Dr Livingstone I Presume

Well it's been another week of battles on the home front. Apparently a group of distinguished journalists  PR people and COs had hired the barracks for manoeuvres and objected to the presence of a civvy such as myself in their midst. I was forced to retaliate in the only way I know: firing an assortment of cheese straws, vintage claret and rubber stamps at them from the safety of my luxury office suite (aka the broom cupboard). When this failed, I had to use the option of last resort and bring in the big guns in the shape of the Iron Duke himself no less. He saw the buggers off in no time at all, and unrestricted access to the library was restored....for now, but I pity the poor bugger that attempts to take on the Duke of Wellington.

photo by Francesco Gola at http://www.fotopedia.com/items/flickr-4929974975

After that minor skirmish, I decided it was time to undertake some exploratory work on my rear trench, where several dozen leather-bound ledgers have lain virtually undisturbed since the 1860s. This was dirty work as anyone with experience of trenches will tell you, but I emerged after around 24 hours having completely reorganised the show, and erected a barbed wire fence to keep out a certain Volunteer from the RAF who appears convinced we are holding his archive hostage in there. On surfacing, I was so caked in dirt that I was very nearly escorted of the premises by my CO, until he recognised me by the unusual footwear (lucky I'd remembered the Ruby Slippers what?)

Meanwhile over in the Indies, it was decided that a similar series of excavations were long overdue and I headed for the upper floors accompanied by a Sub-Lieutenant from the IT Division and a Deputy Field Marshal from the Home Guard. The state of the latter's health continues to give me cause for concern, particularly as the regimental defibrillator is busy undertaking its annual service, but fortunately he held out.


I did however, secure a promise from the Regimental Secretary that I would be sent on a First Aid Course. Imagine my surprise when they decided that the most appropriate course of action was to enrol me - not in the Royal Army Medical Corps, but on a two-day Bookbinding course. I very much doubt I will bump into H.M. Stanley there!

Invasion of the Carpet-snatchers (siege of the broom-cupboard)

photo: Willapalens www.flickr.com/photos/76798465@N00

This week has seen an invasion of a totally different nature: the usual armies of diners were replaced by an army of miniature menaces. I don't know how long the buggers have been hiding away in the dark recesses of my luxury office suite (aka broom-cupboard), but until recently, the results of their blitzkrieg have been hidden by several dozen volumes of unwanted books and the odd leather tome from 1873. However the ongoing reorganisation has unearthed the true horror of their dastardly deeds. To put it simply: I have moths in my archive and they've eaten half the carpet. The Horror, The Horror. Not one to take this lying down, I immediately called in the SAS, who oddly enough, said it was not their territory and recommended a pest-controller instead. Sadly I had to retire before I saw what ammo they had chosen, but I hope they killed the buggers without destroying my office.

After the excitement of yet another battle, I repaired to the gym, where the Zumba teacher was on fine form as usual, though as a favourer of the highly-pulled-up trouser, I suspect him of secret tendencies towards believing he is in fact Simon Cowell. If I find this to be the case, I shall act at 50,000,000 times the speed of a BBC controller who uncovers a suspected child-molester.

Back to the Indies after all this excitement, where life continues at a far more civilised pace - apart from a brief Napoleonic invasion, which I repelled with a few carefully selected volumes of poetry. Oh and this week's visit from old Captain Gordon Gin-soaked of the eponymous Highland Regiment, who was in convivial mood ...as ever, and had brought his friend who told me that frankly he wanted him shot for the crime of having egg on his tie and a few buttons missing.
Ah the joys of war and peace eh.