And as she watched him move confidently about the room, Theresa Maybe-Maybenot, compared him with her husband Peterkin – and she gave an involuntary yawp, a snort, and blushed, suddenly anxious that Sir Porcupine should not think it was directed at him, but rather at her (truth to tell) pathetic article of a husband, running through the less-impolite epithets in the ana which now filled her mind: dainty, petite, short, small, tiny, dwarf, midget, minuscule. and she laughed out loud, remembering that old movie: The Incredible Shrinking Man! maybe he would fall down a gap in the floorboards and wander out of the basement through an air-vent and never be seen again, Haha! – and she noticed Sir Porcupine glancing towards her, what would Tangerine say if she saw this pair dancing around each other but never coming in to the clinch? oh, she knows all about clinches now, Tangerine has taught her more positions that she thought possible, but with a man? a real Man? a virile and commanding and very very Manly Man? and she remembered the first chapter of Apple-Tree Yard which was filmed just as explicitly for television but she did not connect the 'apple-tree' with her Cabinet Secretary, who now stood close to her chair, too close, just that tiniest bit too close, so that she could inhale his fragrance, heavy with pheromones and she almost gave a little moan herself, which would be yielding; she must remember that She is His Boss, His Boss, The Boss of all Bosses, and He is subservient to Her; but it did not occur to her, even as she thought of Apple Trees and Sin, that Sir Porcupine MacFarlane is the ultimate massasauga, and as he runs the tips of his well-manicured fingers down the line of her jaw, an action which sends her synapses fizzing and crackling and popping, and her body is flooded with hormones and she is suddenly aware of her new orange knickers which she will have to change before the meeting starts in just half an hour, and her eyes and her head being overwhelmed by lust she really doesn’t perceive the reality, that MacFarlane's morals are as alveolate as a bar of Aero and there can be only one outcome from the dereliction of duty which she is about to plunge headlong into like a teenage groupie – yes, it could destroy the close bond which she has forged over the weeks since that fateful General Election kerfuffle with her Soul Mate, passionate and domineering Lover, Tangerine Foster of the DUP; yes, it could end her dream of being the woman, the Woman. Nay, The Woman who freed The United Kingdom of Northern Ireland and Great Britain from the greasy grip of "Frogs, Krauts, Wops and Dagoes"; oh! she turned pale as she realised she had actually spoken those insulting epithets aloud, and she looked up into the icy blue eyes of the most Senior Member of the Civil Service's First Division, had he heard her? well, of course he had; but Sir Porcupine brushed some stray hairs from her eyes with a long forefinger, let it touch her lips, as if to warn her against any other such utterances, and slipped it between them and into her mouth, and she closed her eyes and imagined she was sucking something else as she felt his other hand, strong and masterful, move down her body, reach under her skirt, slide up her thighs, which she reflexively spread for that hand to reach her moist knick-knacks . . . . . which was when the knock on the (fortunately, locked) door, caused him to move away from her, but as he crossed the room to unlock it and admit the Cabinet, her Cabinet, he looked back and mouthed the only word she wanted: "later!"