therealpm: (smug)
*Peter dials Fiona's phone number, but just gets through to voicemail. He tries the landline, but soon hears the beep of the answerphone. Clearly she's not in. He leaves a message.*

Hi, Fiona. Alastair's a little indisposed and won't be able to come home tonight. Nothing to worry about, but he'll be staying here for a bit until he feels better. I'll send him back over tomorrow. Hope you're well- you've got my number if you need to call.

Lots of love,
therealpm: (Mr Bond)
*Peter wakes early, still bouyed up by the election results and heads downstairs for a cup of tea and a yoghurt. His phone buzzes as the kettle boils. An update from The Machine.

Sipping his tea slowly, he scrolls through the results and nearly spills it everywhere when he reaches The Machine's conclusions, which have been carefully bolded so he can't possibly miss them. A quick enquiry confirms that the results have been double, triple and quadruple checked- there is no uncertainty.

Grinning, he types out a text message.*

Text from 07### ######


your presence is required. ASAP.


*He sips his tea again, considering how to procede. A little background music wouldn't go amiss.*
therealpm: (Thinking)
*Prior to the balloon trick, Miles had been content to let his younger brother take the lead in devising and implementing the pranks, however, when he'd seen a rather shaken younger sibling standing in the middle of a living room covered entirely in popped House of Commons balloons, he'd taken a rather more active interest.  Which was why yesterday afternoon, after some brief enquiries as to exactly how much mass Peter could transport and with what accuracy, he'd driven Peter to a pharmacy several towns away (he wouldn't say why they couldn't go to the one in the village, just turned up the radio when Peter asked.  As it was Radio 4 this wasn't particularly effective, but Peter took the hint and stared out of the car window instead).

Peter stayed in the car, reaching over the back seat to pet the two dogs, whilst Miles went into the Chemist's, returning red faced and clutching a paper bag.  He'd tossed the bag into Peter's lap with a gruff instruction to 'get that into the little bastard's tea tomorrow morning, and make sure he drinks all of it'.

And so, the next morning at 7am, Peter finds himself sleepily drawing a rune circle and checking the omniview on his phone- waiting for the optimum moment to lace the Speaker of the House of Commons's tea with viagra.*
therealpm: (Damn)
*Peter wakes up slowly, and once again, dresses cautiously. The wards show some magical activity occurred late last night, and although the spell seems not to have targeted this room, it is always better to be careful- his new wards are not perfect, after all.

The location of the spell becomes obvious as soon as he opens his bedroom door. Plastic cups full of water stretch the breadth of the corridor and several feet either side of Peter's door- far too far for him to merely step over. A sharply curtailed attempt to move a few reveals that the cups are stapled together, and cannot be shifted without spilling a considerable amount of water.

Attempts to levitate the array or freeze the water meet with little success- Peter's magic is still far too weak for brute force to work, and persuading the entire thing to either move or freeze as one is an almost impossible task- like trying to direct every individual bee in a swarm.

He rocks back on his heels, chewing his lower lip, unwilling to admit defeat.*

therealpm: (Bercow incoming)
*Peter works his way quietly through yet another brief, occasionally stopping to flick the fringe out of his eyes.  His hair is far too long by now and it's beginning to annoy him. 

The TV screen in the corner is on, but remains carefully blank.  The Machine takes pains not to be visible when a guard might be peering through the door unless Peter specifically requests an answer.  Last night had been their longest uninterrupted conversation since the programming of the doppelganger.  Peter had guessed (correctly) that none of his guards would wish to miss The Thick of It, and so he'd had a whole half hour to talk with his creation. 

Peter being Peter, this had mostly involved a set of detailed instructions on what The Machine should do if the 'cure' killed him, and a request to both monitor and if possible, strategically intervene in the care pathway of Peter's two victims.  They were too far away for The Machine to do anything directly of course, but all patient records are computerised these days and overstressed doctors tend not to notice slight alterations to a patient's records or prescriptions when they've got another few dozen to manage as well.

The Machine tells him they're doing better and that LaGarde seems to be doing her best to make Osborne miserable.  It helps.  A little.*
therealpm: (smug)
*Sitting in the back of a vehicle with blacked out windows, huddled up once more in a hoodie far too broad for him, Peter looks across at Alastair and smirks.  Alastair thinks they're going for the equivalent of a jog around the park, and Peter has been careful not to indicate otherwise.  Today is going to be horrible, but watching Alastair slowly lose the will to live is going to make it utterly worth it.*
therealpm: (Confused)
*Peter wakes up feeling groggy and disorientated.  Although not as bone tired as yesterday, his muscles still ache and cramp.  Something nags at the back of his mind, something important that he needed to do and he rubs his eyes, mentally replaying yesterday's events, trying to remember.  The first memory that surfaces- being shoved into the wards by Alastair, causes him to shudder and wince.

His fringe drops in his eyes and he pushes it back, noting with distaste the grittiness of mud on his scalp.  Still trying to recall what it was yesterday, he heads off to the shower, limbs protesting against the effort and back stiffened straight more from cramp than good posture.

It is not until he is beginning to wash his hair for the third time (he hasn't felt so filthy since secondary school and it is not pleasant), that he remembers: the conference.*


*He finishes washing, then towels of and dresses rapidly, nearly running (well, hobbling quickly) to the phone.*

Text received from 07### ######


my presence is required at Labour conference next weekend.  Cancelling not an option.  At least one of the events is after dark.

therealpm: (Possibly in need of a hug)
*Peter drags himself through the cell door and falls face first on the bed.  His hair is plastered to his skull with rainwater and the rest of his clothes are similarly sodden.  It has not been a good day.

When John had acquiested to Peter's begging requests to be allowed out of his cell more frequently, Peter had naturally assumed that it would be nothing more taxing than a stroll around a park.  Or some woodland.  At the most, a quick jaunt up Box Hill, then back again.  He hadn't reckoned on John's usually hidden, but well nourished, streak of sadism.  Nor on Paddy's ability to instill sheer terror and the desire to run with nothing more than a soft growl.

It had definitely not been a good day.

The heavy rain had turned the cross country assault course to a muddy swamp- difficult and filthy to wade through.  The shoes and clothes he'd been issued were ruined.  Normally Peter would have been in the shower like a shot, scrubbing off the dirt with fervant zeal, but right now he was just too tired.  His legs ache.  His arms ache.  His back, feet, hands, neck... even his forehead aches from squinting against the ever present rain.  And he is cold.

Ignoring the mess he's making of the blankets, Peter kicks off his shoes and wraps himself up in the covers, shivering.  Paddy had promised another session 'at some point this week'.  Peter wonders whether a silver bullet wouldn't be preferable.*
therealpm: (Damn)
*Peter sits at his desk and sulks.  He's already paced back and forth across the room 60 times (he counted), and is now waiting for the hour before he'll do so again.  It's become a bit of a ritual, something to break up the day and stretch his legs in the confined space of the cell. 

He glares at the stack of BIS work still left to do.  The stream of paper is seemingly neverending, and that's part of the problem.  There is never any sense that he has completed something- achieved anything indeed except knocked down one more briefing to a digestible size, with a thousand still to go.  He makes no decisions, alters no part of government policy, merely reads in, concatonates and writes out a one page summary in what is now perfect longhand.  He is bored out of his skull.

Peter hasn't tested the wards since Paddy was last on guard- all the guards since have been magical and rather more inclined to enquire as to what he is doing than previously.  He supposes John has warned them to be extra vigilant and the lack of even an illusion of privacy grates.  He hasn't managed to de-spell the phone either, and the knowledge that it has taken over a week to fail to do something he would normally be able to complete in under 10 minutes is yet one more frustration on top of the pile.  It is growing incresingly difficult for him to maintain his temper, to keep to the social niceties and not just snap at the next comment, change into the wolf and howl at the door.  But for now he bides his time with pacing and thinking up excessively creative means of revenge.*
therealpm: (Confused)
Peter wakes up with a shiver and a groan.  The air is cold and the rough carpet does nothing to ease the ache in his limbs.  He raises an eyebrow at the darts and rope strewn on the ground.  Whoever brought him here was clearly taking no chances.  He supposes they may have stripped him for same sort of security reasons that apparently lead them to tie him up and drug him, but he is baffled by the mud, grass and... blood stains covering his skin.  What the hel happened last night?

He shivers again, and forces himself to stand up and inspect the cell.  His legs scream pain, as though he'd been running for his life, but he hadn't, had he?  The last thing he recalled was asking Alastair to hang the curtains.


Well.  It wouldn't be the first prank the man had played on him, though it was certainly the most elaborate and he had to give the ginger tribble an A* for effort.  Clearly he had far too much spare time in retirement if this was how he chose to spend it.

A brief exploration with his magic confirmed that he was warded as well as locked in.  The Alastair prank explanation was beginning to look distinctly flimsy.  A look out of the window confirmed it: parliament square.  Creative and persuasive as Alastair was, there was no way Black Rod would allow him to use part of the Westminster palace for a prank.  John, Frances, Betty, or any of the other magi who'd gained seniority through speakership throughout the years, then. 

Peter mentaly enumerated all the times he'd annoyed each of the likely candidates.  If this was Betty then this most likely was a prank, and after being laughed at thoroughly, he'd be given breakfast, some trousers and allowed to leave.  If it were Frances or John... well... Peter just hoped that neither had discovered his little trick of miniturising The Machine's components.  He didn't fancy being detained at their Speakerships' pleasure- getting out of it generally involved a lot of grovelling (from what he'd heard, anyway) and the thought really didn't appeal.  He reflected gloomily that the intruder the night before, cloaked from scrying, should probably have tipped him off to being 'wanted' by a particularly powerful sorcerer.

Turning away from the window, he sat knees drawn up to chest in front of the fireplace and set a magical fire burning.  If he was going to be confined here, and/or humiliated, he may as well be warm.
therealpm: (annoyed)
My Hero
It is time that I finally leave frontline politics completely and instead devote my time to a far more worthy cause:
turning this journal into a tribute page for the greatest Lord ever to grace the upper chamber.
I am also jealous of his hair and will spend the next year trying to emulate it perfectly.

Don't turn my MPs into animals again, Peter, or this will be just the start. - John
You realise, John, that this means war?
therealpm: (smug)
Once again, I believe I have been proven correct.

It is a pity that Cameron's most able spokesman is currently unable to help him. From what I've seen thus far, he rather needs the assistance.


Feb. 22nd, 2011 02:45 pm
therealpm: (I don't think so)
A gentle reminder to certain people to avoid making accusations without proof. Better to stick to stick to substantiated scandals.


Feb. 21st, 2011 02:53 pm
therealpm: (Default)
I really shouldn't allow The Machine to run unattended overnight. It seems to have become infested with these little monsters:

Transported most of them to Venezuala. An arch-mage there still hasn't returned my grimoire; perhaps a few demon-frogs will refresh his memory?
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