sheldrake

...I stayed up watching the Oscars until 4.30.

Oh, Andy Serkis, flashing your little anti-war poster. Love you.
Michael Moore, love you. (Well, come on - how weird would it have been if he'd just stood there and said "Um, thanks very much, bye.")
Adren Brody - haven't seen the film, but wow. Love you too, I think.

Oh, and some people (I'm looking at lobelia321 here) may be interested to know about John Rhys Davies' assertion (to Jonathan Ross) that Michael Caine apparently "looks just as good with his makeup off as with it on."

Now. Ever wondered just exactly why Clare Short decided not to resign after all. badgermonkey and I felt it was time to reveal the truth...



badgermonkey:
A thought! Wasn't Cherie Blair drafted in to phone MPs and make them vote for the government last week? Might that not be why Claire Short is still in a job? "Oh, Claire, dear, take off that scarf and come and make yourself comfortable on the sofa with me. That's it, good girl. Now, you wouldn't want to quit, would you, and leave all this behind; I mean, Tony wouldn't let you come round here any more if you resigned..."

***

sheldrake:
Clare settles back into the sofa cushions, tries to make herself comfortable. The Downing Street flat is a sealed-off bubble of peace and quiet; the world outside seems very far away.

Cherie sits a little too close, pours the tea. Her knees and ankles are pushed neatly together, bent sideways against the sofa with an elegance that is learned rather than innate. She's wearing that perfume. Cherie's perfume. Clare thinks, other people must wear that perfume, but still it's always Cherie's. Sometimes she will smell it, just walking from one place to another, thinking about work, about what has to be done next. The smell lingers in the dark, heavy halls of Westminster, in the green leather and polished wood and old, trodden stone of the Commons.

Cherie reaches forward, places the cup in front of her, brushes an escaped strand of hair out of Clare's face. Her hand is cold.

"Clare, you know it's all for the best, don't you?" She smiles, and it is gentle, almost shy. She runs an icy finger along Clare's hairline. "Really. We only want what's best." Her eyes are deep, dark wells. They say, 'we care', and Clare believes it. But she wonders about what.

***

badgermonkey:
Clare switches on the television again for the hundredth, the thousandth time. She stares blankly at the slick graphics and the reporters in their gas masks, wondering bleakly if she will ever be able to forget these pictures. A sharp-teethed rodent of guilt is gnawing at her stomach, but just when it gets unbearable, the phone rings. Like it always does. She doesn't know how Cherie knows, but just as she's about to waver and call for her assistant, there's Cherie's soft voice in her ear, cooing to her softly like a bird handler. She could try and fly away, but she'll come back. She knows it.

"You made me a hawk," Clare thinks, trying to battle against the tide of honey being poured into her ear, but instead she murmurs "Yes, yes, I trust you, ma cherie", all the time staring at the flashes and the smoke on the television.

***

sheldrake:
When Clare looks in the mirror she sees nothing she particularly likes. To her right the shower gushes hot against the curtain, and steam begins to fill the bathroom. From the bedroom, the sound of the Today Programme; John Humphries quizzing Robin Cook. Robin's coming out of it well, as she knew he would. That smug bastard, always doing the right thing. Always right. She can see him already, or rather feel him - his self-righteous presence there in the back benches.

She finishes cleaning her teeth and steps into the shower. People laugh at her behind their hands, she knows it. They say she has no credibility left now. But she doesn't care about that. She's been in this game long enough to know that they can't hurt her. A figure of fun can still go far, and so can a bird on a string. Cherie has promised her. Cherie has promised Clare a lot of things, with her wide smile, and her gentle voice, and her cold, cold hands. The shower is good and hot on Clare's skin this morning, but it never really takes away that cold. Faintly, under the falling water, she hears the distorted, broken up sound of a BBC correspondent in Baghdad. He says bombs, fireballs, casualties, all the usual.

Down in the icy pit of her stomach, Clare feels sick.

***