thanks. And please stop being such a twat, Cherie.
Cherie: Oh, Tony, thou art no funne these dayes.
Scene 3: The Rose Garden, two days later. Cherie and Carole, dressed as shepherdesses, are greeting a group of disadvantaged children and their parents. Cabinet ministers are mingling with journalists, backbench MPs and rich donors. From an upstairs window, Gordon glares down suspiciously.
Cherie claps her hands.
Cherie: Ahem. Greetings one and all, and welcome to ye Rose Gardene of Downinge Streete. Verily, it is a true delighte to witnesse so manie.
Tony: Oh, just get on with it.
Cherie: Right. Let ye games begynne.
An hour later. The fair is in full swing. Cabinet volunteers are making fools of themselves for charity. John Reid and Alan Johnson are in the stocks being pelted with damp sponges by laughing schoolkids. Nearby, Ruth Kelly sits on a milking stool chewing turnips. Punters are paying 50p to guess her weight. Charles Clarke is putting blindfolds on children and conducting a game of Pin the Blame On Someone Else. Stephen Byers has cordoned off a large square of grass with a dozen numbered spikes stuck in it.
Byers: Roll up, folks. It's a pound to enter and all you have to do is guess where the bad news is buried.
Gordon arrives and glances around. He spots that the garden is full of Blairites. Carole nudges Cherie.
Carole: Od's teeth, Cherie, is that not Mr Grumpie Sourpusse from next doore?
Cherie: Ripple my bloomers, Carole, indeed it is. The ruthlesse olde Staliniste himselfe. Greetings, Gordon.
Gordon: Er hello, ladies. Raising lots of money?
Cherie: Why, indeed. And we have a task of greate import for thee - taking charge of ye auctionne for ye starvinge orphans of Afrik's distant shore.
Gordon: Africa? Perfect. What am I auctioning?
Cherie: Ye Virgin Atlantic teddy bears donated by Sir Richarde of Branson.
Gordon: Right. Let's get started.
Cherie: Pray silence, friends! I presente unto you my lord Chancellor, who will now hold ye charytie auctionne. Item One: a large ingotte stuffed with chocolate and ornamented in golde.
She passes him a square block covered in gold paint.
Gordon [aside]: You said teddy bears.
Cherie [aside]: Sorry. Delivered to Bahrain by accident.
Gordon [aside]: What?
Cherie [aside]: Typical Virgin. Well, go on. Get ye biddes going.
Gordon: Er, right. A lovely big bar of chocolate - er, covered in gold. Let's say a hundred pounds.
Silence. Everyone has been told not to bid.
Gordon: Fifty, then? Come on. It's for charity. All right, 30? No?
The journalists edge forward, sniffing a story. Cameras click.
Gordon [sweating]: How about 20? OK, ten. Ten quid? For a big chocolate ingot. I'll buy it myself - for five pounds.
Cherie: Begging your pardon, my lord, but thou mayest as easily give ye ingottes away for zilch as thou didst in 1999 - trying to sell at ye bottom of ye market, and costing ye countrie two billion quidde!
Gordon: You cow! You scheming bitch!
Cherie [curtsying]: Why thank you, sir. A glimpse into your true nature. Not just a humourless controle freake - but an olde-fashioned sexist to boot.