As the dregs of the G20 began rocking up for the latest global junket, some of the lowlier ministers of state were detailed to intercept them at Heathrow, locate their luggage two days later at Luton and generally kowtow to their every need.
Clearly it would not be appropriate for me to disclose the nationality of my personal ward; let's just say that I have been led on a merry dance trying to locate some really fresh fillet of Pekinese. Usually when I'm looking to pick up a dog in a supermarket I pop down to Iceland when they're filming their TV ads, but there wasn't time, so I went down to my local Waitrose where, upon my request for 'dogmeat', the manager was kind enough to point me towards the Essentials 'veal' cutlets with a knowing look.
However, not even a rather masterful Tartare de Chien prepared by Heston Blumenthal himself (fresh from his exposure to norovirus) could satiate the rather exotic appetites of this particular client, and his subsequent request for a porn movie and some skunk at 3am tested even my extensive contacts book. Luckily Jacqui Smith was out of town, so we scooted round to her official second residence for a night watching something resembling an industrial accident in a blancmange factory. I think we managed to keep that one out of the press, though.
Then on Monday it was off to the Commons for a British Retail Consortium fundraiser to garner support for the idea that bogofs on alcopops are not responsible for antisocial behaviour. It all got a bit out of hand. It transpired that everyone had been pre-loading again at the nearby Budgens. WKD.