The room fell silent as the doors opened and the President of the World strode in. He walked over to the podium accompanied by the flashes and clicks of the cameras of the press corps. Spotlights shone brightly, and he tried to resist squinting as he faced the assembled audience.
“Ladies and gentleman,” he said. “The situation is grave. This morning our space radar picked up a large fleet of alien flying saucers approaching the planet. We believe they intend to attack.”
The floor erupted with questions. The President pointed to the correspondent from the Chronicle.
“Where will they hit first, Mr. President?”
“Our tracking shows they are heading for Russia, America, and a village called Little Pickling in East Rothshire,” he replied.
Now the reporter from the Echo had a question. “How will we fight back, Mr. President?”
“Unfortunately,” he sighed, “the Air Force’s most advanced super jet, the X7000, cannot defend us, because I left it at Jamie’s house yesterday. Instead, catapults from the pirate army and Mr. Ruffles will be our advance guard. The paper astronauts and Wooden Man will take cover behind Growing Bananas Without Going Bananas, 2nd Edition as our last line of defence.”
Suddenly the door to the conference room opened and the Mother of the President of the World popped her head round. Again the press corps went wild, shouting for a quote.
“Harry,” she said. “It’s time for dinner.”
“Ok Ma,” said the President. He turned to address the crowd. “Our defences will be set up after dinner, which is a broad bean risotto.”
The representative from Asia-Pacific Weekly held up a hand. “What if the aliens attack sooner?”
“For all our sakes,” said the President darkly, “let us hope that they do not.”