Friday 15th July, 9.30am, Teutonic room: Groan. Charlie Boy does like to brag of his political connections. In his element this week, of course. Forty years on from Harrow, a few of his cleverer classmates are MPs. “Gove dared not run for PM for reasons I simply cannot disclose,” he drawls, touching his nose.

Agent P

Do we care? Judging by the blank faces around the table, not a lot. “Fortunately, his replacement Greg Clark is sound. A good chap. No bad habits.” Sporty Girl stares at the ceiling. “My brother Theo was at Cambridge with Greg,” smirks Charlie. “Shared the same staircase at Magdalene, actually.” Posh Girl stifles a yawn. Geek Boy flips open his laptop.

“Greg’s the son of a Middlesbrough milkman. Went to a comp, but has turned out a gent, all the same,” says Theo. “Unlike you Charlie,” mutters Young Thruster. “And we care because?” I ask.

Charlie splutters. “Er…well… take that planning appeal called in by Gove. That industrial estate in Tunbridge Wells GBH has been working on forever. I’m sure Theo could make discreet inquiries to see if Clark might rule in our favour.”

Unbelievable. Even I know Clark is the local MP. Our Charlie, the Boris of property. That’s it: “Can we please get back on track. Some of you are not updating your client contact details on CMS. Why not?”

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