Sentence The Fourhundredandseventyeighth

And in the Revenue Office which we have neglected, but not forgotten, Traci MacGillivray was deep in a meeting with Lionel Ramsbottom – or more correctly, Traci lay on the floor and Lionel was deep

in her, immeasurably deep, quite depthlessly so in fact – and as he, well, the only word for it, rammed his point home, she kept up a stream of advice about his Double Entry Bookkeeping system, so that any passers-by would realise that their congress was perfectly legitimate and concerned solely with his obligation to be quite up-front about the ins and outs of his business, as he whispered in her ear that his plans to infiltrate the home of the much-feared and utterly loathsome advocate Martin Elginbrod QC, were well advanced and she lapped up every detail of the forthcoming night-time entry and even committed herself to accompanying him to discover for herself just how far Lionel would be able to go towards exposing Elginbrod for the evil lecher that she believed him to be; she had spoken – in, it must be admitted, rather vague terms – to her supervisor about the need to carry out a covert operation to discover more about the man's tangled web of companies and contracts and patents and copyrights, and received the stamp of approval and indeed the official document confirming this was already rather crumpled under her buttocks where it had fallen to the floor as she dragged Lionel's lips to hers and locked the door after he had barely taken a step inside her now rather steamy office, but she needed it not, for, a resilient and flexible operator, she had written every word and her supervisor, who had been rather distracted when Traci slid her hand down his trousers and pulled out his Jack-in-the-Box to cries of surprise and delight at the size of it and the extent to

which it filled her hand, had merely to add his – albeit shaky – signature after she had led him by the nose into her deepest confidence, but he would keep shtum, she knew that; Lionel had done his research well and by befriending the Lawyer's Housekeeper in the cafeteria at Morrison's where she did her frequent shopping, and had even taken to titivating herself in the Ladies before joining him in the cafeteria, over coffee and cream scones, had ascertained that this Friday, the entire household would be going to Trumpington, on Scotland's Ayrshire Coast, where Mr Elginbrod had arranged a round of golf with his hero, Duck Trumpet-Trousers, whose New York staff were already referring of as “President Trumpet-Trousers” and had informed the interested caller from Bonnie Scotland that

plans were well ahead for renaming Washington DC as Trumpington and the erstwhile White House

as Trumpet Towers, and indeed, Elginbrod had already registered his copyright in these and many similar names in London and Washington, so it was clear who he had his money on for the election in November; the only fly-in-the-ointment was whether the 8am round of golf on Saturday was in British Summer Time, Eastern Daylight Time, Central Daylight Time or Pacific Daylight Time, and to avoid seeming perplexed during his transatlantic calls, which would have put him at a distinct disadvantage, the entire household was setting off the night before, so from 4pm on Friday until around 4pm on Sunday, the house would be as empty as the grave; and Lionel's on-line adviser, known only to him as The Economic Migrant, had arranged for the entire security system, including cameras and microphones, to be unaccountably switched off for forty-eight hours, which should give Lionel and Traci ample time for whatever they had in mind! and as she contemplated their ingress and egress, she hummed one of her favourite ditties from The World War II Songbook, as sung by Florence Desmond: The Deepest Shelter in Town!