He had thought himself safe. He should have been safe.

“Well… I… uhm… I do care… but I…”

Kylie pressed home her advantage.

“Do you care about the children of single mothers? Because most of them will go hungry tonight…”

“Shut that fucking kid up!” the Head of Television screamed. Jo Winston’s knuckles were white around the pen she clutched. The control box hotline rang. Nigel picked it up. “Shut that fucking kid up.” I could hear the voice of the DG himself crackling on the other end.

“Shut that fucking kid up!” Nigel shouted at me and I dutifully relayed the message into the studio link, nearly blowing poor Tazz’s ear off.

“No, for heaven’s sake, let him answer!” Jo Winston shouted at me, but it was too late.

“Well, we’re going to have to leave it there,” Tazz was saying, with a grin frozen on her face. “So here’s the new video from Sir Elton John.”

It could not have looked more terrible. Jo Winston was right. The PM needed to reply but instead Kylie was left with the last word and the Main Man UK looked like a piece of shit.

Jo Winston left the control box without a word. Her look, however, spoke volumes. She thought I’d stitched her up.

“Who supplies us with the fucking kids?!” the Head of Television shouted. I knew which kid he was referring to and I kept my mouth shut.

Even before Elton John had finished his song the Downing Street posse were out of the building, departing in fury, swearing revenge on the BBC and claiming loudly that the PM had been set up. The Director General had tried to tempt the great man to a glass of wine (a grand reception buffet was all waiting). He actually chased after the prime ministerial Daimler round the turning circle with a bottle of claret in his hand. But any hope of post-broadcast jollies, I’m afraid, had been dashed by the as yet unclaimed little girl in the studio.

In the control box an inquiry was underway. The Deputy Director General had arrived and also the Head of Radio and Television. They knew they were in trouble. Relations between the Beeb and Number Ten are always strained and the licence fee always seems to be up for renewal. Everybody was all too aware that publicly embarrassing the Prime Minister on live TV was not the best way to ensure the future of advert-free public service broadcasting in the UK. As my various superiors spoke, contemplating the wrath that they must face from their own superiors, I was painfully aware that below us the studio was emptying. Looking down through the great glass windows onto the floor, I could see that the bulk of the audience had been escorted out and the scene-shifters were beginning to strike the set. Standing alone in the middle of all the activity and looking rather lonely and scared was my niece Kylie. Obviously she had no idea where to go or what to do; I had said that I would collect her after the show. The problem was that I knew that if I went anywhere near her the game would be up.

Then the game was up anyway. Nigel spotted her.

“That appalling little anarchist is still there,” he said. “I don’t believe it! That means she must belong to one of the crew!”

They all stared down. Kylie was looking more isolated than ever. The deconstruction of a TV studio after a programme has been made is a noisy, frenzied business. Large things roll across the floor, even larger things descend from the ceiling. Many men and women bustle about shouting. To be a twelve-year-old child abandoned in the middle of it would be a pretty intimidating experience and I could see that Kylie was starting to think about having a cry. She wasn’t the only one.

“If Downing Street get to hear that she belongs to an employee they’ll never believe we didn’t set them up,” said the Deputy Director General. “Go and find out who the hell she’s with, Bell.”

Hope! A chance! I might just get away with it! All I had to do was rush down, get Kylie out and then blame it on the friend of a friend of a scene-shifter. I would promise a full investigation and then cover the whole thing up. I was about to bound out of the box when I saw Kylie tearfully hailing a passing floor assistant. I watched in horror as the floor assistant put her microphone to her lips. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. My whole life passed before my eyes.

“Hello, Control.” The floor manager’s voice floated out of the console loud and clear. “I’ve got a little girl here called Kylie, says she’s Sam Bell’s niece. Is he about at all because she wants to go home.”

Dear Pen Pal

Honestly, trust Sam. Just when I want to be at my absolute most relaxed and non-tense he has gone and made a complete ass of himself at work. He tried not to tell me about it which was nice of him seeing as I’m trying to be as one with my Karma, but he was writing at his book for so long that I had to ask him and it all came out. I feel awful for him, but I’m afraid I’ve had to tell him that I’m not going to think about it, I just can’t. Every fibre of my being is currently dedicated to being in tune with the ageless rhythm of life and, however you look at it, the politics of television are simply not a part of the ageless rhythm of life. Sam doesn’t mind. He never wants to talk about anything anyway. He’s a terrible bottler-upper, like most men, I think. They don’t want to touch, they don’t want to talk. They just want to drink, watch TV, drink and bonk.

Dear Book

The Livin’ Large story was in all the papers on Sunday (PM humbled by child) and they’re still carrying it today. I’ve been named in every single article, of course. Despite me issuing a very clear statement, nobody believes that I didn’t set it all up. It’s just too convenient what with the girl being my niece and all. The papers tried to go after Kylie as well, but I’d guessed they would and told Emily that if Kylie said even one word to the press Emily would no longer be my sister. Kylie is now house grounded with the curtains drawn until it blows over.

I did not go in to work today and took the phone off the hook. I really am in very deep shit and I don’t want to talk to Lucy about it because she has enough on her mind. Funny how writing this book has actually ended up as a sort of therapy for me, although it has nothing to do with having kids.

Dear Penny

I feel terribly sorry about Sam’s travails but despite that I also feel curiously centred and at one, almost elated. I know I must not get my hopes up, but I do definitely feel different. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with being positive, is there? I don’t want to suppress or fight whatever may or may not be happening in my body with negative thinking. I’m sure that mental attitude has enormous power over the physical self. And I do feel differently this month. I don’t know why, but I do. Who knows…?

Sam seems to think he’s going to lose his job but if only I could be pregnant I wouldn’t mind about us being poor or anything. I’d live in one room. I wouldn’t care, not if I had a baby. Sam always says, “Ha!” when I say things like that and of course I know he’s right. Nobody wants to be poor and live in just one room, but if all we have would buy me a baby I’d spend it tomorrow.

Dear Book

Lucy keeps going on about not caring about being poor, only about getting pregnant. She says she’d happily see us with nothing as long as we have a child. The problem is that we’re probably going to have nothing whether we have a child or not. Penniless and infertile would be a lot to take, I think. On the other hand, Lucy seems very certain that it’s going to work this time. She really has started to believe in the power of positive thinking. She’s even said that if it’s a girl she’ll call it Primrose. I hope she’s right. She does look glowing.