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As she sits down to weigh up likelihoods and alternatives - bacon (cured/ uncured) in classic tandem with eggs (scrambled /unscrambled) toast (wholemeal/ white trash) not to mention coffee and tea options in attendance - the PM partly regrets a decision brazenly taken early in the morning chez Number 10: to kick start the day with a brace of coddled eggs and a pair of rough, yet sturdy and dependable oat cakes on which to place them, before snapping a jpeg of the arrangement in order to compare and contrast them with those in the illustration on the back of the box - or is it the side? - How is breakfast PM?
The PM has expended a goodly few minutes out of her precious mind in an attempt to resemble as far as feasible the studio photograph on the packet. She rues her choice of lexis. Surely goodly is incorrect in this context. Neither is she convinced that a coriander leaf does a passable impression of a sprig of parsley. Ho hum.
- How is breakfast PM? 
The question fails to jolt the head …
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Eyes, red from last night’s exertions, are nevertheless focused on the scrawled mess on the back of a ripped open white A4 window envelope – an arrears letter from the council’s arms-length management QUANGO demanding she start to reduce the £2,ooo plus debt if she is to avoid further action.  Action? That meant what exactly? Another new Acting Manager, who she’s never heard of, and who’ll be out the door again before six months is over, like the last, and the one before, that has charged a £50.00 management fee for the privilege of informing her by letter of an increase in her arrears of, oh! I don’t know, £50.00.  The blank space on the back has been well recycled. Her internal Dot Cotton kicks in. It cushions her against life's little travails, not to mention long waits for council lifts:
I told him I did. I said, You can stick your £50 quid where the sun don’t shine sunshine, not now, not now that they’ve been and gone and put all that bloody scaffoldi…