Lindsay straightened up and pulled a face. “I know. I just don’t like that whole thing of handing over control. You could tell me to do anything you wanted.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times, you don’t lose control. Your subconscious is in charge, not me. I can’t get you to do anything that goes against your basic personality or principles. If you’d let me practice on you when I was training, it would be second nature by now.”

“Oh, all right,” Lindsay said grudgingly. “Only don’t blame me if it doesn’t work.”

Sophie smiled. “I won’t.”

“And don’t tell anyone, okay?” Lindsay scowled.

Sophie struggled to straighten her face. “Your reputation is safe with me. You won’t regret it, I promise you.”

Lindsay looked doubtful. “Huh,” she said. “But if I catch myself doing your ironing, there’ll be trouble, I’m warning you.”

Chapter 8

8

“Head Office staff are present to ensure that SOS has the clerical and administrative back-up it needs to keep the wheels of conference turning. The staff are not there to meet your every need and solve your problems. This is not the time to ask for one of those yellow forms to apply for a Press card—if the staff don’t cave your head in, rest assured that the nearest member of SOS will.”

from “Advice for New Delegates”, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet.

As they walked towards the conference office, Lindsay finished reading the Chronicle’s latest contribution to the troubles of the Amalgamated Media Workers’ Union. She let out a soft whistle and said, “Hey, Sophie. Listen to this.

Handy Andy’s commitment to change in the union is pointed up by the close eye he was keeping on Union Jack and his yes-men cronies throughout the conference. As well as being overheard taking Union Jack to task about the amount of AMWU’s limited cash flow the big man was putting across the bar in the course of his ‘legitimate’ conference expenses (in other words, buying drinks for everyone he could hope for support or favours from), the deputy GS somehow managed to be one of the first on the scene after Lindsay Gordon discovered her late general secretary had bequeathed her Yorkshire’s answer to air conditioning—‘Open t’ bloody window’.

One imagines the police are inquiring just what Handy Andy was doing at three in the morning on the tenth floor of a building that’s a good 200 yards away from the bedroom where he should have been catching up on his beauty sleep. Perhaps they should remember that sometimes the alibi looks like provoking more trouble than the offence, especially now they don’t string ’em up any more.

“Bloody hell! Someone’s really got their knife into Andy.”