Saturday, March 28, 2009

Dined at the club this evening with Algernon Froume. I’ve known Algie since we played rugger together at Westminster School, and for the last twenty years he’s been at the Foreign Office. Tonight, he looked more than usually concerned.

“Bit of a fix, old boy” he said ruefully, nursing his second cognac. “We were all set for the G20 next week, and then – kapow. Obama’s people took a look around the suite we’d lined up for him, and told us it wouldn’t do. Apparently he wants a good, old-fashioned English experience – you know - oak panels, turrets, crenellations, the works.

He paused for a second and stared into his brandy. “We were wondering if you might consider putting him up … he’d go bananas over your place. Remember how the Clintons lapped it up? You had to kick them out in the end.”

How could I refuse? As I was ferried back to the estate by Osbourne, I started to make plans for the latest VIP to grace its guest suite.

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