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her producers, it suited Naomi’s purposes admirably; if there was previously anybody in television who didn’t regard her with fear and awe, there wasn’t now. As for the public, she fobbed them off with a heartrending interview in Hello! in which she accused the media of fabricating the entire story, possibly for anti-Semitic purposes.
    Today’s Naomi! line-up included the story of the homophobic caterer who gave all the guests at a gay ‘wedding’ salmonella by deliberately serving them off sushi; some D-list Hollywood starlet who was coming on to promote her controversial new range of padded clothing designed to make anorexics look curvy; and a woman, now on probation, who had been invited on to the show to tell the moving story of how, on Christmas Eve, she had bludgeoned her bully of a husband to death with a frozen turkey and then, with the help of her nine children, all of whom had learning difficulties, ate the evidence the following day.
    Naomi finished going through the list. For once, the traditional abuse failed to erupt from her mouth and her frown disappeared. She looked up and gazed into the distance. The expression on her face flirted with becoming one of satisfaction, as she pictured the close-up of her holding the husband-killer’s hands and urging her, with tears in her eyes and almost saint-like concern in her voice, to reveal every grizzly, blood-squirting moment of her tale. She would then turn to the nine children and bestow a beatific caress on each of their cretinous little heads.
    Plum, registering his boss’s rare approval, felt his pulse begin to slow down.
    â€˜OK. That doesn’t look too bad,’ Naomi declared, suddenly coming back to earth, ‘the only thing you haven’t mentioned is what’s happening with the Armitage Shanks woman.’
    Plum, feeling his heart rate beginning to gallop again, ran a hand over his bleached crop. He knew he must at all costs avoid doing what he inevitably did as Naomi’s mercury level threatened to rise past critical - lapse in his nervousness into broad Lancashire. This happened at least once a week, and every time, without fail, Naomi would scythe him down with an exaggerated hand behind the ear and the same withering joke: ‘No, no, sorry, Plum, darling,’ she would cut across him when he was halfway through briefing her, ‘all I’m getting is some strange noise. You’ll have to run that lot past me in English this time.’
    Plum’s cheeks turned crimson. Finally he took a deep breath and started to speak in an overstated attempt at Home Counties English. ‘The Armitage Shanks woman will be here at half past two,’ he said in the slow, studiedly baritone voice, his vowels ridiculously rounded. ‘And she’s agreed to cry if we promise her four tickets for Les Mis . Said Michael Winner doesn’t do a lot for her really.’
    â€˜Brilliant, fucking, fucking brilliant.’ Naomi was actually brimming over with excitement. ‘Well done, Plum. What I think we need to do now is find some suitable musical accompaniment for the stupid cow as she comes on. Instead of going for lunch, see if you can dig out a recording from somewhere of “Your Baby has Gorn Down the Plughole”.’
    â€˜Right chew are, then, Nay-ohmi,’ Plum said cheerily. Despite his accent and his uncontrollable nerves, he harboured ambitions to become a Blue Peter presenter and had no intention of jeopardising his career by challenging Naomi’s capricious demands, or indeed her grotesque choice of music.
    â€˜OK, now I need food,’ Naomi declared, bashing the top of her desk with an outstretched hand. Her joy at having snared the Armitage Shanks woman had caused all thoughts of fasting to vanish.
    â€˜Plum, be a love and go upstairs to the canteen and get me a green salad, no dressing, and some lean ham. And don’t forget to take the scales. I must have