Downing Street is super. So central! Only late for work three days this week and, since I was helping Bozzie to rule, who cares? And now I have a puppy all my own! We saved him from Wales because we are humanitarians.

But Dom hates Dilyn. It was just a tiny nip, but honestly.

Dom: “Remove that foul rodent before it’s destroyed by military police.”

Me: “But Dilyn was your idea! Because Bismarck tells us, ‘He who has the puppy, has power.’ Or maybe it was the great philosopher Shih Tzu. But it was definitely on your list, like those screaming kids.”

Dom: “That is categorically fucking untrue. Substantiate your claim or pass me the quadruped, you half-witted pustule, and when you’ve done that, fuck off back to fucking Camberwell. I’ve wargamed your imminent exit – it will save us at least 23,000 defections by adultery-averse undecideds.”

Me: “Wait until I text Bozzie in his top-secret Brexit HQ.”

Dom: (clawing at my arm) “Ha, not if I have your phone.”

Then he ran into the spare room, I mean Mission Control. I heard a bottle open, then these dreadful yelps, but Dom had put up his Do Not Enter, Genius at Work sign.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Carrie Symonds Photograph: NurPhoto/Getty Images

Anyway I needed to pack. For Balmoral! What outfit says “sparkling yet committed animal rights activist who can be trusted not to ruin the shooting party”?

It’s late. Where is Bozzie? Stanley calls. “Dear girl, my son the PM says, strictly hush-hush but a comet struck an outrider. He’ll be home pronto. Now, as a fellow conservationist, this will interest you. I spotted no fewer than 17 swallows this morn …”

I’ve learned to hang up.

Even later: B’s back. Sniff him.

Me: “What was it this time?”

Bozzie: “Mea maxima culpa, Otter. Narrowly escaped a rogue elephant, then – you won’t believe this – Jo stabbed me in the back. I pleaded with him, sobbing like a baby … ”

Me: “Nice try. But it’s true, isn’t it, Bozzie, about Dom ordering the dog? He won’t have poor Dilyn shot?”

Bozzie: “You’re imagining things, Ottywotty. Dom and I have noticed that too much thinking can overtax a girly’s brain and – ow, yaroo, Otter, that hurts!”

So from now on everything goes in my diary. Starting with Balmoral.

As told to Catherine Bennett