Nothing gets a God fearing Backbencher red in the face like accidentally bumping into them in a tiny lift. With my breasts.
Monday was terrible day. This was probably down to me starting the day out by screaming down my phone at 8am, with a coffee and ciggarette whilst freezing my behind off on the Embankment. It could well have been a scene from Spooks but with an excessive use of the F word. That would never have made it past BBC censors; smoking in a public place, I think not!
A magazine simply called Equility turned up in the post with the rest of the never-ending lobby crap. Aimed at women I believe. Despite being the only female in the office, I felt no need to open or read it. The boss picked it up by the very corner and asked "why are these silly bints sending me things about hairy nipples?"
I could have pointed out that it was a self answering question but why waste my breath.
My dear old boss had another encounter with nipples again when he clinked to read Guido's Daily Star Sunday column. When I asked him what he thought he mumbled "I don't know. I'm too busy trying to stop myself from clinking on the 'Star Babes'." There was a pause before he continued louder. "Do you think it will get past the firewall?"
And he wonders why he's not running the country.