This morning, George W. Bush is sick. I am sick of all these meaningful looks.

“Vladimir!” cries Blair, spotting my entourage from across the complex. He comes hurrying over.

“It wasn’t me,” I tell him. “I didn’t do anything. I am the President of the proud and glorious nation of Mother Russia, and I resent your patronising tone of insinuation! And anyway, he’s from Texas. He won’t even eat sushi.”

“Eh?” says Blair. “I just wanted to say that your sole is flapping. Do you want to borrow some shoes?”

“Oh,” I say, and I look around to see if anybody is watching. “Yes please.”