‘I had regularly started jogging out of Downing Street. On each run I happened to jog past a hooker standing on the same street corner, day after day.
With some apprehension I would brace myself as I approached her for what was most certainly to follow.
"Fifty quid!" she would shout from the kerb. "No way, 50p!" I fired back.
This ritual between myself and the hooker continued for days.
I'd run by and she'd yell, "Fifty quid!" And I'd yell back "50p!"
One day however Cherie decided that she wanted to accompany me on my jog. As we jogged nearer the problematic street corner, I realised the "pro" would bark her £50 offer and Cherie would wonder what I'd really been doing on all my past outings.
I realised I’d need to have a damn good explanation for my illustrious lawyer wife. As we jogged into the turn that would take them past the corner, I became even more apprehensive than usual.
Sure enough, there was the hooker. I tried to avoid the prostitute's eyes as she watched the pair of us jog past.
Then, from the pavement, the hooker yelled,
"See what you get for 50p?"
