Bit of a crack fic. Just two crazy scenes that sprang into my mind. How would it be if there was something of a crisis of certain Penelope Wilton characters?

It was a pleasant morning. Matthew thought that Crawley House looked particularly pleasant at breakfast time, the morning colours suited it, and he sat contentedly at the breakfast table reading his newspaper. The only thing out of the ordinary was that his mother was not down before him; she usually rose early to eat something and then head over to the hospital for a few hours before lunch. He was not worried, though, he could hear her walking about overhead- he presumed that she had overslept- and presently he could hear the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

The door of the dining room opened.

"Good morning, mother," he said without looking up from the paper, taking a drink of tea, "Did you oversleep? Well, never mind, I'm sure Dr. Clarkson will forgive you this once."

For some reason, his mother was quite quiet, and hadn't taken her seat; he could see her out of the corner of his eye still standing there.

"Mother, are you quite alr-..." he broke away, taken aback by her appearance.

It was his mother, he was almost certain of it, but he probably wouldn't have recognised her if he had passed her on the street. Her hair was different; she didn't have it tied back, but that wasn't all: the front was much shorter than the rest, lying straight down over her forehead. She was dressed differently too, quite like a man- she was wearing trousers! He wondered if she'd been talking to Sybil again. For herself, his mother was still standing there, looking highly confused.

"Young man," she spoke in quite a soft voice, not quite timid but definitely unsure, "Who are you? Why do you keep calling me Mother? I don't have any children."

"Wha-? Now, Mother," he spoke quite firmly, rather astounded that such words should ever pass his mother's lips, "Sybil may have been putting odd ideas into your head, but I don't think there's any need for-..."

"Who's Sybil?" she asked, apparently in earnest, as she sank slowly into the seat opposite him, perching anxiously on the end of the chair,"Can you tell me where I am? What am I doing here?"

"Mother, you live here, we're at home" he told her gently, "And you know who Sybil is, she's our cousin. You like her, don't you?" he spoke slowly, as if addressing a child- he didn't know what else to do.

"There's a man upstairs," she told him, "He was dressed in some kind of suit, even in the morning. I saw him in the hall as I got out of bed. And do you know what he asked me? He asked me- very politely, mind you- why I was wearing trousers!" she laughed, as if quite enchanted by such a question, "I mean, can you imagine? What a thing to ask!"

Matthew was very, very puzzled by now.

"That would be Molesley," he concluded, at least able to settle on the identity of the man, "But, I rather wondered myself, Mother. Why are you wearing trousers?"

She looked rather taken aback; as if he was quite mad.

"Well, would you prefer it that I didn't?" she asked, "Clothing has been known to protect the modesty, young man."

"Yes, I do realise that," he replied, feeling himself colouring furiously to here his own mother making such unexpected allusions, "I merely meant that-... Would you like to see the doctor?" he asked, an idea suddenly occurring to him.

She almost went pale.

"The Doctor?" she repeated, "Yes," she said, realisation dawning in her face, "That's why I'm here. I might have known that he's have something to do with this! I should have guessed!"

"I don't think he's got anything to do with anything, Mother," he told her wearily, "But if you're feeling strange, I certainly think you should see Dr. Clarkson as soon as possible."

"You didn't say Dr. Clarkson before," she told him, rather sharply, "You said The Doctor."

"Yes, Dr. Clarkson-..."

"I don't want to see Dr. Clarkson!" she repeated, standing up and pacing back and forth quite distractedly, "He's no good!"

"But, mother, you like Dr. Clarkson."

Usually it was all he could do to keep them away from each other. But still it was no good.

"I need to get back," she told him, looking highly distressed, "I'll be missed, there'll be a search, they can't manage without me."

"Who can't?"

"Why, the country of course. Young man, don't you know who I am?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," he remarked wryly, not taking her question seriously.

Searching for a second in her pocket, she withdrew an odd little pocketbook with a picture in it and held it up.

"Harriet Jones, Prime Minister."

…Isobel

"Ma'am, ma'am, wake up."

Isobel groaned. Light was flooding in through the window.

"You've overslept, but it's alright, I've managed to hold the Chancellor for an hour so you can get ready."

She sat up, propping herself up on her hand, and shielding her face from the light. She was rather concerned by the fact that Molesley was apparently impersonating a woman's voice, and rather convincingly.

"The chancellor? What?" she leapt out of bed, "What on earth is Mr Lloyd George doing in my house?"

The young woman at the window blinked in confusion.

"Ma'am, Mr Lloyd George hasn't been the chancellor for a very long time. Has-..." the girl eyed her curiously, "Ma'am has your hair grown overnight?"

"No, my hair's exactly as it was yesterday. And according to the paper yesterday, at any rate, Mr Lloyd George is certainly the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Lord Asquith is the Prime Minister."

The girl certainly looked taken aback.

"No, ma'am," she said slowly, "The Prime Minister is you."

Isobel was stunned.

"What do you mean, the Prime Minister is me?" This really was adding insult to injury! "I can't hold a seat in Parliament; I don't even have a vote!" A thought suddenly occurred to her, "Are you a hoax from the conservatives trying to disrupt the party by telling a woman she's Prime Minister? Or is this another idea of Mrs Pankhurst's, and if so why didn't she tell me about it first?"

"Ma'am, sit down, won't you?" the girl quickly drew out a chair from behind the desk, "I'll fetch the doctor."

"Oh, yes, send for Richard," this was some considerable relief to Isobel, "He knows who I am!"

"So do I, Prime Minister. Stay here, I'll telephone."

"Oh, do we have a telephone now?"

"Downing Street has had telephones since 1914, ma'am."

Isobel very much wanted to cry.

"But it's only 1912," she muttered to herself, sinking into the chair, feeling quite helpless.

End.

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