The Bowler Hat Brigade

The following account is an excerpt from my Diaries, in which I assiduously chronicle the daily events of my working life, which I have expanded upon here, for the benefit and the elucidation of the reader.

I keep my Diaries, for the sole purpose of writing my memoirs of my Political Career, as a Civil Servant in Her Majesty’s Government, for me to peruse and to ponder upon, from time to time, and for me to look back on, with fond nostalgia.

Not so much, because of a fear of contravening the Official Secrets Act, which I have of course signed up to, but rather, because I am of the decided opinion, that few will want to read my memoirs, and that fewer still, (and, rather more to the point), will wish to pay for them.

And, today, I had also reached another significant Landmark, besides my 40^th birthday, and what was, to me, an important and noteworthy milestone, in the course of my Political Career, and of my chosen vocation, as a Civil Servant in Her Majesty’s Government.

Today, after joining Her Majesty’s Civil Service at just 15 years of age, and straight from my Secondary School, I had now been a Civil Servant, and a member of The Bowler Hat Brigade, for exactly 25 years.

Which was exactly half way, through the British Government’s ’50 year Career Service Time Frame’, of my Political Career, and chosen vocation, as a Civil Servant, and, as a member, of The Bowler Hat Brigade.

And today, on Monday – 1^st – March – 2010, after having served my first 25 years as a Civil Servant in Her Majesty’s Government, I would begin my second 25 years, of selfless and dedicated service, to The Crown, and to the British Government, and to the British people, until my retirement became due, at age 65.

Though, I had heard some disturbing rumours, of late, that, because of the impending Public Sector Spending restraints, occasioned by the ever burgeoning Public Budget Deficit, the Public Purse strings were going to have to be tightened, somewhat, and the age of retirement for Civil Servants, such as myself, was, unfortunately, if there was any truth to those disturbing and distressing rumours, going to have to be raised, and, I might have to continue working until I was 70, or even 75, before I would qualify for my Pension.

Not, I hasten now to add, that either the fact of today being my birthday, or the fact of my now having reached that impressive and significant Civil Service Career milestone, was at all likely to engender any interest or sentiments of congratulation, of any note, let alone, occasion any forms of celebration or ceremony, even of the most modest and understated, in nature, among my colleagues, and still less, among my Superiors, at the Office.

At 7 am, I stood in the narrow hallway of my cramped and decidedly modest bachelor’s flat, which, sadly for me, was located in a decidedly seedy and distinctly insalubrious neighbourhood of East London.

The Estate Agents, though, looking through their rose tinted glasses, might have euphemistically described my flat, to a prospective buyer, as ‘cosy’, and would no doubt have further enthused, that my flat was ‘handy’, for the local Pubs, and for the Indian and the Chinese Take – Away outlets, and, would no doubt have further still, shamelessly heaped praise upon my cramped, and decidedly modest bachelor’s flat, for it’s being so ‘convenient’, for the Bus Stop and for the Underground Station, which were all in very close, raucous, and smelly, and noisy, respectively, proximity, but that, sadly for me, my humble abode, was the best that I could afford on my meagre salary, which was the very lowest of all of the Remuneration Packages, of the British Government’s Civil Servants Pay Grades.

Now, I faced the irksome problem, that (with the sole exception of my very first Monday morning, when I began my Political Career), I had faced every working Monday morning, for the past 25 years, and, I struggled to force shut the lid of my black, Civil Servant’s briefcase, that was somewhat larger than a standard, conventional size briefcase, and was of the type issued by the British Government to Civil Servants, such as myself, who were the members, of The Bowler Hat Brigade.

This was a problem that I always faced on Monday mornings, much more so, than through the rest of the week, due to the high volume of my weekend workload, which were the weekend assignments that I was invariably allocated, by my Superiors at the Office.

This was important work, that I must on no account fail to perform and complete, to the full satisfaction of my Superiors, and, which took up such a large proportion of my ‘free’ weekend time, as to leave very little of it left over for myself, to indulge in any such personal hobbies or interests that I might have, and, I most certainly did not have the surplus time, to enjoy what we might commonly describe as, a ‘Social Life’.

Such, were the oppressive and repressive, stringent and restrictive Terms and Conditions, of my Political Career, and chosen vocation, as a Civil Servant in Her Majesty’s Government, and, as a member, of The Bowler Hat Brigade.

When I had finally managed to force shut the lid of my black, Civil Servant’s briefcase, I assiduously checked the correctness of my appearance, in the full length, hallway mirror, preparatory to leaving my cramped, and decidedly modest, East London bachelor’s flat, for the Office.

Then, after I had painstakingly checked, the required correctness of my appearance, in my full length, hallway mirror, after I had checked, that my highly polished black shoes, absolutely gleamed, and checked, that my black trouser legs, had a razor sharp crease, to them, and checked, that my starched white shirt, was perfectly pressed and spotless, and checked, that my black suit jacket, was immaculate, and totally free of any errant creases, and checked, and made the most minute of corrective adjustments, to the knot, and to the straightness of my black tie, then, and only then, did I proudly don, what was, the piece de resistance, and, quite literally, the crowning glory, of my monochromatic sartorial ensemble, the proud emblem of my status, which was my Government Issue, black Bowler Hat.

Then, when I was quite satisfied, that my appearance correctly projected, to the Public at Large, the Bowler Hatted persona, of the Public’s perception of one of Her Majesty’s Government’s Civil Servants, I finally let myself out of the front door of my cramped, and decidedly modest, East London bachelor’s flat, and, I walked the short distance to the Bus Stop, which was the same Bus Stop that I had used, for the past 25 years.

About 30 minutes later, the red ‘double decker’ bus deposited me at the very same Bus Stop, from where, come hail, rain or shine, I had taken the same 15 minute walk to the Government Offices in Whitehall, for the past 25 years.

Once on the pavement, I made the long and measured strides born of 25 years of practise, and of such a prodigious pace, so as to ensure that I would not be late for my 8 – 5 Office job, and, to any onlookers, I seemingly glided along the pavement, my steel tipped black brolly ringing a metallic note upon the concrete, and seemingly propelling me along, like some unsuitably attired skier, and I moved smartly and brusquely along, in a businesslike, intent and purposeful looking, and urgent, ‘on a mission’ sort of gait, and, in the way that is peculiar to, and commonly associated with, The Bowler Hat Brigade.

As I neared the Whitehall Offices at which I worked, my path began to converge with that of some of my Office colleagues, some of whom, had served as Civil Servants for as long as, or even longer, than my own 25 years of Civil Service.

Here, were 4 of the older, and rather more sober and unforthcoming of my Bowler Hatted Office colleagues, whose black, Civil Servant’s briefcases, I noticed, with bleak satisfaction, were bulging, and straining to contain their workloads, which were the results of their weekend assignments, and the allocations of their Superiors, just as mine was.

My 4 older, and rather more sober and unforthcoming of my Bowler Hatted Office colleagues, strutted along, as though they owned the pavement they walked on, like arrogant and self important penguins, puffed up, with pompous pride, and with their over inflated notions of their own value.

This small gesture was the extent of our decidedly reserved Monday morning greeting, and, no words were exchanged between us, as we entered the Whitehall Office building where we worked, and headed straight for the lift.

Now, my Monday morning mood brightened, slightly, when I saw that, already waiting at the lift, were 3 of my younger, and rather more talkative and more sociable Office colleagues, and, they were the closest thing I had, to what we might commonly describe, as ‘friends’.

By way of a friendly greeting, and what passed for a token of congratulation, I received a resounding slap on the back, from one of my younger, and rather more talkative and more sociable Office colleagues, Nigel Spottiswood. “David! If I’m not tragically mistaken, you’ve got your first 25 years of Civil Service under your belt now, haven’t you, birthday boy?” “Yes, that’s right, Spotty,” I replied. Then I added, with a weak and decidedly unenthusiastic grin, which was a rather pitiful attempt at bravado, “only another 25 years to go then, Spotty!”

Then, as all 8 of us stepped into the lift, one of my older, and rather more sober and unforthcoming of my Office colleagues, Alexander Caruthers, who had served in his capacity as a Civil Servant, and as a member of The Bowler Hat Brigade, for 48 years, now, remarked to me, in what to him, passed for outrageous banter, “Good Lord, David! You are not still having ‘birthdays’, at YOUR age, are you?”

Then, he added, and reverting back to type, after his brief outburst of what for him, was unbridled bonhomie, “Anyway, David, let’s see if you’ve still got a smile on your face, even if it IS a sickly one, when you have served as a Civil Servant here in Whitehall, and when you have put in as much time here, as I have!”

When the lift juddered to a stop at the 16^th Floor (which was identical to all of the other 19 Floors of the 20 Floor Whitehall Office Establishment), all 8 of us exited it, and we were greeted, by the familiar sight of the Government posters on the walls, exhorting us to ‘REPORT BULLYING AT WORK!’

We were also greeted, by the even more familiar sight, of our workplace, which was a vast, ‘open plan’ Office, or, as it was known to us Civil Servants, and members of The Bowler Hat Brigade, ‘The Secretariat’.

This vast, ‘open plan’ Office, or Secretariat, which was just one of many such Government Establishments situated around Whitehall and Westminster, was comprised of 8 Sections, of Parliamentary Secretaries Desks, numbered from 1 to 8.

After hanging up the proud emblems of our status (our Bowler Hats), my 7 Civil Servant Office colleagues and I proceeded to report for duty, at the relevant Section of Parliamentary Secretaries Desks, to which we were assigned (in my case, Section 5), and, that were the Work Stations at which we served in our vocational capacities, as Her Majesty’s Government’s Civil Servants, and, as members, of The Bowler Hat Brigade.

The Parliamentary Secretaries, who worked in this 16^th Floor Whitehall Secretariat, all 160 of them, just like all of their Office colleagues, who worked on the other 19 Floors of this Whitehall Government Office Establishment, and in many other such Establishments, that were situated around Whitehall and Westminster, were the Superiors of the Civil Servants, such as myself, who were the members, of The Bowler Hat Brigade.

Those of the Parliamentary Secretaries, who had longer than shoulder length hair, wore it neatly, on top of their heads, in an elegant chignon, or in other, fashionable and attractive styles, or in pony tails, according to the sometimes capricious whims, and spur of the moment fancies of their own tastes.

Their ages ranged, from the mere slips of girls of just 18 years old, and who were just starting out on their working lives, many of whom would move on to other jobs, that were perhaps better paid, or that simply suited them better, and who would be immediately replaced by new Parliamentary Secretaries, while others would stay, finding the work very much to their liking, and whose jobs would become their Political Career, and their chosen vocation, right through to the older Parliamentary Secretaries, aged 59, and who were now in the final year of their Political Career, and who, untouched by the impending savage Public Sector Spending cuts, would soon retire from their jobs, to receive their very generous State Pension, plus a very handsome cash Bonus Payment, as a special Government ‘Thank you’, and ‘Golden Goodbye’, upon their reaching age 60.

Miss Suzanne Forsythe, although she had worked as a Parliamentary Secretary in the same Whitehall Secretariat in which I myself, served, for less than 3 months, had settled in extremely well, and very quickly, I thought, and, she had a natural air of authority about her, that ‘her kind’, I thought, seem to wear about them like an aura, and, hers was a sense of authority, that took some of the other Parliamentary Secretaries, sometimes several years, to fully acquire, and to begin to exercise and implement, with anything like the full power at their command over the Civil Servants, such as myself, who were their underlings.

After several moments, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the Parliamentary Secretary at Section Desk Number 2, finally looked away from her computer screen, and she turned her full attention, and her haughty and supercilious gaze, fully and penetratingly upon me, as she addressed me.

Carefully, I placed my black, Civil Servant’s briefcase on my Superior’s Desk, and then, I felt the usual ‘butterflies in the stomach’ moment of anxiety, just before I pressed the 2 catches that released the straining lid.

When the briefcase lid sprang open, like some kind of 3^rd rate ‘Jack in the Box’, the Parliamentary Secretary, upon seeing what she was looking for, among all of my other completed weekend assignments, reached inside, and she removed the completed weekend assignment, that she had set for me.

I waited anxiously, and I worried, and was fretful, that my Superior might find some kind of fault, as she held my completed weekend assignment in front of her, and as she minutely studied the results, of my diligent and dedicated efforts, with very great care, and with very close and critical, and analytical scrutiny.

I used fabric conditioner, AND softener, Ma’am, just as you ordered, when I hand washed your jogging socks for you, Ma’am,” I assured my Superior, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the 18 year old Parliamentary Secretary, at Desk Number 2, Section 5.

Apparently satisfied, (albeit grudgingly, I couldn’t help but feel), with the results of the completed weekend assignment that she had allocated to me, my Superior, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the Parliamentary Secretary at Desk Number 2, said to me, sharply, “Very well, Unnworthy! Now, get about your work! Go and deliver the results of all of your other completed weekend assignments, to the Parliamentary Secretaries who allocated them to you.

Then, Unnworthy, when you have done that, you shameless idler, you can jolly well make yourself useful, for a pleasant change, you good for nothing, common layabout, and you can go to the kitchen and make tea, for myself, and for your Section Head,” ordered my Superior, imperiously, (and rather unjustly, I couldn’t help but feel).

After I had emptied my black, Civil Servant’s briefcase, of all of my completed weekend assignments, which were of various types of socks; ankle socks, gym socks, jogging socks, sports socks, bed socks, etc, etc, etc, to hand wash and to press, to a high standard, and, of a considerable number of pairs of hose, tights, and stockings to very carefully hand wash, that had been allocated to me by my Superiors, who were the various Parliamentary Secretaries of my Section, and, after my completed weekend assignments had undergone all of their careful and critical inspections, and had earned the metaphorical stamps of their approval and satisfaction, I went to the kitchen, to make tea, for Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the 18 year old Parliamentary Secretary at Section Desk Number 2, and for the Section Head, as she had ordered me to.

But, before I went to the kitchen, I went to the Ladies Cloak Room, as per my daily morning custom, and I left my black, Civil Servant’s briefcase in there, (for which I would return, at 5 pm), with the lid open, for the ease and convenience of any of the Parliamentary Secretaries of my Section, who wished to avail themselves of my services, and who wished to allocate to me, their Monday evening assignments.

In the kitchen, I found 2 of my younger, and rather more talkative and more sociable of my Office colleagues, Harvey Dinsdale and Charles Cruddas, who were performing the same menial chore as myself, for some of the Parliamentary Secretaries who they served, on their own Sections.

My chum, Harvey Dinsdale inquired of me, mischievously, but good naturedly, “Well, David, old chap! How are you enjoying the first day, of your second 25 years of Civil Service, and as a fully fledged member, of The Bowler Hat Brigade?”

"I’ll tell you what, though, Dinners! That rather dishy PS I told you about, that rather sumptuous looking young slip of a girl on my Section, who started work here about 3 months ago, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, is a bit of a handful! What!

"And, I’ll tell you something else, Dinners. I think she likes working here, in the Secretariat, and I really think that the fine little filly is going to stay the Course, and go the whole distance, until she flashes past the Finishing Post, and then goes into the Winners Enclosure, if you get my drift, when she picks up her State Pension, and her ‘Golden Goodbye’, from our wonderfully caring Government.

And, Dinners, I’ll tell you something else, for nothing, that you won’t go home and tell your Auntie Betty! I have a queasy little feeling, you know, that Miss Suzanne Forsythe, means to make my life an absolute misery, for the next 25 years!” I replied in similar vein, and in what passed for comradely badinage, among the Civil Servants of the Whitehall Secretariat in which I worked, and what passed for jocularity, among The Bowler Hat Brigade.

My chum, Harvey Dinsdale, in picking up the thread of my equestrian theme, observed, somewhat pessimistically, rather than realistically, I hoped, “Hold your horses, David! But, if these swingeing Public Sector Pay cuts come to pass, and, if there is any truth at all, to the dreadful rumours I’ve been hearing, about the retirement age of Civil Servants, such as ourselves, having to be raised, to 75, or, heaven forefend, even 80, you will still be trudging around the Course, and shovelling up bucketfuls of manure, long after your flighty and bossy little filly has flashed past the Finishing Post, if you get MY drift, old chap!”

There was a few moments of reflective silence, between us, as we gathered the necessary tea and coffee items, with which to load our trays, but, before even 30 seconds had elapsed, my other chum, Charles Cruddas, as though any prolonged silence was uncomfortable, for him, and, that he had to say something, anything, just for the sake of breaking it, advised me, fatuously and pointlessly, “You are going to have to keep an eye, on THAT one, David!”

Then, at finally having prepared and loaded our refreshment trays, my 2 younger, and rather more talkative and more sociable of my Office colleagues, Dinners and Cruddy, slapped my back, in a bone jarring, but good natured, sympathetic, consolatory, and comradely fashion, and, in what passed as their (or anyone else’s) gestures, of the only expressions of congratulation that I was likely to receive today, in celebration of my 40^th birthday, and in recognition, of the completion of my first 25 years of service, as a Civil Servant in Her Majesty’s Government, and, as a member, of The Bowler Hat Brigade.

Upon returning to my Section, with the tea that I had made for my Superior, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the 18 year old Parliamentary Secretary at Section Desk Number 2, and for the Section Head, who sat opposite her at Section Desk Number 1, Miss Suzanne Forsythe remarked, sarcastically, and over-dramatically, “OH! here he is, Annabel! Unnworthy hasn't gone to China, after all, to pick fresh tea leaves!

“Oh, I’m most terribly, terribly sorry, Ma’am, but, I had to wait, you see, I had to wait, for Dinners and Cruddy, to finish making tea and coffee in the kitchen, first, before I could even get so much as a look-in, Ma’am. I had to--------“ “AH! AAHH!! NOW, we are getting somewhere! NOW, we come to the TRUTH, of the matter!

"If there was an Olympic Event, for idle chit chat and mindless tittle tattle, Unnworthy, here, Annabel, would win the Gold Medal! I am perfectly convinced of it!” my Superior confidently asserted, to Miss Annabel Carstairs, who was a quite attractive, sort of ‘housewifey’ brunette, in her late 30’s (I estimated), and who was the Parliamentary Secretary, and Section Head, who occupied (as did all Section Heads) Section Desk Number 1.

Turning her wrathful and penetrating gaze upon me, once again, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the 18 year old Parliamentary Secretary at Section Desk Number 2, continued her caustic and scathing diatribe against me.

"Now, Unnworthy, am I starting to get through, to those thick, senseless grey cells, of yours? Am I making myself perfectly clear, to you? Please tell me, Unnworthy, if I am failing to make myself quite clear, to you.”

“Yes Ma’am, quite clear, Ma’am. Quite clear, I’m very, very sorry, Ma’am,” I apologized (rather abjectly, it has to be said), to my Superior, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the 18 year old Parliamentary Secretary, at Section Desk Number 2.

“HA HA HA HA! OH! REALLY, Suzanne! You are going to do me a most mortifying mischief, one of these days! I am sure of it!” giggled her friend and Office colleague, Miss Annabel Carstairs, indulgently, and in great amusement. Miss Annabel Carstairs sat opposite her young protégé, and she was the Parliamentary Secretary, and also the Section Head, who sat at Section Desk Number 1.

The Section Head, Miss Annabel Carstairs, who had quite abandoned her futile, though, only half hearted attempt, at suppressing her building mirth, at the punishing and humiliating tongue lashing that was being delivered by her young protégé, upon the bowed head of her underling, soothed her young friend and Office colleague, in a tone of playful, and mock sympathy, “OH! Suzanne! I know, I know! These wretched Civil Servants ... they can be far more trouble than they are worth! But, don’t forget, Suzanne, my dear girl, that if Unnworthy’s irritating inadequacies become simply TOO tiresome, for you, you know, darling, that you can always ‘pull the plug’ on his miserable Career.”

As though taking great comfort and encouragement, and as though feeling even more emboldened and empowered, by the approving and assuring words of her friend and Office colleague, the Section Head, Miss Annabel Carstairs, my young Superior, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the 18 year old Parliamentary Secretary at Section Desk Number 2, once again, turned the full and withering force, of her wrathful, vengeful, and penetrating blue eyed gaze, directly upon me.

Miss Suzanne Forsythe, returned my stare, implacably, balefully, maliciously, disdainfully, and superciliously, and, such was the air of powerful authority, and such was the unnerving, disturbing, awesome, almost, presence, of my young Superior, a presence, that seemed to pulse, and to radiate out from her, in palpable, pulsating, and debilitating waves, that, I actually trembled, before her, and I felt my legs weaken and threaten to give way, and to buckle under me, and, scathing and withering scorn dripped, vituperatively, from her pink and wet tongue, as she mercilessly ‘lashed’ me with it, as she derided me, and as she belittled me, very much to the amusement, of her Office colleagues, her fellow Parliamentary Secretaries.

Then, as though highly indignant, and sorely affronted, and as though taking high umbrage, at such an appalling imposition, of having to look at my “Silly, stupid, ugly, ghastly little pasty white face, every day!”, and deciding to do something about it, my Superior, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the 18 year old Parliamentary Secretary, who sat at Section Desk Number 2, pointed a beautifully manicured forefinger underneath the 2 Section Desks, at which she, and her friend and Office colleague, Miss Annabel Carstairs, the Parliamentary Secretary and Section Head, sat, opposite each other, and, raising her voice, to me, she ordered me, peremptorily, and authoritatively, and, if my hearing wasn’t playing tricks on me, I was sure, that I had detected the faintest, shrill hint of hysteria, in her tone, as though she was struggling to contain the excitement, and as though she was struggling to contain the sheer thrill, of having such power, and of having such authority, at her young command.

And as though, being confident in the highly gratifying knowledge, that she had the ‘licence’, to use, and to abuse her power and authority, just exactly as she pleased, and, to freely indulge herself, at any time she wished, in such exhilarating power trips.

Thoroughly cowed, fearful and oppressed, and mercilessly dominated, by the overbearing and powerful personality, and by the disturbing, awesome, almost, presence of my young Superior, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, the 18 year old Parliamentary Secretary at Section Desk Number 2, I obeyed her imperious and belittling command, and, without a word (and, I was sure, that I could not have spoken then, in any case, as the dreadfully familiar, awful, choking sensation, and the sore and suffocating thickness, had painfully seized my throat in it’s terrible grip, and, it was a sensation that, from past experience I knew all too well, meant that I was about to start crying),I did as my Superior had ordered me to, and, I laid down on my back, underneath Parliamentary Secretary Desks Numbers 1 and 2.

But, if every cloud has a silver lining, this one, in obeying the humiliating command of my Superior, was that, I no longer, at least for the moment, had to look at the eyes, or had to see, the galling expressions of hilarity, on the tittering, chuckling, giggling, laughing, and mocking faces of the Parliamentary Secretaries, who, were not only highly amused, and so splendidly entertained, by Miss Suzanne Forsythe’s crushing humiliation, of me, but that, the taunting and tormenting sounds of who’s mirth, merely served to exacerbate my dreadful predicament, and merely served, to encourage my Superior to indulge herself, even further, in the highly gratifying pursuits of her decidedly cruel streak.

Then, once I had positioned myself, flat on my back, underneath Parliamentary Secretary Desks Numbers 1 and 2, exactly as my Superior had instructed, and, as I had disconsolately stared upward, it was with heart felt dismay, that I saw 2 pairs of tan hosed, black, Office pump shod feet, hover, for a moment, like helicopters above their target area, directly above my upturned face.

I first had a few moments to register, the worn and grimy leather soles, and the multitude of minor scratches and scrapes, and the creases, on the black leather uppers of the 2 pairs of Office pumps, that evidenced their long use, and that told of their well worn and regular service, before they started to slowly descend towards my upturned face, and, I watched, as the 2 pairs of black, Office pumps were slowly prised, by the toe of their other pumps, from the tan hosed heels of my 2 Superiors, and, I watched, as the 2 pairs of black, Office pumps, were precariously dangled, and were swung up and down, by the seemingly well practised manipulations of the tan hosed tips of my 2 Superiors’ toes, so that I could see inside of the precariously dangling shoes, and I could see, in great detail, at such close range, their dark and stained insoles, which further told of their long use and regular service, by their owners.

Then, after a few moments, and as I watched, inevitably, the 2 pairs of black, Office pumps fell from the tips of the tan hosed toes of my 2 Superiors, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, and Miss Annabel Carstairs, who were the Parliamentary Secretaries, who occupied Section Desks Numbers 1 and 2.

The 2 pairs of black, Office pumps, just exactly as they were meant to, by my 2 Superiors, landed on my upturned face, like laser guided stink bombs, launched from the weapon pods of attack helicopters, before tumbling off, and coming to rest on the carpet about my head, underneath Section Desks Numbers 1 and 2.

Then, as I stared upward, I watched, as the 2 pairs of the tan hosed feet of my 2 Superiors, freshly liberated, from the restrictive and inhibiting confines of their black leather prisons, were lowered, slowly and gently, until they came to rest, and settled upon either side of my upturned face.

As I laid flat on my back, underneath Section Desks Numbers 1 and 2, my Superiors, the 2 Parliamentary Secretaries, 18 year old Miss Suzanne Forsythe, and Miss Annabel Carstairs, the Section Head, complacently rested their freshly released tan hosed feet, upon either side of my upturned face, just as if, they were perfectly entitled to do so, and just as if, it was some kind of Government perk, and, they used my upturned face, just as if, it was the most natural thing in the world for them to do so, and, just as if, my face was readily available, to them, upon command, to be used as their luxuriously comfortable and comforting, and convenient footstool, and my 2 Superiors chatted pleasantly and companionably together, and, as I continued to stare upward, I watched, as their tan hosed toes flexed, and splayed, and scrunched, as though at play, and as though enjoying, and making the most of their taste of freedom, and of their respite, from the restrictive and inhibiting confines, of their black, Office pumps.

And, it was not long, either, before I was quite overwhelmed, by the choking, acidic fumes, of a sort of acrid, tart and tangy, sour vinegary, and offensively pungent, scent, that radiated from the tan hosed feet, of Miss Annabel Carstairs, the Section Head, in almost palpable, noxious pulses, like the pernicious radio waves, of 2 dying and malignant quasars.

This, was a decidedly unsavoury experience, and, not for the first time, I found myself quite amazed, that, the dark and the tan hosed feet of the Parliamentary Secretaries, who were, predominantly (though there certainly were plenty of ‘plain Jane’s’, it has to be said!), such attractive, and sometimes, even stunningly beautiful ladies, could produce such an appalling, horrible, and thoroughly obnoxious stink!

And, given that the voices of my 2 Superiors seemed deliberately modulated, for my ‘benefit’, so that I could hear their conversation, I had not the slightest of difficulty, in hearing Miss Suzanne Forsythe opine of me, earnestly, “Upon my word! I swear, Annabel, that THIS, is all that Unnworthy is good for!”

But, Miss Annabel Carstairs, the Section Head, begged to differ, and she contested her young protégé’s confident assertion. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Suzanne. He DOES make a jolly good cup of tea!”

It was for 30 minutes, or so, that I lay supine, underneath Section Desks Numbers 1 and 2, and, underneath the warm and moist, and playing and probing, tan hosed, stinky feet of my 2 Superiors, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, and Miss Annabel Carstairs, as they luxuriated, in the sensual, almost sexual, enjoyment, of rubbing the soles of their tan hosed feet, as though by way of a relaxing, yet stimulating, and satisfying and gratifying, foot massage, all over my upturned face, to their pleasure and contentment, and, my 2 Superiors played with my face, as though it was some kind of foot toy, or, perhaps, a novel and pleasing alternative, to ‘worry beads’, with which to help divert their minds, from the daily stresses of their highly important and very demanding work.

And so, after about 30 minutes, or so, my 2 Superiors, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, and Miss Annabel Carstairs, the Parliamentary Secretaries who occupied Section Desks Numbers 1 and 2, at last ‘passed me on’, to their nearest Office colleagues, who were the Parliamentary Secretaries who sat next to them, and, who occupied Section Desks Numbers 3 and 4.

I could not prevent my bitter tears, of shame, self pity, mortification, humiliation, bitter resentment, and great unhappiness, from springing to my eyes, even though I KNEW, that my tears of acute distress, upon the Parliamentary Secretaries seeing them, only served, to increase their amusement, greatly, and to enhance their pleasure, considerably, and to magnify their gratification, immeasurably.

For the rest of that day, Monday – 1^st – March – 2010, which was my 40^th birthday, and also the first day of my second 25 years of service as a Civil Servant, apart from just a very few, and well spaced out ‘rest breaks’, when my Superiors sent me to the kitchen to make tea, for them, I was ‘passed along’, gradually, and at regular intervals, underneath the Desks of the Parliamentary Secretaries of my Section, until, finally, I eventually found myself lying supine, underneath the dark hosed feet, and the tan hosed feet, of the 2 Parliamentary Secretaries, who occupied Section Desks Numbers 19 and 20, Section 5, of the Whitehall Secretariat in which I served, as a Civil Servant in Her Majesty’s Government, and, as a member, of The Bowler Hat Brigade.

What had begun, as a decidedly unsavoury experience, underneath the Desks, and underneath the tan hosed feet of my Superiors, Parliamentary Secretaries, Miss Suzanne Forsythe, and Miss Annabel Carstairs, the Section Head, who occupied Section Desks Numbers 1 and 2, became ever more of a harrowing ordeal, as my hideous predicament became more and more distressing, as the widely varying, but almost invariably traumatizing odours, from the dark hosed feet and the tan hosed feet of the Parliamentary Secretaries, became more and more offensive, and my torment became more and more intolerable, as the day slowly wore on.

On Monday – 1^st – March – 2010, this, was how I, David Unnworthy, began the second 25 years, of my 50 year Political Career, and of my chosen vocation, just exactly, as I had said to one of my younger, and rather more talkative and more sociable, of my Office colleagues, my chum, Harvey Dinsdale; “Oh, pretty much the same, as my first 25 years, Dinners”.

The Diary, in which I assiduously chronicle, the daily events, and the trials and travails, and the peaks and troughs (mostly troughs, it has to be said!), of my life’s work, of my Political Career, and of my chosen vocation, as a Civil Servant in Her Majesty’s Government, and, as a member, of The Bowler Hat Brigade.

I, David Unnworthy, am just one, just one of the many, of the selfless and dedicated, Bowler Hatted Civil Servants, who labour tirelessly, in the background, and who toil indefatigably, behind the scenes, for the Crown, and for the British Government, and for the British people.

I, David Unnworthy, am just one, just one of the many, of the smallest, and seemingly insignificant and inconsequential, yet nonetheless vital and indispensable cogs, without which, the well oiled and colossal engine of Her Majesty’s Government, could not function, and would grind to a seized up standstill.