A Tartan Pole (Rousse)

The first person that I came across upstairs at the White House was a sulky half-naked teenage Polish friend of my nephew. I was appalled that she barely greeted me when we passed one another in the upstairs hall.

When I heard that she was refusing to wear the outfit that my nephew had specially selected for her after much effort hunting through the local charity shops I felt obliged to confront her. I first accused her of being arrogant, then instructed her to wear the silk tartan waistcoat, tie and jacket – or else.

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