Daphne Fry, the Conservative candidate for Bath, thought pressing the flesh at the Villa of Happiness was great fun.
Apart from having to endure some perfectly ghastly smells emanating from several of the inmates, she felt her visit was going swimmingly well. She was good with oldsters, knew just what made them tick. Nobody had complained about the effects of austerity, thank god, and all the old dears had clearly been flattered that she had come to see them and impressed by her pledge to set up a commission to investigate the state of the drains in local old folks’ homes. Well, all apart from that pain in the neck Miss Palmer, the one with the hairy mole on her chin, who sat all on her own and had been astonishingly hostile. She just kept on knitting something red, which gave her a murderous look. But she was so ancient and decrepit that she must be gaga, the dried up old bag. Rodney had got some super publicity shots of Daphne, showing her in the midst of a group of identical grinning grannies, proving how much she cared for the less privileged members of society in the autumn of their years. And if the doddering old bats could actually manage to make their way to a polling station and remember her name, she’d get some more votes too.
As she washed down a bland Fairy Cake with some grisly tea, the heat of the place got to her and she loosened the Hermès silk scarf around her neck. She happened to look across at Miss Palmer and noticed that the dreary old fool was now no longer killing time with her knitting but staring at her throat, well obviously at the pearl necklace around it which was now exposed, and smiling in pleasure at the sight of the lovely thing.
In fact Miss Palmer was smiling because the sight of the politician’s plump neck had reminded her of an episode from the sixties, when she’d wasted that Bulgarian trade minister with a single thrust of a knitting needle to the throat, and then in celebration had the best fuck of her life that night in Sofia with Handsome Harry, her Control.