“STOP!” he shouts in a firm voice. “Have you got a license for that thing?'
Mrs M fishes around in her handbag, pulls out a Kit Kat wrapper, and flourishes it in front of his face. Ken scrutinises the proffered paperwork, pronounces it proper and waves her on her way. Angela speeds off down the hallway. As she precariously takes the corner near the TV lounge on one wheel, Martin – wild man – Schultz pops out out in front of her. “Halt!” he yells, “You haff proof of insurance?”
Angela digs into her handbag, pulls out a drinks coaster, and holds it up for him to examine. Sergeant Schulz considers it for a moment before nodding and says “Very goot; carry on, Madam Chancellor.”
As Merkel nears the final corner before the front door and freedom, a door opens and Bonkers Blair leaps into view, his bathrobe open and sporting, despite his advancing years, a passable imitation of an erection. Angela stops, eyes up the appendage on display, sighs and cries, “Oh, goot grief, nein. Not ze breathalyser again!'