And then he woke up in his great big bed, not naked but in thick woolen pajamas. It had all been a dream. He had not given Andrea Merkel a wedgie in the Bauhaus or smoked a joint with Barack Obama on the White House lawn as Secret Service Agents stood lookout for Sasha and Malia. He had not done shots with Putin or bet a nuclear warhead on high card or gone on television to confess his secret fear of being swallowed up by a prematurely flushing commode. But the butler delivering tea to his bedside was real. And so was Downing Street. And so were the responsibilities facing the nation. He was David Cameron, dammit, and he was in charge.
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