I overslept this morning. The alarm had woken me in the middle of a dream in which I was trying to remember how to make meringues. For some reason I’d offered to make toast for Keir Starmer. And he’d asked for something sweet to be put on top of the slice. Meringues? I’d suggested. Yes, he’d said. I woke realising that I wasn’t completely sure how to prepare them. Then I’d gone back to sleep and the dream had continued. We’d become lovers. At least, I had taken the unauthorised role of concubine. I serviced his stress and frustration. I helped him inside of me. It was quick and clean. Our relationship was warm, intimate and amiable. There was no mention of his family or his wife. His staff accepted me as part of his entourage. No questions were asked. I’d wake from our bed to see him working at his boxes. He’d enter me again. There was no passion on my side, no desire or want. But I didn’t seem to feel any rancour. At one point we were in a car being driven somewhere so that he could make a speech. It was a northern town. Outside the car there were cobbles on the street. He turned me around and clipped a necklace around my neck. I remember thinking it wasn’t something I would normally wear but I knew I would. It was something to do with Queen Elizabeth’s anniversary. It was silver, small and dainty. We held each other and I said that I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Back home. I was in the communal toilets, women were washing their hands in what looked like urinals. I need some milk, I said to one of them. Shall I get you some? she asked. No need, I said. Good, she said, for I wanted to go back to bed. There was a scum line of dirt around the sink-cum-urinal. She washed it away with her hand.
