The two former Mister Presidents couldn’t be more different. Bill Clinton was the worst housemate and I was delighted when he moved out.
Later, following a series of unexplained events, I found Barack Obama in the boot of my car. It was agreed it was better all round if he was my guest for the night. He was a delightful guest, admiring the eclectic decoration of my (surprisingly large and well-appointed) house. However he refused to drink tea, asking instead for a ‘zinger’ which turned out to be hot water from the kettle with a splash of Worcestershire sauce.
The Secret Service arrived, with a warning about sending in their ‘security dogs’. I opened the lounge door and two teeny tiny puppies ran in. Mister President slept in the spare bedroom. Later he pressed a fistful of bitcoins into my hand to say thank you.