Melania, you finally had to move to the White House – but there is still one escape route

She should walk about in flip flops with chipped toenail polish and a verucca. If she plays her cards right, she could be back in Manhattan by August

Melania Trump has finally moved into The White House. “Looking forward to the memories we’ll make in our new home!” was her statement via Twitter, accompanied with a photo of a pretty view of Washington DC landmarks.

Whether the Flotus writes and schedules her own diplomatically hewn Tweets is unclear; however, the public relations position on Melania’s extraction from Trump Towers is that she’s ecstatic. After seven months living 200 miles away from her husband she’s stoked, apparently, to be back at his side.

I’m not sure I buy this. The utterly gorgeous 47-year-old has spent around half a year enjoying a $100m lavish penthouse, pleasing herself when she comes and goes, answering to no-one, out of pawing distance of her honking, orange, 71-year-old adult-baby husband. And now her job as Flotus must really begin.

I’ve always had mixed emotions, possibly like many women, of sympathy alongside disgust towards Melania. President Trump once told Howard Stern – both a terrific set of lads – that one his wife’s great traits was that he had never, in all their relationship, had evidence she used the bathroom.

No smells, no sounds, no awkward “perhaps give that a moment” pleas from the slinky Slovenian. You don’t bust your way out of Novo Mesto to spend your days choosing couture in Mar-a-Lago by defecating willy nilly into any available loo like a commonplace woman.

Melania, I felt, was clearly earning every penny of her inevitable divorce payout via offering a sort of deluxe male fantasy pleasurebot service.

I wondered what else she painstakingly didn’t do to maintain her pedestal. Did she hide in a bunker for 3-4 days per month lest Donald was offended by menstrual seepage? Did he ever walk in on her while she bleached her moustache or removed ingrown hairs from her knees? Did Melania ever allow herself to break wind, smell a tad sweaty by 7pm or have silver regrowth in her hair? Was she allowed to be a woman at all?

I’ll never know any of this, but I’ll wager that living 204 miles away from her husband, the self-appointed Poo Police, probably felt rather liberating.

I have a grudging respect that she hid for so long. Criticism of her choice to stay in Trump Tower, reportedly in order for their son Barron to finish his schooling, has been unyielding, and not wholly for the reasons it seemed.

Because, yes keeping the First Family safe in Trump Tower was indeed heavily expensive. And, yes, even if Melania lived like a bird in a gilded cage, rarely leaving the penthouse, residents complained of looky-loos and rubber-neckers causing constant traffic jams around Trump Tower.

But more than this, there was a great deal of pressure on Melania Trump to do her duty from all sides of the political spectrum. Republicans and conservative sorts across the globe felt Melania should be fluffing the cushions on the seat of power, as did all First Ladies before her. That’s just how America does things.

Meanwhile, Democrats and lefties, fuelled by Schadenfreude, wanted Melania out of Trump Tower too. Get that woman’s diary full of White House cook-outs, turkey reprieves, charity functions and endless hand-shaking. You wanted the job, babes? It’s yours now. Mazel Tov!

But all of this is fine, because remember the tweet? She is so looking forward to making memories! Even if during the recent Trump visit to Israel, the First Lady’s disgruntlement was poorly concealed. In fact, not since Princess Diana visited India with Prince Charles in 1992, shortly prior to their split, has one woman looked less happy to play ball as fragrant sidekick and side-head tilter over men's self-important small talk.

The dynamic between Donald and Melania Trump is set to become rather engrossing. Melania is not the first stunning, anatomically-wondrous goddess to find herself curiously smitten with an odious billionaire thirty years her senior. London is full of examples of such true love.

Leggy, sharp-elbowed, ex-models litter Chelsea’s restaurants with their Toad of Toad Hall partners. It’s a story as old as time. Feminism, in all its modern self-reflective giddiness, has still never quite addressed why so many of our sisters are more than happy to lie back and think of England, the Net-a-Porter handbag pages and a nice long break in the Seychelles.

And now Melania Trump, prized from her New York penthouse, must play the role, under global scrutiny, of the best, most adoring, most supportive, sincerely and unconditionally loving wife ever. Some critics have said she is the President’s strongest hope of appearing stable and trustworthy. Married people are like that you see. Married people have everything sorted.

The very first thing she should do is change her husband’s Twitter password. Then go to the loo with the door open, eat takeaway chow mein in bed, and let her legs get nice and stubbly. Walk about in flipflops with chipped toe-polish and a verucca. If she played her cards right she could be back in Manhattan by August.