Suddenly there is this beyond weird like THING in our kitchen

http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/sep/30/mrs-camerons-diary-jimmy-messina-lynton-crosby

Version 0 of 1.

Well we sent Danny round with a scented candle then Dave rang & the queen admitted he HAD actually heard a strange sound? Except it was not exactly a purr? So Dave was like I hope you can forgive me your majesty for disclosing our private talks which I find so tremendously stimulating etc etc. She was like, we entirely blame ourself Mr Cameron, we should not fall asleep when you ring, we recall Mr Churchill could always fend off narcolepsy with his pleasantries. Btw, Mr Cameron, how kind to think of our eyes now the nights are drawing in, but Buckingham Palace was electrified in 1896? I’m like, well at least it was not Jo Malone :)))

So poor Dave goes back to copying out his speech, I mean I said to Mummy, talk about under the cosh, I know conference matters but that is literally two Doctor Whos in a row he has missed? And Mr Cobber is like, Sabrina sweetheart, word in your shell-like? I’m like, PLEASE use a mat Mr Cobber & don’t even THINK of telling me what to wear? He’s like, damn right Sabrina, we Aussies couldn’t give a XXXX for fashion, meet your new stylist come all the way from the US of A, & suddenly there is this beyond weird like THING in our kitchen, I’m like *scream face* WTAF, it goes wyall howdy fucking doody to my first ever flotuk?

Mr Cobber’s like, you’ve met Mrs Obama, well Jimmy Messina here is the genius who masterminded her whole frigging campaign, right down to her scants, am I right Jimbo? The thing goes: in Washington we call them underpants, douchebag, Mr Cobber is like, no offence Sabrina, cursing is Jimmy the Yank’s personal trademark? I’m like, excuse me Mr Yank but we get quite enough swearing with Mr Cobber & btw nobody in England says flotuk plus we are actually Conservatives? Mr Yank is like, no shit, Michelle, I call all my first ladies Michelle, Mr Cobber’s like, let me translate, Sabrina, across the pond that means stuff politics, show Jim your dress.

I’m like, Dave, help! He’s like, excuse me Lynton, I can’t read your writing, Mr Cobber’s like, holy crap mate, you want me to spell it, IMMIG-fucking-RATION?