In which our unfortunate librarian is surprised in her boudoir by a naked chef

chef wasn't actually naked - but neither is Jamie

Damnit that Catering Corps will try anything to limit my operational capacities. Following last week's successful attempt to sabotage my artillery and substitute it with a dodgy laptop, they discovered my secret hideout this week. Chef himself surprised me in my luxury-office-suite-aka-broom-cupboard-which-will-now-definitely-not-be-converted-into-a-disabled-loo, while I was mid-cataloguing manoeuvres; and attempted to scupper them by asking me out on a date. I will not tolerate this sort of insurrection in the kitchen and am thinking of retaliating by leaving a pair of trainers in the fridge and socks in the microwave.




Meanwhile in the East Indies, inventorising activities are continuing apace, despite the best efforts of Colonel Gin-soaked (of the eponymous Gordon's Highland Regiment). Bless the old dodderer - he was trying to help, but he kept falling over chairs and dropping newspapers, so I had to anaesthetise him with his favourite tipple and put him to bed in the Smoking Room (which naturally is a non-smoking room these days thanks to Navy regulations).

And while all this was happening, the Company Chairman - newly appointed and by his own admission crazed with his new responsibilities - decided to send a deputation of natives claiming to be long-lost relatives. Fortunately, they weren't determined to offer me the chance to share in their grandfather's will or participate in any of their enterprising share-schemes, but I did manage to photograph one of them and shall use it as evidence if it all turns nasty.