"I'm reading Barack Obama's autobiography at the moment," proclaims Mrs Nunn. She pronounces Obama to rhyme with Go-slam-a. That isn't a real word by the way. Other words Mrs Nunn mispronounces include (but are not limited to) "buffet" (boofay) and "chihuahua" (shi-wow-wow).
"Anyway," says Mrs Nunn, after I have finished teasing her about her inability to pronounce possibly the most famous man in the world's surname, "his biography is really good, and I definitely fancy him."
"Sorry?" I say.
"Barack Obama" (Go-slam-a) she says. "I definitely would."
"OK Mum," say I, not even a little taken aback. For I am used to the weird and wonderful way of Mrs Nunn. "You're telling me that you would have sex with Barack Obama?" (Oh-balm-er).
"Yes," she says. "I bet his fantasy is a middle-aged white woman from the Midlands who runs a church orchestra and has her own mini apple orchard. And you know what they say, don't you?"
"No," I said, "I really, really don't."
"Once you've had white, there's no going back."
Ladies and gentlemen, I bring you Mrs Nunn.
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