By Minim Calibre
Story Notes: Silverlake remix of Kate J’s You Just Don’t Have The Presence
Pairing: Thatcher/Young
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Satire. Not real.
“She devoted her whole life to public service, and public life is diminished by her loss.”
—Baroness Thatcher
So kind of her to say that now, almost twenty years too late. It isn’t that I don’t believe in polite falsehoods. The loss of polite falsehoods to the horrible uncouth tides of permissiveness is one of the great tragedies of modern life. It’s simply that Margaret’s particular polite falsehood was too little, too late.
I’ll show her the error of her ways.
I watch the fine bone china cup shatter in her hand. I just don’t have the presence? She’ll rue the day she said those words. Even dead, I’ve more presence than she.
“Janet, you just don’t have the presence.”
Two years of late nights spent in public service—Margaret’s service—and that was the thanks I got. All because such things were now spoken of openly, rather than tastefully tucked away in cupboards and silently swept under rugs. Our affairs should never have left her study.
“Janet, you just don’t have the presence.”
I can picture her studying and tuning the words, honing them until they formed the needle-sharp dismissal. Stand down, Whitelaw’s earned his reward, and you just don’t have the presence. All lies and nonsense, and not the polite sort. Lies that were laughable.
You don’t get a name like “Old Tin Knickers” through lack of presence.
I dedicated the rest of my life to stemming the flow of openly immoral behaviour. I’ll dedicate my death to making my presence known through ever cup and saucer, every wine glass and decanter.