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MJ hated presenting for the class. Hated being the centre of attention for anything, really, she saw herself as more of an observer, of the real and the mundane. But is was mandatory for everyone in class to present on a topic, and there was no way in hell she was failing a class based on one task she didn't want to do, so she had spent the weekend putting together fifteen minutes on her favourite subject- entropy, chaos, and the decline of the universe into nothingness. And now Monday morning found her walking into Midtown High, dressed in her familiar old skinny jeans and a purple and blue striped wooly jumper over a white t-shirt, combat boots on her feet and her hair tied up in a messy bun. "Hey, MJ." Liz smiled, half way up a ladder as she hung a banner announcing an upcoming dance, above the heads of students milling about on their way to class. "Hey, Liz." MJ half-smiled back, "That needs to be about six inches higher on your end." "It does? Thanks." Liz took another step up the ladder, not realising her skirt had snagged on it, and as she rose up her skirt was tugged and then fell down, leaving her pink knickers with white spots on view of everyone in the hallway. "Oh..." MJ gasped, "Sorry. I, uh, gotta go..." She left Liz to sort her outfit out and went to her classroom, finding her usual desk near the back. Hoping that the popular girl would be okay and wouldn't hold the accidental undressing against her, MJ dropped into her chair, accompanied by a brief popping noise. "What was that?" She whispered to herself in surprise. She quickly examined her outfit, until she looked at her waist and saw that the button had popped from her jeans and they were gaping open! "It seems to be a day for wardrobe malfunctions." MJ muttered, adjusting her jeans as best she could. There was no sign of the button, and she was pretty sure it would not do her any good anyway, she sucked at sewing and wouldn't know how to reattach it. "Good morning, class." Their teacher entered and addressed the pupils, who quietened down, "I hope you all had a good weekend..." she was interrupted by Liz hurrying in, still blushing, to take her seat. "A few of you are scheduled to do your presentations today, so we'll get those done and then look at prep work for the exam. Friday we finished with Holmes, so moving on today we start with Jones. Michelle?" MJ got to her feet, annoyed that the teacher insisted on using her full name, but at least she didn't call her 'Jones-Watson'. She adjusted her jeans again, feeling them start to slip down from the missing button, she tried to look casual as she kept one hand on them to hold them up. In her other hand she carried her notes, and when she got to the front she leaned back on the teacher's desk, hoping that if she pressed her butt against the desktop, that could help hold the jeans up. She made sure her jumper came down low enough to hide the gap before using both hands to hold her papers. She cast her eyes over the class, noticing Parker was missing. That wasn't like him, but she remembered hearing something about an internship that had suddenly whisked him out of town. She wasn't sure that Stark could be trusted enough to suddenly abscond with a teenager, but that was Parker's responsibility now. Taking a breath, she began. "Entropy. The descent into chaos, darkness and eventually the end of all things. As inevitable as the sun rising, until one day it does not. As..." An urgent pulling caught her attention, she felt the back of her jumper being yanked backwards, and heard an insistent whirring noise. She tried to turn, felt her body held in place, but she was able to move her head enough to see a fan standing on the desk, spinning around and winding in the wool of her jumper at an alarming rate. "What?" "You looked a bit warm, I thought it might be a good idea." The teacher explained. "It wasn't!" MJ gasped, as her jumper was unravelled by the fan blades and pulled away, she saw the ragged hem shorten up her body, until the whole thing fell apart, as the fan ground to a stop. "Oh, dear. At least you have that top on." The teacher said. "Yes, at least I..." MJ realised that when she got dressed that morning she had grabbed the first white t-shirt she could find, believing it would remain hidden all day. She had not realised that the entire class would be able to see the Care Bears printed across the front of it. "Care Bears?" Someone called out, "Aw, Michelle has a soft side!" "It's a very old shirt!" MJ insisted, crossing her arms over her front. That was at least true, it had been a big enough top when she originally got it, and was now a small t-shirt, threadbare and worn thin. It was so small on her, that it did not come low enough to cover the missing button on her jeans, as her jumper had done. "MJ," Betty whispered urgently from the front row, "Your jeans are undone." "The button popped." MJ replied unhappily. She turned to the teacher, "Do I have to continue?" "Yes, dear." The teacher replied, "It's just a t-shirt, hardly worth making a spectacle about." MJ sighed, and looked down at her notes. "Science tells us that if we leave anything in a closed system for long enough, it will break down. This is true for plant matter, society..." "Your clothes!" Someone else called out. "Come on!" MJ snapped, stamping her foot. That turned out to be a mistake, as her jeans fell from her waist and bunched around her ankles, exposing a pair of bright pink knickers with pictures of the Powerpuff Girls on the front. This caused the class to descend into gales of laughter again, and shouting out about her choice in cartoon underwear. "They're strong female role models!" MJ insisted, tugging at her jeans and finding them surprisingly difficult to pull back up, "And they're just cute!" With an effort, she managed to get the denim to start moving up her legs, "And they're... oops!" She pulled top hard, the jeans came up but as they reached her backside the rear seam split apart, leaving the pink cotton and the Powerpuff Girls logo across the seat, still on full view. Although the class was in front of her and could not see the split, the loud and distinctive noise of denim ripping was clear enough to redouble their laughter. "My pants!" MJ gasped, clutching at the ripped seat to work out how bad it was, "Oh no..." she realised she had dropped her notes, and quickly stooped to get them, regretting it as the rip suddenly tore bigger, racing down the back of her right leg as well as upwards, to leave the waistband hanging by a thread. MJ carefully stood back up, her face burning with humiliation, as she tried to compose herself. "My... my outfit is an example of... of things descending into chaos." She gulped, "I was dressed when I arrived today, and now... as you can see... it is falling apart. And I hope this performative element of my presentation is enough to at least get me a passing grade... thank you." She clutched at her waistband with one hand, and her other arm she held around her flimsy t-shirt, she took a few steps towards her desk before thinking better of it. Mumbling a hasty excuse to the teacher, she turned and headed for the door instead. This necessitated her turning her back on the class, exposing the back of her jeans, or what was left of them, to everyone. Rushing through the door, she ran through it and straight into Sue Lorman, who had been walking down the hallway carrying a stack of books. Both girls fell to the floor, MJ landing on top of the dark-blonde girl, and the books went flying. "Sorry!" MJ gasped, flicking her hair out of her face. "What happened to you?!" Sue exclaimed. "Wardrobe malfunction." MJ replied, "Multiple." "Could you... get off me?" Sue asked. "Oh, sure, sorry." MJ repeated, pushing herself up. As she did, there was a harsh tearing noise and her threadbare old top split up the front, releasing her breasts in their pale yellow bra. Things got worse as MJ got fully to her feet and the last stitches holding her jeans up failed, the trousers dropped to the floor, leaving her stood in her underwear. The embarrassed girl let out a squeal, and leaving the tattered remains of her clothes behind she ran down the hallway. The tiles felt cold under her thin lilac socks, and she realised she had managed to step completely out of her boots and leave them behind. "Where can I go? Oh my word, where do I go?" MJ gasped, realising she was running in the wrong direction from the changing rooms or lockers. She spotted a door to a classroom, the window in the door was dark, indicating it was empty, so she quickly threw herself through it. She leaned against the wall, panting hard. She just needed a few minutes to get her head together and think, she was clever enough to come up with a way out of this, probably with some cutting remark that made everyone else feel stupid. Maybe something about challenging traditional gender roles? That should work... There was a sudden bright flash of light, which illuminated the room, and the class full of students sitting there. In addition, MJ took in some other information- There was a device that looked like plasma ball crossed with a desk lamp, which was aimed in her direction. Between her and the bright device was a small table, on which stood a pile of rubbish. In the beam of light, the rubbish lost its molecular integrity and dissolved into almost nothingness. MJ took this in, and realised the potential implications, too late to prevent her underwear, also bathed in the beam, from similarly dissolving and falling to the floor, where they turned to dust. "Static-powered atomic destabiliser for reducing the mass of garbage?" MJ asked. The stunned pupil who had fired the device could only nod. "Cool." MJ gulped. "It works. Excuse me." Now reduced to nothing at all, MJ turned and sprinted back out of the classroom. She was really panicking now, living one of her worst possible nightmares, running around school naked. She was not an especially curvy girl, and had never been that concerned with having the curves to impress others, but she had never thought that what she did have would be suddenly so visible! She saw a group of pupils coming down the corridor ahead of her, she was about to duck into another door, but from her experience the last time she did that, and worried about how much worse things could get, she instead spotted a trophy cabinet and pressed herself against it, trying to get as small as possible. The group walked past, while MJ held her breath, willing them as hard as she could not to glance in her direction and see the humiliated teenager squashed against the wall. After what seemed like ages they had gone and the corridor was empty again. MJ let out the breath she had been holding and stepped out from her hiding place. She was at least going in the right direction now, and was just thinking that she might make it to a locker room and, if she had to, steal someone's clothes, when the bell rang and her panic suddenly tripled. Fortunately she saw the door to the girl's toilets, and ran through it just in time. She locked herself in a stall and stood, panting and feeling her heart race. The weirdest thing was the cold, she realised. You take for granted that it's a certain temperature when you're dressed, and really notice that drop when you're in a familiar place undressed. Her ears pricked up as she heard the door open, and someone come in, talking on a phone. "... no, dad, I'll be out by five." The girl's voice said, "I just need to finish some of the dance decorations and then that'll be it. I'll see you tonight. Bye." "Liz?" MJ asked through the door. "MJ?" Liz replied. "Hey, are you alone there?" "Uh, yeah. Why?" "I'm... kind of naked." "What happened to your underwear?" "I lost them!" "Wow, you're full-on naked at school?" "Yes! Can you help me?" "Help you what?" "I thought maybe we could do a photoshoot, really make the 'Gram pop... find me some clothes, of course!" "There's no need to be snippy!" "Sorry, sorry. Having thirty people laugh at my butt will do that to you. Can you find me something to wear?" "Of course. I'll be right back." Fifteen minutes later, Liz had returned to the toilet and then exited it again. Right behind her came MJ, now dressed in a skimpy blue cheerleader outfit. "I'm not ungrateful," MJ said, tugging the hem of the skirt down as much as it would go, "but it's a bit small. And I've got no underwear on." "It's the only one that was spare." Liz shrugged, "I think you look great, though."

A little RP between myself and https://www.deviantart.com/sanders2192 featuring our respective characters, Phillipa Tushington... https://www.deviantart.com/henchies-and-hose/art/Writing-On-The-Wall-For-Bumbury-MP-893109151 and Cressida Parker-Widebottom... https://www.deviantart.com/sanders2192/art/Jo-vs-Cressida-The-Battle-for-Buxom-on-Sea-845177221 HEADLINE: A HEART AS BIG AS HER WIDEBOTTOM? SUB HEADLINE: CRESSIDA OPENS HER HOME TO DISGRACED FORMER COLLEAGUE PHILIPPA TUSHINGTON By Susanna Rogers Buxom-On-Sea’s very own Cabinet minister has a new house-guest; the former Bumbury MP recently exposed as a crook, Phillipa Tushington. The infinitely generous (to her pals) Cressida Parker-Widebottom MP has made space in her 26 bedroom mansion for her recently departed cabinet colleague, whose nearby former constituency is one of the safest Conservative seats in the UK. Emails intercepted by this newspaper, as well as two text messages bunglingly sent to this reporters phone confirm what many of us already suspected: that when it comes to this Government, cosy back door deals can always be done for party insiders. The revelations are not only striking but potentially damaging for Ms. Parker-Widebottom, 38, who not only admits to attempting to influence the decision of a high court judge in her friends favour, but also engages in casual snobbery and boasts about how much money her stockbroker is raking in on her behalf. Ms Parker-Widebottom also indicates her intention to support the criminal former MP, first by offering her a job as a kitchen maid and then later “once the heat is off” in a political capacity. Ms Tushington, meanwhile, comes across as whiny, self pitying and not at all the sort of tough “can do” character she likes to present herself as. She spends most of the time, bemoaning her horrible luck at having to do Community Service for her frankly abhorrent crimes. It would not have been unjust, in this reporters opinion, for her to have been punished far more severely. Rosie Whackett, meanwhile, deserves a CBE at the very least. Here, for the first time and in full, are the Widebottom-gate letters. One only hopes that Pulitzer get the Barkshire Evening Enquirer delivered for their consideration. One doesn’t like to blow ones own trumpet, but someone you know really pulled it out the bag here. Hope springs eternal. ------------- 24th September My dearest Cressida, Hello, old friend! I'm so sorry for not being in touch for a while, but following your appearance at the Buxom-on-Sea by-election hustings, (not to mention the simultaneous appearance of your charming choice of undergarments), I thought it best to let you have some time to yourself. As you may have heard, I myself was also the victim of some rather discommodious circumstances recently, so I can sympathise with your situation. A slight difference of opinion regarding my attempt to preserve an important modern art mural was utterly misconstrued and there were even some conflict of interest issues raised. I am however happy to say that everything has been sorted out amicably. To make amends for my part in the confusion, (and with me having more opportunities for leisure after being deselected as the local MP), I even volunteered for some community service in support the artwork. However, the deplorable way the press has covered this storm in a teacup has led some people to get the wrong idea regarding my good intentions. As a result, certain social clubs and societies with which I was involved have reluctantly decided it is best to put my membership on hold for the time being. So, with time on my hands, I thought it would be fun to extend my circle of friends and renew our acquaintance again. It is good to have friends, isn't it Cressida? I must confess, one can feel that it's Autumn now. I've noticed so on my daily stints outside the Youth Centre where the artwork is situated. "Aye, the nights are fair drawin' in", as our quaint friends North of the border would say. I'm certainly not enjoying the chill in the air, particularly as the terms of my wholly voluntary community service dictate that I should stand there all day, bent over at the waist and without the coverage of a skirt for "artistic reasons". Which reminds me, I really should invest in some thermal underwear. Still, I am always glad to help the arts and I have been told that my guest appearances there are doing wonders to raise community spirit. A development which gives me a modicum of concern is the forthcoming opening of a toy shop sited directly opposite the spot where I perform this civic duty. According to the signs in its window, the store will specialise in such items as slingshots, BB guns, toy bows & arrows, darts, etc. I think it is deplorable that an emporium of this nature should be allowed in such a locale and I am also a little suspicious that its range of merchandise so near to where I am regularly required to display my pantied bottom may not be entirely coincidental. Alas, my influence with the council has waned somewhat recently, so I was wondering if you might be kind enough to look into the matter on my behalf? On the home front, I'm afraid that my relationship with my husband, Piers has taken a setback. In truth he has divorced me and, (in light of my misunderstandings with the authorities and certain public revelations regarding my private affairs), the court ruled in his favour and granted him the vast majority of our estate by way of settlement. With his new-found wealth, Piers has purchased a private yacht and is presently cruising the Caribbean in the company of his secretary, Trudi. That little tart! And I hear she votes Lib Dem too! If only the fence she sits on was literal rather than metaphorical in its nature. Good luck to 'em, I say! But I digress... As a result of the settlement, I find myself a little out of pocket, so to speak. I would therefore be most grateful if you could do me a tinsy-wincy favour and advance me a little in the way of funds to tide me over? A paltry £20,000 or so would be much appreciated. Finally Cressida, I am truly sorry that I've left it so long to renew our wonderful friendship. I can't wait to hear from you and I so look to seeing you soon too. Kiss-kiss! Love, Phillipa. ------------- 2nd October Dear Phillipa, You may drop the pretence, I am a close personal friend of the judge in your case and moreover can read the newspapers like anybody else. Dear me but it’s a sorry state of affairs you find yourself in. I feel for you regarding your marriage at least, it really was cruel of Piers to ditch you now of all times, when spousal support would have been of the greatest benefit; I truly am sorry but I’m sure that with time you will find yourself landing on your feet once more. TrudI! I told you to keep an eye on that one Pippa, didn’t I tell you? You know I’m not one to judge (that would make me just an awful hypocrite) but I am afraid to say that with your own dalliances you have been playing with fire somewhat. Still at least you are free once more to “play the field“ as they say. 20 grand, is that all? Dear me Pippa you don’t ask for a lot! I’m afraid that I didn’t get to where I am today by shelling out sums like that every time I get a letter from a (fair weather) friend - sorry to be so brutal about it dear heart but you and I know that of late that’s been the way of it; didn’t hear much from you after dear Tom passed, he did so admire your “spirit” which is a funny way of saying “derrière” if you ask me! Don’t worry I’m not jealous, as you well know I have no reason to be. The children do so miss their Auntie Pippa however so perhaps a reunion is not such a bad idea. I have got a couple of charming little flats on the locale of Bumbury, I rent them out to students and sometimes to the less well off sort of working people. You might have one of those until you’re “back on your feet” so to speak. An allowance might be arranged also. I believe £60 is the standard unemployment benefit per week nowadays so allow me to double that. You can’t say that’s unfair surely? Look forward to hearing of your acceptance of this very kind offer, CPW ------------- 3rd October My dearest Cressida, It is so gratifying to hear how much your darling children miss me. Frankly I'm not too surprised as I can vividly recall how eagerly they would anticipate my arrivals and ensure that my visits were memorable ones... Those ingenious obstacle courses they'd prepare for me with the prospect of playful booby-traps around every corner, the japery they would visit upon my rear-end every time my back was turned and how they loved getting me to play games like Cops & Robbers, their very realistic version of Cowboys & Indians and Hide & Go Seek, (or "Hide & Go Hunt", as they call it). On the occasions that I stayed over at the Manor, I can't help but remember waking up after a sleepless night barricaded in the guest room only to discover the thoughtful gifts they would have left for me, such as the surreptitious loosening of the seams on my favourite dresses, the imperceptible dusting of itching powder in my lingerie and hosiery, and those 'Little Nipper' mousetraps that my unsuspecting stockinged tootsies would discover secreted in my shoes. There was never a dull moment when I was around those two, I can tell you. Now, whilst I do appreciate your offer of accommodating me and the proposed allowance of £120 per week, I must say that such a meagre budget might necessitate drastic changes in my lifestyle. For example, the prospect of dining on fish fingers and mushy peas does not seem to be quite an appealing substitute for the seafood platters and petit pois to which I have grown accustomed. My main preoccupation though is my current location and present circumstances. Being bent over, flaunting the seat of my undergarments to the mockery of passers-by, has proved to be much less than pleasant for me and rather taxing on my back too. This is especially so on the days when the weather has proved to be inclement. In addition, the impending opening day of the new store with its plethora of juvenile weaponry and ammunition is filling me with great concern. Earlier today I was peeping between my legs in my judicially enforced position only to be greeted with the inverted view of them decorating the shop-front with balloons, ribbons and some grotesquely enlarged pictures of myself. I must inform you that these photographs were also not ones of my face but rather of my pantied derriere and they appear have been crudely photoshopped with the addition of two sets of concentric circles. Considering all these factors, I was hoping that you might be able to prevail upon the judge with a view to having my community service commuted as briskly as possible. Also, (though I have been proud to serve this constituency for several years), I believe it might be time for a change of scene, perhaps to Buxom-on-Sea for example? Not to put too fine a point on it, but I should rather like to get my bum out of Bumbury. I do of course appreciate that my recent peccadillos would make it difficult for you to employ me in your office or associate with me in public for the time being. However, I was hoping you might find a place for me within your household. I believe that the position of Head Housekeeper would suit me well, for a start at least, and it would give us a great chance to catch up too. I look forward to your swift reply and to our long-awaited reunion after you have sorted out these little arrangements. Yours truly, Philippa. P.S. I should be most grateful if any babysitting duties were kept to an absolute minimum. ------------- 7th October Dear Philippa, Thank you for your enquiry regarding the position of Head Housekeeper. Unfortunately we are not currently looking to employ a Head Housekeeper, having a very experienced and well qualified one in situ. Also, I must say I think it is a little presumptuous of you to assume you could go straight into a management role in this area; do you have any relevant experience? A brief study of your resume would suggest not! Most people who go into service start at the bottom rung and while we are friends I don’t feel it would be appropriate to make an exception just for you. We are always in need of bodies in the kitchens at Parker Manor, and so I could offer you the position of Chief Dishwasher and General Dogsbody. The wages are slightly more than £120 per week and the job comes with room and board. As to the other matter, I have spoken to your sentencing judge and he is adamant that since he already spared you jail time (which he tells me was a real possibility given the serious nature of your crimes) that you will simply have to lump it. Suck it up, dear heart and be happy you aren’t in The Cement! Look forward to hearing you’ve decided to accept my offer of employment. Yours with affection, CPW ------------- 8th October My dearest Cressida, Firstly I should like to thank you for your prompt reply and the offer of a position within your household. I do however believe that the job of scullery maid is hardly becoming of my status and I doubt my designer outfits would be suitable for a kitchen environment. To be frank, I find the proposition positively demeaning. You might as well ask me to don a skimpy black dress, apron and frilly headdress and trot around the Manor busying myself with a feather duster. That having been said, I do value our friendship so I have on reflection decided to accept your 'kind' offer. I am truly confident that I shall rapidly rise up the domestic ladder to a position more worthy of my many and varied talents. Regarding the second matter, I am of course grateful to you for speaking to the judge on my behalf though I find the results of your endeavours most disconcerting. Perhaps we could find a way to help him to change his mind? A donation to his favourite charity maybe? Or perhaps a more 'friendly' approach might make him more amenable? I have found such unusual methods quite effective when dealing with people like building surveyors in the past. I'm sorry Cressida. I've had a very trying day so I may not entirely be thinking straight. It was a rather chilly afternoon and the continual rain has put a dampener on my spirits, not to mention my under-drawers. Added to this, that confounded store is having its Grand Opening tomorrow and I am dreading the coming morning like an aristocrat awaiting an encounter with Madame Guillotine. Please, Cressida! You've got to help me. I beg you! Your hopeful friend, Philippa. ------------- 9th October Dear Philippa, You are welcome. I shall speak to him again but I wouldn’t get your hopes up; your judge is as likely to seek a private prosecution to extend your woes as end them! I hope that you appreciate how far I’ve already stuck my neck out for you on this, the man is a High Court judge after all and if it became public knowledge that I’d tried to influence him to help a friend well, I might end up with my bum in the air there next to yours…it doesn’t “bare“ thinking about eh? Haha! In terms of your employment, it will take you at least 18 months to rise to the rank of scullery maid, and that’s with exemplary service and the right vacancy becoming available. Remember though that you are the ”Chief” Dishwasher: you’ll have a couple of young men under you, a situation I am given to understand you have become quite familiar with of late. I have no wish to demean you Pip, I promise. You will find our rigorous health and safety checks, respect for workers rights, privacy and generous holiday packages meet the minimum government standards that MY department set last year. To summarise briefly, I technically own your home, garden, car, shoes, jewellery and underwear now. Lots of love, CPW x PS, thanks for the tip about the store opening! Have bought £20,000 worth of shares in that company. ------------- 14th October My dearest Cressida, I am so sorry for not responding sooner, but recently my prolonged purgatory in panties has become what I can only describe as being like having the torments of hell visited upon my hindquarters. I must also apologise for the tear stains on this letter and my very shaky penmanship. This is primarily due to the fact that I have spent the last half-hour prising a stubbornly embedded dart from my left buttock with the aid of two mirrors, a pair of pliers and more than a little exhausting and agonising effort. As I write, I am presently reclining facedown on my Chesterfield sofa with my discomfort being eased with firstly, a very large cognac and secondly, two bags of frozen peas that I have stuffed down the seat of my knickers. A few days ago, on the morning of the grand opening of the store, I was understandably dreading the predictable onslaught that would be visited upon my rear. I had therefore taken some secretive precautions by way of protection. As I arrrived at the Youth Centre and bent over in my prescribed spot with my rear facing the throng of young ruffians armed with various ordnance, it seemed that my clandestine defensive measures might have gone unnoticed. That was until the arrival of my young nemesis in pigtails, Rosie Whackett, however. This ten-year-old terrorist was keen to point out that I appeared to be wearing more than my allowed ration of one pair of undergarments over my bottom. So, with a groan of defeat, I was forced to perform a humiliating striptease until I had removed all but one of the eight layers of unmentionables that I had earlier put on to cushion my caboose. I also had to divest myself of the two copies of the Reader's Digest that I had hidden inside them as improvised armour plating. My only saving grace was that my remaining layer of modesty was in the form of my most formidable pantygirdle. However, its highly antiquated and robust appearance grew much mockery and derision from the assembled hoi polloi. For the remainder of that day and the ones that have followed it, my rapidly depleting stock of foundation-wear has been valiantly attempting to weather the withering barrage assailing my beleagured buttocks. Judging by the quantity and the variety of the pernicious projectiles that have peppered my posterior, I can only assume that your recent investment in the shop was a wise and timely one. I do have two crumbs of comfort that I hold onto however... The first is that tomorrow is thankfully the last day of my community service. This is just as well, especially given the fact that I am now down to my last serviceable pantygirdle. The second is of course your generous offer of both work and lodging at the Manor. I therefore intend to pack a suitcase tonight so that I can catch the first available bus to Buxom-on-Sea tomorrow evening. I would prefer to drive down, but my Mercedes has just been impounded by the bailiffs due to my bank inexplicably suspending all my standing orders. Anyway, I shall text you when I am en route. I do so look forward to being reunited with you, my dear friend, and to finally being able to relax at last. I am also quite excited to meet these young men you mentioned... The ones which will be underneath me during my duties. You may rest assured that I will manage them with a friendly but firm hand. I do so look forward to getting to grips with things and getting my teeth into the job. I must confess that I was a little taken aback when you told me that the terms of my employment entitled you to the ownership of my property and valuables. However, reading between the lines of your letter, I think that I can see the hidden reason for this. As you mentioned the possibility of private prosecutions against me, I realise that you merely intend to keep my belongings safe in the event of such legal action so that you can return them to me at a later date. It is indeed heartwarming that you should be so thoughtful for my welfare. Your jokey inclusion of my underwear amongst the list of my possessions which you technically now own really did make me laugh though. Very funny! Frankly I'm surprised that you didn't also tease me by suggesting that I pay rent for my knickers too. But of course you always did have a keen sense of humour. I think back to all those little pranks you used to play on me when we were junior MPs together. I couldn't sit down anywhere without first having to check my seat for mousetraps, drawing pins, cactuses, etc, whether in our office, the car, the parliamentary bar or even in the chamber of the House of Commons. Well, I'll sign off for the moment as my brandy glass needs replenishing urgently and I need to get some more bags of peas from the freezer too. Text you tomorrow! With love and gratitude, Philippa. x ------------- 14th October Dear Pippa, Thank you for your “brief” missive, I had to have Lorenzo read it to me. If brevity be the soul of wit, my dear Pippa, you appear to have reached the end of yours. Which is understandable given the recent trials you’ve been through and the tribulations visited daily upon your poor derrière. It’s like I always say: the working classes are an uncouth beast, and this Rosie Whackett appears to be as beastly and uncouth as they come! You have my sympathies for your sufferings, Judge Henry and I spent a most pleasant evening together at the Ivy Tuesday last, and then a very companionable breakfast Wednesday morning: the net result of which is that your community service won’t be extended any further and any further proceedings heard by himself at least are well disposed to go in your favour, for which you are most welcome. The Judge has incredible staying power for a man of his age. ;-) I don’t know how many times I have told you this but the pranks you mention were played on you not by myself but by the late Tom Parker MP, whom you will know better as my dear departed husband. While it is true that he may have had my connivance from time to time the rude thoughts and crude execution were entirely his. I can’t deny however, that I had a chuckle at your expense from time to time! Oh poor old Tom, I can still remember his wrinkled face as his poor pickled heart gave out on the 14th night of our honeymoon. Still, going to meet our maker with a smile on our face is surely the best any of us can hope for, and dear old Tom did at least look blissfully happy as he passed. That as you surely already know was a tremendous comfort to me in the months that followed- as was the fact that he’d changed his will immediately on the day of our marriage! :-P Of course, yes, safekeeping…that’s what it’s about, yes. What I wanted to say, honestly, was that I owned your ass, which in a way I do. I’m only joking of course dear, but one has to keep up appearances. Due to your major, very public and frankly downright reckless indiscretion this is a situation that needs carefully managed. As such you will really have to work for me if that’s what you still desire, I imagine it’s still preferable to you than losing everything permanently- there may not be Chesterfield sofas but we’ll give you a nice room and one day in 7 off. I was joshing earlier a little, my dearest Pippa, I don’t intend to keep you as a kitchen skivvy for more than is completely necessary- about 3 months should do it by which time the heat will be off. A person of your talents really should be in my political office. One is always in need of talented schemers in ones corner but I must warn you to be a bit more savvy in your dealings than you have been lately. Rosie Whackett isn’t the only shark out there. Oh, and it’s “cacti“ dear. Yours with love, CPW PS. Martin my broker sold those shares on Wednesday afternoon for £100k, a tidy profit that should keep me in bespoke tailored Easy Stretch Balloon Seated Triple XL blue pantsuits for the time being. ------------- TEXT MESSAGE 7.25 pm, 15th October My dearest Cressida, It's me! Philippa! I am now on the bus on my way to the Manor and should arrive in about half an hour. I don't happen to have my own phone with me just now and so am texting you on one generously lent to me by one of my fellow passengers... A knight in shining armour you might say, though a rather drunk and handsy one, minus the armour and most likely not the recipient of a knighthood either. Before I explain my lack of a phone, (along with my lack of quite a few other things), I wish to express my undying gratitude to you... again. I also am saddened to be reminded of the loss of your dearly departed husband. The manner in which you have borne up and kept smiling since his unfortunate demise is an example to us all. Sorry! I just lost my train of thought for a moment there as my knight in shining armour was attempting to rise to the Order of the Garter. Anyway, I can now understand how those little practical jokes that befell my behind were all the doing of poor Tom. He was a very inventive chap, especially so as those pranks continued during those times that he was out of the country and also after his death too. I'm so glad to learn that, after a seemly amount of time working in your kitchens, I shall be joining your political team. I assure you that I will not let you down and I shall be delighted to help you in any way you see fit. You may consider me to be at your complete disposal. My final day of community service went mostly as I had expected, I'm sorry to say. Having donned my last remaining, longline pantygirdle as protection from the coming storm, I assumed my assigned position outside the Youth Centre and endured the by now customery miscellany of missiles directed at my buttocks. As the clock ticked towards the last few minutes of my ordeal I felt both relief and almost a sense of triumph at having remained predominantly staunch and stoic despite the ferocious fusilades afflicting my fundament. That was until Rosie Whackett stepped forward from the crowd, however. My young tormentor ominously announced that she was going to give me a send-off worthy of my spectacular fall from grace. As I peeped helplessly and wide-eyed between my pantygirdled thighs, I saw to my horror that Rosie was setting up an enormous firework rocket behind me and aiming it squarely at my quivering, polyamide-clad posterior. She then was kind enough to explain that she had been saving this infamous incendiary for Guy Fawkes Night but had decided to generously donate it to this most special of occasions. As she lit the blue touch paper, I closed my eyes, crossed myself in the manner those Catholics do and beseeched whoever was my maker to forgive my large litany of sins and accept my eternal soul to the hereafter. My bended prayers were rudely cut short by the screech of the rocket's aporoach and a titanic explosion as it impacted with my rearguard. So strong was the force of this blast that I was lifted quite out of my Louboutins and flew a few yards before landing facedown in an inconveniently situated patch of mud. My joy at realising that I was both alive and mostly uninjured was short-lived when I detected an aroma of burning man-made fabric. Lifting my besmirched face from my muddy bed and craning my neck, I was greeted with the sight of the smouldering seat of my pantygirdle glowing brightly in the twilight. I sprang up and ran as fast as my stocking-feet could take me in a misguided attempt to outrun my own sizzling shapewear, leaving a smoke-trail in my wake that would have made the Red Arrows proud. Luckily I espied a nearby puddle and plunged my enkindled keister into it, giving out a long "AHHHH!" of blessed relief as my underwear was extinguished and a plume of steam engulfed me. My plan had been to return home to pick up the suitcase I had packed in anticipation of my trip. However, given the boisterous nature of Rosie's mob of youthful ruffians, I decided against running a potential gauntlet of further misery and hot-footed, (and hot-bottomed), my way to the nearest bus-stop. Fortunately I was able to pay my fare to the dumbstruck driver with a fiver that some "well-wisher" had stuffed in the waistband of my foundation-wear earlier on that day. Cressida! You have been so kind to me already that I feel embarrassed to ask any more of you. However, I do have a further small request to make of your generosity. Given the state of myself and my longline, scorched and rather old-fashioned undergarments, (which seem to have become a little threadbare in the rear), I would be most grateful if you might meet me at the bus-stop near the Manor and bring me some clothing, fresh stockings, a pair of shoes and a damp cloth so that I might make myself a little more presentable than my current condition. I should dearly like to make a decent first impression to your household, your staff and those two young gentlemen that you mentioned would be working under me. I would be forever in your debt. Some soothing cream, a bath, a packet of painkillers and a large brandy would also be most welcome. Your dear friend, Philippa x ------------- TEXT MESSAGE 7.45 pm, 15th October Dear Pippa, Congratulations on a world first, an SMS textual message that requires a second volume! Perhaps there is a printer in Morocco who might bind it for you?!? My housekeeper, Mrs Beadwell, will provide you with the items you request and can escort you inside via the back door. Sorry that this may hinder your desired first impression upon the other staff but I can hardly allow you to come through the front door in your present condition now can I? Do send coordinates promptly. I’m very sorry to hear of your latest ordeal Phillipa dear; a bus! How positively plebeian. The last bus I rode was the tour bus around Barcelona during my gap year. I suppose there must have been working class mothers with screeching babies and old people aboard? How utterly ghastly for you… Hurry up and get here will you? Your place within the household doesn’t mean a change in the fact of our friendship. Cressida xxx