Monday

I am in the bathroom. My wife is banging on the door. “Jack?” she says. “Are you okay? What are you doing in there?”

“Just a minute!” I call, and I very slowly straighten my lacey cravat. I am a modest man but some things are undeniable. I look magnificent. I should be on a £5 note.

Tomorrow is the Queen’s Speech. I am trying on my costume. Again. Look at me. This is dignity. This is gravitas. This is how a man should look.

“Jack?” calls my wife. “I’m going to be late. Have you seen my tights?”

I ignore her. I have to get this right. The Queen will be there. She has jewels. I do not. I will not be outshone.

Tuesday

Just before the Queen’s Speech, I attend a hurried meeting of trusted lieutenants in Gordon’s office in the Commons. Cabinet ministers flutter around me, cooing like bridesmaids. I fancy I may be pouting slightly. Gordon is at his desk. He might be pouting, too. But then, he always is.

“I mean . . . wow!” says David Miliband. “You look . . . amazing.”

I wink at him, like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. He’s not wrong. I really do look amazing. They have to put me on fivers.

“Where’s the wig?” says Gordon. I explain. Only Lords wear wigs. “But you’re Lord Chancellor,” says Ed Balls. “But not a Lord,” I explain.

“Just a Chancellor,” says Des Browne.

“Just?” says Alastair Darling. “Not yet,” says Gordon.

Wednesday

These shoes don’t just have buckles. They also have heels. They make me swing my hips slightly, like Marilyn Monroe. I’m just sashaying into the office when David Miliband calls.

“Seriously,” he says. “You looked really good. I mean, wow. Really, really good.”

I am not sure where this is going. “I want one,” he says, eventually. “A costume. Although I’d want mine to have a wig, too.”

I adopt a regal tone. “Only I get a costume,” I tell him, haughtily. “For I am the Lord Chancellor. And no wig, certainly. Only Lords get wigs.”

“Rubbish! What about Des Browne?” “Des doesn’t wear a wig,” I say. “Doesn’t he?” David shoots back.

Thursday

“I don’t think Des Browne does wear a wig,” says my wife, reaching over to turn off the bedside light. “I think it’s just really big hair.”

I think so, too. “Nobody else deserves a costume,” I add. “Only the Lord Chancellor has the gravitas.”

“Yes, dear,” sighs my wife. “I’m surprised they don’t put me on fivers,” I continue. “Looking as dignified as I do. Whoever would have thought I could be so comfortable in tights?”

My wife rises up on her elbow. “You have taken them off?”

“Of course!” I say. I squirm away slightly, towards my side of the bed.

Friday

Another crisis meeting in Gordon’s office. Tempers are frayed.

“I’m Lord Chancellor,” I remind Alastair Darling. “You’re just a chancellor. So do as you are told. Put me on fivers.”

“No,” says Darling. “Anyway, why are you still wearing all that? You look absurd.”

I stamp my buckled foot. “Is it because I won’t wear the wig?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says Darling. “I wouldn’t put Des on fivers either.”

“It’s not a wig,” says Des.

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