Theresa May had sat motionless at her desk for more than 10 minutes, her eyes staring blankly into the void. The Pot Plants sighed. They could tell it was going to be another bad day.

“Say something,” said Pot Plant One eventually.

The prime minister remained silent.

“Say something,” Pot Plant One said, more insistently.

Still nothing.

“Perhaps she’s become unplugged,” Pot Plant Two suggested. Pot Plant Three hopped off the desk to check the connection. Sure enough, the Maybot was out of power. Then, she hadn’t really ever been in power since the general election. Pot Plant Three reattached the charger and bent his leaves to her chest. There was a faint pulse.

“You’ve got to do something.” Pot Plant One shouted. “If you don’t we’ll all be toast.”

“Whirr. Clank.” Theresa’s voice was slow to engage.

“Here’s the thing,” said Pot Plant Two, taking command. “Your whole government is falling apart around you. Michael Fallon has had to resign for being a serial harasser and Damian Green is accused of watching porn on his office computer. David Davis hasn’t a clue whether he has written the 58 Brexit impact assessments he said he had, Boris is doing his best to see how many people’s prison sentences he can extend and Priti Patel has been jetting off to Israel freelancing as prime minister. It can’t be long before one of your other cabinet idiots does something stupid, so you’ve got to act now.”

“What do you suggest?” Theresa murmured, her voice barely rising above a low whisper.

“Recall Priti Vacant from Uganda.”

“Why?”

“To show you’re in charge,” Pot Plant Two observed.

“But it was only yesterday that you told me to send her off to Uganda to show I was in charge.”

Hours later, 36,000 feet above Egypt on flight KQ100 to London, Priti Vacant fidgeted anxiously in her seat. She wasn’t used to being downgraded to Premium Economy and hadn’t fancied any of the inflight movies. Apocalypse Now or Falling Down somehow didn’t appeal.

Besides, it just wasn’t fair. There she had been, just minding her business in a Golan Heights water park with her family, when who should be on the next sunbed than Benjamin Netanyahu? It would have been much too rude not to talk to him and one thing had just led to another and before she knew it she was having meetings with 12 of his mates. As you do.

It had been no big deal. So she hadn’t really seen the need to tell anyone about her playdates with Bibi. Besides, it all seemed such a long time ago now and everything had become a bit of a blur. If only Bibi hadn’t brought this all up at his meeting with Theresa the week before, then no one would have been any the wiser.

Vacant asked for a gin and tonic to calm the nerves and handed over her departmental credit card to pay. “I’m afraid it appears to have been blocked,” said the steward. “Do you have any cash?”

After a tense drive from Heathrow to Downing Street, Priti found herself ushered into the prime minister’s office. She sat down and waited for Theresa to speak. And waited.

“Well go on,” said Pot Plant One. “Tell her.”

“Oh yes,” said the Maybot absent-mindedly. She had been wondering what Priti had been doing in the room. “The thing is that everything’s going completely tits up round here and if I don’t sack you then someone’s bound to say I’m too weak to carry on and that I should resign.”

“That’s tremendous news,” said Priti, relaxing for the first time in days. “When are you off?”

“It’s actually you that’s going,” Pot Plant Two interrupted. Somebody had to take control of the situation. “There’s the hard way and the easy way. The hard way is you’re fired. The easy way is you resign. Now sign this letter.”

Priti glanced at the piece of paper she had been given. “Dear Prime Minister, It has come to my attention that neither of us are able to remember what either of us has or hasn’t said to the other over the past few months. Indeed, things have got so bad that neither of us are even able to agree on the things we specifically instructed each other to forget. BTW, the only reason I didn’t tell you – I did really. Didn’t, did, didn’t, did – about those other meetings in September was because you seemed a bit anxious so I didn’t want to bother you. So I am resigning as of now. Yours, P Vacant.”

Pot Plant Three waited till Priti had left the room. “Shall we deal with Boris, now?” it said.

The Maybot let out a long, piercing primal scream.

John Crace’s new book, I, Maybot, is published by Guardian Faber. To order a copy for £6.99, saving £3,go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.