“Do call me Sandra.” Mrs Michael Howard stood surrounded by the therapeutic community en f?te champ?tre, demurely, iced bun in one hand, cup and saucer in the other. “It was a fantastic show I have to say, and as soon as I get back to London I am going to telephone my friend Dominic Lawson and ask him to commission a piece on what’s going on down here. Perhaps you could write it?” she asked, quite the mistress of gentle flattery.
Sandra was trying her best to say the right thing. “You know it was all Michael’s idea in the first place that I get myself involved in the rehabilitation of drug offenders. I mean, I’m absolutely hopeless at asking people for money, but I’ll do what I can. I felt I had to do something positive with my time.”
The whole community had been on best behaviour all afternoon while prison governors and their acolytes fussed around the party of VIPs. It was rumoured that our own Number One had even cancelled a lecture trip to Romania (subject-penal reform!) to ensure Sandra’s visit went without a hitch. He beamed with pride as my well rehearsed company of entertainers trilled and thrilled.
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