I nodded as I made her morning cappuccino, packed Pete's lunch, emptied the dishwasher, and wiped the crumbs from the kitchen floor, while making sympathetic noises to show I understood how tough and tedious her life is.
Her last trip - not the one to see the Pope, the one before - was apparently not very enjoyable. Partly because she tried to walk up to the front door and was stopped by over-zealous and rude (her words) secret service personnel, but also because as a foreign national she had to be escorted everywhere, including the toilet. The Yanks, it seems, are still sore about when we burned the place down in 1812, although that was actually the Canadians.
Thankfully this trip was a lot better, with the organisers of the event (a meeting about education, I'm told) realising that most people just wanted to have photos to prove they'd been to the President's house. Hannah was also not the only foreigner - there was an Aussie too, who she had to co-ordinate joint toilet trips with, which was still annoying as we all know how bad Australians are at holding their drink.
She even came home with a box of chocolates signed by Mr Obama himself! I listened to her recounting her underwhelming day as I poured her a glass of wine, cooked dinner, got Pete ready for bed, massaged her feet...
Where does power reside?
Thank you, Mr President.
But while she was there I did cook this pretty impressive loaf of bread, so, you know...
