I was sitting in my office straightening up the desk top, in between sips of a tall glass of Irn Bru, whilst the morning shift crew were making ready for the June edition. Summer and the Derby were not far away, although it was still quite chilly here up north. There was a light tap at the door, and Maid Angela opened it, stating smartly, 'The Prime Minister and Mrs Blair to see you, Miss MacDonald'.

'Thank you Angela', I replied vaguely, looking for a space for my Jockey Club inkwell. Suddenly my hand froze. For a second, my mind froze. The heavy inkwell dropped from my limp fingers with a clatter, and I ran over to the door and pulled it open to call after her. But the passageway was empty.

I ran to the wardrobe, and flung open the door with the inside mirror. I have no time for Mr Blair, nor for his vandal plans to shatter every ancient custom and tradition that makes British culture so marvellously rococo, and so eternally fascinating and enriching, but the Prime Minister after all is the Prime Minister, although one of the Queen's pet corgis would be more like Winston Churchill.

Let's see now...soft grey angora sweater, pleated tartan skirt, black stockings and sensible shoes...not bad, although I was looking a bit frumpish around the waist...I would have worn a good girdle if I'd known. Still, I argued to myself, Cherie is no oil painting. As a final gesture I snatched a pearl necklace that I keep in one of my desk drawers, and clipped it around the roll neck of my fluffy sweater.

As I was hurrying through the works I nearly ran into a printing cyclinder that some of the crew were removing from one of the presses, almost covering myself in yellow ink. I managed to arrive at the front parlour just as my guests of honour were entering, and I was confronted for the first time in real life by that false chipmunk smile, and standing beside him his sourpuss wife. Through the glass entrance doors I spied a black, glossy Whitehall limousine, completely obscuring my dear little Hillman Minx in the works car park.

'How do you do, Miss MacDonald', greeted the PM with a firm handshake. 'I am very well, Mr Blair', I replied, 'but a little flustered. This is a most unexpected pleasure, if I may say so'. I led them into the parlour and turned on two bars of the electric heater. No need to be excessive, I thought as I showed them to two comfortable armchairs.

The Prime Minister looked even more like a toothpaste advertisement from the 1950s than ever, and Cherie more like the 'before' girl in the old Horlicks comic strip advertisements from the same period.

'Yes, it is a little unexpected', he said chirpily, 'but we do like to drop in sometimes on successful British businesses that are becoming a significant part of our export drive. We must stake our claim in the global marketplace, to coin a phrase. And the European Union, Miss MacDonald, will provide us with a level playing field in that marke...'

Cherie subtly motioned him to stop. Of course one of the functions of any politician's wife is to prevent them from making complete fools of themselves, and I imagine it is a seven day a week job.

'Miss MacDonald', said Cherie with a rather crooked smile, 'it is most refreshing and encouraging to see a woman in business who has broken through the glass ceiling, as it were'.

'Actually', I replied, 'all our ceilings at petticoated.com are made of good Engish oak. We don't care much for imported European fashions in interior design. But I know what you mean. Given the message of our publications, it would be absurd if it were otherwise'. Behind my smiling exterior, my mind was in utter turmoil. What were they doing here? And in the middle of an election campaign...had I eaten too much cod with parsley sauce, and was I now having a nightmare?

'Yes, quite', replied Mrs Blair. 'My husband has been meaning to make this visit for some time. We would be very happy to see you at the British Industry Awards Night later this year'.

'I would be honoured...' I replied rather weakly.

I know, I thought to myself, a cup of strong northern tea, that will give me a moment to think...

'Excuse me', I said to my extraordinary guests, and glanced out the door. 'Spin...I mean Tutu, could you please get three cups of our best tea, and some Scotch shortbread?' (Tutu has not long returned from a short holiday in America, by the way, and has recently been showing us some charming photographs). 'And Tutu', I whispered, 'go to that nice tea room on the corner. Not Miss Gribble's tea...ok?'

I asked them how Leo was, always a dangerous thing to do with parents, because if you ask them how their children are, they are quite likely to tell you. He was 'gifted' of course, how could any child of Mr and Mrs Blair be anything else? Perhaps the Millennium Dome could be converted into a special school for the 'gifted' children of Guardian-reading parents, I mused. The trouble is, it wouldn't be half big enough for all the little horrors...

'What about your union representative?' asked Mr Blair. 'I assume you permit worker representation at such a successful enterprise?'

'Ah, yes...I 'll just call her. Miss Gribble has been Mother of the Chapel here for more than twenty years...'

I asked Julie Anne to fetch Miss Gribble at once, as we had two very special guests who wished to meet her. Just at that moment there was a respectful tap on the door, and Tutu entered, bearing an ornate silvered tray with a plate of freshly baked shortbread, and a teapot from Polly's Tea Rooms just down the road. I poured tea for the Blairs, and found that I was beginning to relax a little.

It was an easing of tension that was soon to be reversed. The door was suddenly opened, and Miss Gribble stood on the threshold. My overseas readers are probably thinking that nothing could give Miss Gribble more pleasure than meeting a Labour Prime Minister and his wife, but Hectorina Gribble belongs to an older generation of Labour supporters, a world of Karl Marx, cardigans, and cloth caps, and the 'Third Way' nonsense of the current lot cuts no ice with her.

'Mr and Mrs Blair, may I introduce Hectorina Gribble, the works union representative', I said as warmly as I could muster.

How do you do, Ms. Gribble', greeted Tony, with an outstretched hand.

Miss Gribble looked at him with the utmost distaste and suspicion. 'So what did your grandfather do in the General Strike, then?' she cried in her strongest Scotch accent. I was ready to faint, but worse was to come. As she glared towards Cherie, her eyes fell upon the teacups and shortbread. God, I couldn't believe this was happening to me. An hour ago, all had been right with the world, my desk just needed a bit of rearranging, and now I was caught in the middle of an episode of 'Fawlty Towers'.

'I see'. said Miss Gribble after a long pause. Ignoring the Prime Minister's outstretched hand, she left the room with a slam of the door which rattled the still-frosty window panes. 'She's from Glascow', I said with a little nod and a forced smile.

'Quite', replied Mrs Blair coldly. 'If we might come to the main purpose of our visit to Grimsby, perhaps my husband could explain...'

'Well, let me ask you, Miss MacDonald, how is the bishop getting along?' queried the grinning PM.

'The bishop...?' I replied, racking my brains. 'Oh, I think he is alright. Why, has he undergone a sudden change of thought and started believing in God?'

'No, no, no', said Mrs Blair with a bright smile, 'my husband was not referring to the Archbishop of York. He meant...um...your new staff member here at petticoated.com'.

'New staff member??' Just then, there was a light knock and Tutu entered with a small Rose china dish of hand-made chocolates.

'Polly sent these, Miss MacDonald, when she discovered who our surprise guests were', he said with a smile.

Thank you Tu...' but I didn't finish. A sudden realisation hit me with sledgehammer force.

I offered the chocolates to Tony and Cherie. 'I am afraid you have come on a fool's errand', I said apologetically. 'There are no members of any church on the staff here'.

The smile slowly faded from Mr Blair's face. It was like the gradual dropping of a curtain, and quite a pleasant thing to watch. Confused, he looked to his wife for clarification.

'But Alastair was absolutely certain...' I heard her hiss.

'A photo opportunity gone to waste...a winner for the black vote...' whispered her dazed and bewildered spouse. The Prime Minister was obviously stunned.

With some effort they pulled themselves together. 'Miss MacDonald, we must return to London. It has been a great pleasure to meet you'.

'And...we will see you at the Women in Business Party Conference in the autumn?' enquired Cherie, just filling up an embarrassing silence, I think.

'Well, I wouldn't count on that', I replied. 'But it has been an honour to meet you both. This is a day at petticoated.com that will long be remembered'.

We shook hands, and they left. Closing the door behind them, I slid down the glass pane in exhaustion and and relief until I was sitting on the carpet. Tutu helped me up. 'Cheer up Miss MacDonald', he said, 'That was a great honour, you know'.

'They thought you were Desmond Tutu', I explained weakly. 'Marcia! You are in charge for the rest of the day. Run off a proof and check the colours. I'm going home to bed'.