How disappointing

[therealpm]

I did hope that my comments at last week's dinner might have encouraged our frontbench to be slightly better at dissecting Osborne's populist shambles of a budget (endured in the midst of some very dubious company). It is therefore somewhat disappointing to note that the Tories were savaged more effectively by their own leadership than by ours, a situation likely to become only more frequent with Mr Miliband's lamentable departure.

Comments

[bamfbercow]

Text from 078## ######

Peter,

Just cleaning up the chamber as the House is in recess at the moment, wards and all - did you happen to cast a choking charm at the Chancellor during the budget?

-John

[therealpm]

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

John,

so nice to hear from you. Are the children home for the Easter holidays yet?

-Peter

[bamfbercow]

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Peter,

If you would be so kind as to do the Bercow household the honour of cooking dinner for us one night this half term, I shall not tell Frances of my findings.

The children are well and at home. As far as I am aware they are painting Easter Eggs with their mother at present.

-John

[therealpm]

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

John,

I would say blackmail is beneath you, but at your height, very little is.

There is very little occupying my time at present; name the day.

-Peter

[bamfbercow]

Text from 078## ######

Peter,

We're free this evening if your schedule allows it.

-John

[therealpm]

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

John,

fine. I shall be over at 5:30 to inspect your provisions and ensure they are adequate for the concoction of a reasonably nutritious meal.

-Peter

[bamfbercow]

Text from 078## ######

Peter,

Marvelous. See you this evening.

-John

[bamfbercow]

*It's quarter to six and John is not worried in the least. Peter's only 15 minutes late - a perfectly reasonable amount of time for someone as busy as Peter. He's probably been caught up in some Labour Party business that he'll bore John with later.*

*John tries to distract himself by flipping through the television channels, but it doesn't help. He keeps checking his phone.*

*It gets to ten to six and John decides that keeping someone waiting for 20 minutes is enough to warrant a text.*

Text from 078## ######

Peter,

Is this evening still going ahead or have you found something better to do with your time?

-John

[therealpm]

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

John,

if you had bothered to go shopping at some point during the last month, my detour via Waitrose wouldn't be necessary. As it is you shall simply have to wait; the queues here are horrendous.

-Peter

[bamfbercow]

*John doesn't let out a relieved sigh as he reads the text.*

Text from 078## ######

Peter,

We appreciate the torture you endure on our behalf.

See you soon.

-John

[therealpm]

*Peter grumbles to himself that he doubts that's true, glares at a woman who jostles him when he doesn't shuffle forward quite quickly enough, and rushes through the process of packing and paying as quickly as possible. Once outside, he slips off the main road and down a side street used for goods delivery.*

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

John,

hurry along here and pick this lot up. It's rush hour and there's not the slightest chance of getting a taxi without a 30 minute wait.

-Peter

[bamfbercow]

*A few texts confirming Peter's location and a short drive later, John pulls the car over by a figure surrounded by shopping bags. He rolls down the electric window and calls to the other man.*

Taxi for a Lord Mandelson!

[therealpm]

*He gives John a slightly incredulous look.*

Has Frances bound your magic? Why on earth didn't you just apparate?

*He loads some of the bags into the car's boot.*

You haven't actually started a taxi service have you? Surely Sally's court costs can't be that much.

[bamfbercow]

*John ignores all of Peter's comments and initiates his own line of conversation when they're both in the car. He starts to drive back home.*

Good evening to you too, Peter. I'm very well, thank you for asking. How are you?

[therealpm]

*Slightly peeved at his failure to elicit a response from John, Peter yanks up the car's heater to full and holds his hands in front of it.*

Mildly busy writing responses to Mr Miliband's departure, but otherwise life is somewhat serene.

[bamfbercow]

Yes, I did see that on the news this morning...

*John is tempted to complain about the proper procedure for these things and that an MP can't just resign, that isn't how it work; they should know this by now and what's wrong with this Parliament, come to think of it... but he lets it slide. He'll save those discussions for when Peter's got a glass of wine or two in him and is less likely to hex John into silence.*

What have you picked out for dinner for us tonight?

[therealpm]

*Peter shuffles deeper into his seat, slightly mollified by the extra warmth.*

Pasta, and no, it's not spaghetti bolognaise or spaghetti hoops on toast.

*The last is said with enough of a sneer as to indicate Peter's Views on one of John's favourite hangover dishes.*

[bamfbercow]

I'm glad to hear that, Peter; spaghetti hoops on toast is a morning or midday meal for one or possibly two - it wouldn't do for a family dinner.

*They bicker for a short while about whether or not the combination counts as food let alone a meal. They get back onto the Parliamentary state and up to the flat without having reached anything approaching an agreement on the topic. The two only stop arguing when the children come charging down the hallway.*

[therealpm]

*Peter reflects, as he nearly topples over in the process of taking several children to the midriff, that either John's kids are getting entirely too old and large for this sort of rumbunctiousness, or that he would be better off sticking with some sort of four-legged form for enhanced stability whenever such instances of exuberant affection occur.*

[bamfbercow]

*John makes a couple of trips and get the shopping in the kitchen while the children insist on all getting hugs from Peter. By the time Peter has negotiated an exit, a mug of tea is waiting for him on the side.*

I would suggest that if you visited more often then you wouldn't be greeted in such a manner, but I highly doubt that would be the case.

*John sips at his own tea.*

Is there anything I can do to help with the preparation of dinner?

[therealpm]

*Peter shoos John out of the kitchen by way of reply and sets about making the sauce for the rigatoni. A little under an hour (and several dirty pans) later, dinner is served with a flourish and Peter watches smugly as the children wolf it down, with even Jemima preferring to eat her food rather than fling it across the table.*

[bamfbercow]

*Impressed even more than he usually is with Peter's culinary efforts, John tidies up and does the dishes without even the thought of an argument. When he's finished, he takes a fresh round of tea to the livingroom where Peter is making sure the children don't draw on each other too much.*

[therealpm]

*'Too much' is a very relative term. Peter has managed, mostly, to confine the drawing to skin only and to completely avoid the presence of any marker pen on the soft furnishings. Freddie's face, on the other hand...*

[bamfbercow]

Freddie... Freddie, what on earth is...

...Oliver did you sign your brother's face?

[therealpm]

*Peter just sighs, closes his eyes and sips his tea, trying to ignore the row brewing on the other side of the coffee table. So focussed is he on maintaining his small bubble of peace in the eye of the developing storm, that he doesn't notice Jemima creeping up on him until she sucessfully grabs one of his ears and tickles behind it.

The soft furnishings (and Peter's trousers), so carefully stewarded as to be free of marker pen, are summarily soaked with hot tea.*