Therapy, anyone @ No 10

I was down in the kitchen, well before breakfast. The cook, who has taken rather a shine to me, gave me a bowl of milk and some left-over sardines. Very tasty! I was about to have a kip when I heard the sound of the Boss's footsteps coming along the corridor.

Boy David, still feeling very pleased with himself from the local elections and AV results, was confronted by a new face early in the morning. He smiled politely and asked who he was.

"Oh! Didn't they tell you? I'm your therapist." A tall gaunt man who spoke almost in a whisper responded.

"Therapist? What sort of therapist?" Boy David looked genuinely surprised. "I wasn't aware I needed any physiotherapy. Haven't done anything physically energetic for simply ages." He gave a somewhat nervous laugh.

"I'm er ...I'm not a physiotherapist, Prime Minister. I suppose I'm more of a psycho-therapist."

"A psychotherapist?" Boy David's voice went up a pitch or two. "A psychotherapist! I certainly don't need any of your treatment!"

"I'm not supposed to be treating, exactly, Prime Minister, I'm giving you the confidence to stand your ground. To ensure that when you talk to Mr Clegg, you are the assertive you that has been rather hidden when you're in his company."

"Who on earth asked you to see me? I certainly didn't! Samantha didn't. So, who was it?" Boy David seemed to be losing his cool.

The man coughed and looked down at his feet. "Several of the, let's say, more right wing members of your Cabinet have hired me, Prime Minister. They told me that there's a rumour that unless you are more assertive, to quote them, 'you'll go down the pan!'. They want to avoid that and they think I can help."

I watched Boy David's face. It was quite a picture. To say he looked gobsmacked would not be doing justice to the expression. "Well, I don't want any of your therapy, Mr whoever-you-are! I'd like you to leave."

"Not even one session, Prime Minister?"

"Not even one session, thank you."

Mr whoever-he-was left with a grin. I happen to know that he had already been paid a hefty great fee on a 'no-persuasion-still-fee' basis. So, to put it mildly, it was no skin off his nose.

I watched Boy David. For a moment or two he sat quietly thinking then he grinned, then he laughed loudly. "Bloody fools," he said under his breath. "Even my own lot don't really know me. The inner Flashman is doing very nicely thank you, without any therapy. Besides, since my left hand doesn't know what my right hand is doing, why the hell should any therapist? The more docile they think I am, the better for me."

I slunk back into the kitchen and onto the cushion the cook has put out for me near the aga. I lay down and pondered. He's a devious so-and-so is our Boy David. Such smiles, such charm, such winning ways; beneath it all though - there's a ruthless streak that would make old Thatcher shudder. After all, you don't get to be leader of the Tory Party by being just plain nice, do you? And you don't even become a Tory by thinking of the welfare of others around you. So, really, it all fits together. Things are going to get a bit rougher round here. Sounds like fun. I must tell Arturo!