IN WHICH SCRIBBLES MEETS THE PRIME MINISTER

The first thing to worry about when you find out you are going to meet the PM is, of course, what you are going to wear. My boss, a Labour MP, was of little help on this. Astoundingly he seemed to think such matters a frippery. In fact, something I've noticed about Labour activists, members and politicians is that a great deal of them seem to find matters of dress and appearance a frippery. At meetings, corduroy abounds.

It was a problem. I only found out the day before that Tony Blair was making a constituency visit, so there was little time for shopping for something new. And sworn to secrecy about the visit, I couldn't solicit advice. Thrown upon my own judgement, I decided that a suit was too middle management, but that a fitted jacket with my usual plain ensemble of trousers and jumper would signal me as the no-nonsense, functional and neat employee that I am.

As soon as I got into work on the day of the visit, I realised one mistake. My shoes. I'd decided against wearing heels because I am always taller than everyone in the world I ever meet anyway, and I didn't want to draw attention to myself by making myself even taller. Fade into the background was my plan, melt into the crowd. So I had worn my usual flat black casual-smart pumps. My flat black casual-smart pumps this morning, however, suddenly looked unworthy of meeting a Prime Minister. Heels would have made me look like I cared. Heels would have elevated me from looking like a scruffy and possibly dangerous anarchist to smart employee and cool-headed professional.

As the morning progressed and I took various calls from people from Downing Street, from councillors, from special advisors, I became more and more convinced that not wearing heels was going to be the biggest mistake of my career. My black flat pumps, I decided, would be the talking point of the visit. How awful, they would say, she came to meet the PM in black flat pumps. Possibly the press would pick up on it too and it would wipe anything that Tony Blair said or did off the front-page.

MPS ASSISTANT IN WRONG SHOE CHOICE DISGRACE

The community centre where the PM was due to visit is a wonderful building. Red-brick, Victorian. I think it was probably once a school. It has a very long corridor. I was to walk that corridor many times that day in my black flat pumps waiting for the Tony Blair to turn up.

I spent a lot of my time checking out other women's footwear. Most women, it was true, were wearing heels. But most women are a lot shorter than me. I told myself. As I noticed too that all the other woman were also dressed a lot smarter and more professional than me.

I had a sudden impulse to leave by the back door, run out into the fields and woods beyond and live forever a solitary existence surviving on nuts, berries and mushrooms.

AND WHO ARE YOU?

The PM was late. Fifteen minutes. Half and Hour. An hour. Always, we were told that the Prime Minister would be here shortly. I wandered around and chatted to various to whittle away at the time. Being assistant to an MP in such situations is a little like being Dr Who with his psychic paper - it lets you get in anywhere and talk to everyone.

A team of security staff walked purposefully up and down the aforementioned corridor. Tall fellows, dressed in black, carrying serious expressions and talking moodily into mobile phones; people would fall out of their way as they passed as if they were royalty. They watched everybody, checked rooms, stood around being important. Occasionally one of them would ask people who they were. It happened to me. The tallest, most serious and best looking one stood in front of me half raising a finger to point at me. "Who are you?" he demanded. I felt a little like I should stick my hands up in surrender or else curtsy or something. Instead, I used my psychic paper and told him I was with the MP. He nodded unimpressed and walked away purposefully. It was damn sexy, I can tell you.

Time rolled on. And just when I was beginning to think the whole thing was some elaborate joke, he arrived.

I'M NOBODY, DON'T MIND ME

Black cars rushed up the drive. I stood inside, waiting. Loud voices outside in the porch. Tony Blair swept in. He shook hands with people and cooed at babies from the nursery. My boss had given me a digital camera to use. I got some fine shots of the back of his head.

He swept on down the corridor, shouting hello at people who came casually out of their offices to see what the noise was. His entourage followed him, my boss followed him, various random people followed him, and right at the back I too followed him.

He was taken to a room at the furthest ends of the earth. The room was small. Tony Blair was lead into a circle of people who were going to talk at him about something. The main room was full by the time I made it in and I was stuck at the back of the crowd behind some stupid wall that stupidly divided the room serving no discernible purpose.

As I couldn't hear anything, I spent my time trying to take photographs over the tops of people's heads and considering what being a Prime Minister might be like. The first thing you'd have to get used to, I decided, was that people might try and kill you. That's why you had to have men standing around you with a cold glint in their watchful eyes and a hand on their Walther PPK's.

The second would be that you would have to put up with people standing on wobbly chairs taking photos of you (me) whilst men in suits shoved cardboard at you (various).

The third would have to be attending community centres and meeting normal people whilst things like Iran holding some of your sailors hostage were happening.

When the circle meeting was over I poured out into the corridor with everyone else. The PM disappeared somewhere with some of his men. I hung around behind my boss feeling tired and thirsty.

I had realised by this time, with some regret, that I wasn't going to get to meet the Prime Minister after all. There were too many people, he was too behind schedule, I was too insignificant. No one cared what shoes I wore. My experience of meeting Tony Blair would be confined to taking a few shaky and undignified photographs, mostly of the back of his head or over the tops of the backs of other people's heads.

HEY! I AM SOMEBODY!

The PM came back out and was having a word with my boss as he walked by. I trudged behind them both wondering if I could get home before the end of Deal or No deal.

Then, I heard my boss say something like, "Oh Tony, I'd like you to meet Scribbles, who works for me". It was a low-key moment. The corridor we were in was fairly gloomy and quiet. Tony turned to me looking amazed somehow (why? why?) and we shook each others hands and exchanged a few words.

Then, he was in another room and with another circle of people.

PHOTOGRAPHER TO THE PM! WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

Members of his entourage seemed to be agitated. I could hear them out in the corridor and distinctly heard the words "we've got to go". It was then that my boss whispered in my ear that he wanted me to take a photo of him, the PM, and "some people" who had apparently been rounded up and were waiting at the top of the corridor. I was dispatched to brief the group that the PM would be here with them soon for a photo opportunity, but that we would have to be extra quick as he had a train to catch.

Quick as a fox, I scooted up the corridor and approached the group. I tried to explain that the PM had a train to catch and could we all please be ready to pose for the photo. Who was I though, to speak to them? They were busy and important people. They didn't have to listen to some whippersnapper wearing black flat pumps and a plain ensemble of trousers!

I had to resort to my school-mistress act (think Joyce Grenfell after assertiveness training) to get them to pay attention to me. I had only just managed to take a practice shot of them all, when I noticed to my right that the PM was on full charge towards us down the corridor.

I reviewed the practice shot I'd taken on the digital camera and noticed that my hands had started to shake. One of the group looked over my shoulder and pronounced the picture "too blue" and went on to instruct me to use his camera instead. Then everyone was asking me to take pictures with their camera too.

Outer reaches of the PM's entourage were breaking upon us as I beat people and their cameras away from me.

Then the PM was in line with the group and I heard one of his men say to me "quick as you can" and so I help up the camera and then my heart nearly gave out when all I could see on the camera screen was a blurred mess. I think I squeaked in fright.

I fiddled desperately with what I thought was the focus, but it didn't work. Nothing worked. The flash hadn't gone off, so I couldn't even fake that it had worked. I lowered the camera in defeat and heard a general groan from everyone.

Trying not to think how I was standing in front of both my boss and the Prime Minister and failing at something very simple, I tried to rescue the situation.

"I think I'm going to have to use this camera" I said attempting to sound like I wasn't mortified, whilst shakily switching back to the camera I had been using all afternoon whose pictures were not in any way shape or form too fucking "blue"!

(I do hope I broke that other camera. Would serve the man right)

Having taken the shot I was ready to collapse with relief, but then everyone seemed to be shouting at me. I realised I was being told to take another one, apparently because for the first picture someone - who obviously thought more interesting things were going on elsewhere - was looking the other way. Hate that someone.

Then, as if in a puff of smoke, the PM and his entourage were gone.

So, all in all it had gone very well, apart from the me making the Prime Minister late for his train bit, which is the sort of thing that can and does happen to everyone.

OBSERVATIONS

I have no amazing observations to make about the man other than that I was surprised to see that he was no taller than me in my black, flat pumps, and possibly even a little smaller. He seemed maybe a bit tired, at times distracted. Otherwise, he was as expected. Confidant without seeming arrogant, friendly without being overly familiar, centre of attention in a crowd, attentive when being spoken to. So familiar, yet so unknown. His shoes were fine, but I thought he could perhaps do with a haircut.

He announces his retirement tomorrow. I will miss him.