Tony Blair learnt French in school. But he's the Prime Minister of UK and he doesn’t need to use the language. Last time he conversed in French was with the President of France. Six months have flown by since that meeting. He’s spoken nothing but politics and English after that.

Today, he said something like, how you are.

Danielle, my landlady laughed. I was standing next to her and grimaced in discomfort. She said, “I’ve lived in London for a long, long time. I have to impress you with my English, not the other way around.”

It was the Prime Minister’s turn to laugh. After he stopped, she said, “Please take a seat.”

He looked behind at the large armchair. It was pure leather, beige colour. About fifty years old. Like everything in this house, vintage stuff.

He then fiddled the knot of his tie, pursed his lips, and sat down.

Tony Blair was in our living room. A surprise visit. It’s election time and he’s visiting houses randomly. Today, our house got picked. At nine in the morning, I was enjoying coffee with Danielle in the kitchen when the doorbell had chimed. She attended the door. Then shouted, “You’re not fake, are you?”

He wasn’t. Tony Blair walked in after shaking hands with Danielle, and promising he would only occupy fifteen minutes of our time.

Now, five minutes later, after ushering him into the living room, our shock has settled. I don’t vote. Neither does my landlady. Labour Party is loathed in this house. But we had to treat our guest well.

The living room wasn’t an idea place to accommodate Tony’s entourage. Although it was bathed in warm sunshine, it was small. There were two armchairs placed next to a large window, overlooking the street outside. A small sofa stood next to it. It was meant for two and was already occupied with Tony’s press secretariat. I was about settle at the other end. Danielle was readying herself to capture the vacant armchair.

In front of us, a TV was reflecting our images. I noticed Brain, the secretariat, on it. He arranging his black, pulled back hair with his right hand. A sketchpad occupied his left hand.

On the left side, at the far end of the room, a dining table stood, surrounding on all sides by four wooden chairs. Two gentlemen of contrasting semblance stood next to them.

One of them donned a dark blue suit and he looked like a security personal. His face was angular, gaunt, but the rest of his figure told his story. Looking down, your eyes were immediately assaulted by the size of his neck. Resembled hypo’s body. His fingers were almost double my size, in length and thickness. And his muscular body looked as if any moment it might burst out from his clothes. Then, at the bottom, his size 16 boots looked like SUVs parked in our living room.

The other gentlemen had a walrus moustache. In jeans, he carried a SLR camera, and was readying himself to take shots.

Tony delved his hand inside his jacket’s pocket. Before he could take it out, Danielle asked, “So, what can we do for you?”

He’d earlier agreed to enjoy the ground coffee we were sipping. The mug now stood on top of a coaster, on the mahogany table next to his chair.

“Actually, I wanted to know what you thought of Gordon Brown,” he said.

“He’s a loser,” Danielle said. Despite being one of many non-voting hoi polloi, she took deep interest in politics. Tony instantly smirked.

“Loser like you,” Danielle said.

The smirked disappeared.

“I’m paying way too much tax. Actually, I’m thinking of moving back to France. It’s too much here.”

“Oh,” Tony said, shifting his sitting position. The wide armchair gave him plenty of opportunity to do that. He took his hand out of his pocket. A small, miniature bottle of vodka appeared on his hand.

He opened the cap and drank, in one big swig. “Ok, you can criticise me now,” he said.

Danielle, who like me was watching in shock the liquor disappear inside Tony’s throat, stirred to life. She slapped the Prime Minister, not once but twice.

“What was that for?” Tony demanded. A strong smell of vodka wafted across the room.

“For wasting my coffee and drinking your lousy, cheap Russian drink instead,” she said.

“I was about to drink that,” he said. “Oh god, I need to drink another one now. Or, I’ll have to sue you for hitting me, and I don’t want to do that.”

The press secretariat shouted, “Prime Minister!”

The SUVs shifted on the carpet. The photographer took pictures, and I, I just wanted to wake up. This wasn’t happening.

The Prime Minister took two bottles out of his other pocket, and handed one to me, saying. “Come on, mate. It’s Sunday. How about an early start?”

“Why not,” I said. “But can I slap you too?”

With in seconds, the SUVs kick started. The humongous hands grabbed and jerked me. Shook me like a tree caught in a cyclone. I dropped the bottle, shouted, “Tony, help me.”

The Prime Minister yelled, “I want a slam dunk.”

I was hoisted high up. My nose almost touched the ceiling. I tried to grab whatever I could. There were no wires on the ceil. It was as smooth as an ice rink. Anyway, who could resist the force of this security guard.

I hear walrus’ camera clicking, the unabated laughter of the Prime Minister, and a whimp, muffled cries of my landlady. Just before I came crashing down, I saw Brian all over my landlady.

I had revenge in my mind as my bones shattered into million pieces. The concrete floor ruptured, creating a crack deep enough to bury me. I went into the abyss and disappeared for next two hours, until I got up from my dream.

Thank god for that!