rixareth: ‘Please,’ Rees-Mogg says. ‘Have a sandwich.’ You hesitate. 'I’m not hungry.’ 'Please
rixareth: ‘Please,’ Rees-Mogg says. ‘Have a sandwich.’ You hesitate. 'I’m not hungry.’ 'Please have a sandwich,’ Rees-Mogg says. It isn’t mere politeness; there’s something desperate in his voice. 'I cannot eat all these sandwiches by myself.’ The room is full of people. 'I’m sure there’s someone else who can—’ 'Have a sandwich,’ Rees-Mogg says. He slips off his chair, gets onto his knees in front of you. You take a step back in alarm. 'I’ve asked. There’s nobody else.’ 'All right,’ you say, unsettled. 'Thank you.’ You reach for a sandwich. He stops you with a hand on your arm. 'I’m delighted you’d like a sandwich,’ he says. His eyes bore into yours. 'You are entitled to a sandwich if you can prove that your family has been resident in the UK for the last ten generations.’ You jerk your arm out of his grasp. 'I can’t do that.’ Rees-Mogg starts to cry. He slumps back into the chair and begins to eat the sandwiches. There are so many sandwiches, and he eats all of them, crying. 'Nobody can help me,’ he whispers through a mouthful of ham. -- source link