In which our brave Librarian takes a holiday and ends up in Steinditz

Well it's good to be back chaps, had the most horrendous experience while on shore leave. Thought it would be a good time, since most of the lads had upped and left for the summer, to take misself off to Hungary having heard they'd switched sides and joined the Allies. 

All was going well: visiting the cultural hotspots which - incidentally - included a gathering of the great unwashed at somewhere cunningly entitled Sziget which - it turns - out is a place where you can watch popular music combos from all over the entire globe for 24-hours-a-day for an entire week. Those Magyars know how to party I can tell you. They are a pretty hardcore bunch indeed: when I popped into the local druggist for a packet of Ibuprofen for my old War Wound, they bunged a pack of the hard stuff over the counter: 800mg? I was flying for days....without a parachute.

Anyway, as I said all seemed to be going well so I took the chaps off to Lake Balaton for some R&R (Rest and Recreation to you - none of that Rock-n-Roll nonsense - I decided they'd had enough long-haired layabouts for one detail). Trouble is, my intel was obviously faulty and what we took for the local branch of Butlin's was in fact, the local Prison Camp known to many as Stalag Steinditz, and ruled over by a sadistic blonde commonly known as Commandant Basella  Fawlty. Basella presides over a ruthless regime with the normal Nazi mania for law and order. Dammit, it took as two days to dig an escape tunnel (under the immaculate - yet forbidden paradise of the Swimming Pool) to the Beach at Balaton. And even then we had a close encounter with some of her Gestapo friends at the local museum of 'Nostalgia': 

Hungary's a dangerous place let me tell you.

Anyway, once the escape route had been secured, all was plain sailing: I even took the lads to see a Concert Party in the local town square where there was a bunch of soldiers performing a belly dance routine. Most convincing bunch of drag-artists I've seen this side of Thailand let me tell you - damn near fell for one misself. Anyway, the lads came back refreshed and ready to do battle with the new OPAC when it's fully operational. Only one misshap at Security at Budapest where they seized some of our ammo: a giant green water pistol (the very same one that those cunning Magyars had searched on the way into the aforementioned tribal gathering, in case my boys had been using it to smuggle alcohol). You can't pull the wool over their eyes (even if their sheepdog have Dreadlocks).


More adventures in Library-land soon eh chaps

In which our brave Librarian joins Foreign Legion

So things are getting quiet at the barracks as several generals disappear for the summer and leave me in charge of the Mess. I take full advantage of this opportunity by moving things around in the hope that no-one will be able to find anything on their return (particularly my secret munitions dump, which

consists largely of stale bread rolls, marmalade, the odd stapler and a large quantity of Book Plates)

Had a visit from the Major yesterday who - as ever - had several tales to tell, ranging from the time his Good Lady Wife taught Mountbatten to do the Twist, to his role as De Gaulle's chaperone during his sojourn around the corner to the barracks as head of the Free French Forces. Apparently it was all Churchill's idea, his comment being:
'The Major speaks no French, De Gaulle refuses to speak English, they'll get on famously'.
Needless to say, the Major wasted no time in chasing the lovely French ladies in their white skirts and doing his bit for the old Entente Cordiale which, it turns out, even Churchill's favourite bette noir (to continue the French theme) Nancy Astor helped out, by lending the barracks to group of Free French supporters to hold their meetings under the guise of the Petit Club Francais (I suspect much wine was quaffed and cheese eaten).

The Major also admitted that the roof of Liverpool Railway Station still leaks owing to an incident involving himself, several rookies and a revolver, which he assumed contained blanks (but that's for another day) and that he spent several evenings partying the night away with a certain matinee idol to whom he bore a striking resemblance, and that he still, despite his ninety-plus years, continues to frequent the illustrious night clubs of London where, according to one barman, he probably pretends to faint in the hope of being given the kiss of life by the young ladies.

But back to the French:
The Kepi Blanc seem to have left a large number of recruiting posters lying around in the barracks and rather foolishly I filled one in for a bit of a laugh (I have fond memories of them from my time in Paris where they told me they could smuggle large amounts of dubious substances and other equipment for me if the price - ie marriage - was right and where I learned that they are all obsessed with Edith Piaf and stand to attention when her songs are played on the radio).

Anyway, to cut a long story short: I have signed up for the old Legion Etrangere as it seems from the recruitment magazine, that you can learn the Huyla there. I may be gone some time. Toodle pip.

It ain't half hot mum (In which our Librarian witnesses acres of naked flesh)

Gad the heat Carruthers- the boys have issued Planters orders. Now, to be frank, I had no idea what this meant as my jungle training did not progress past Uncle Jim's Jungle Gym, but apparently the implications of this are quite shocking: jackets and ties removed, sleeves rolled up (four neat turns and not above the elbow - we are not an 80s pop group remember) - the place is starting to resemble some sort of Roman orgy. The Horror, The Horror.

Despite this shocking distraction, I have been managing to get a lot of work done - aside from an incident earlier in the week where I was forced to reenact the Dentist Scene from Marathon Man and, most shockingly, to pay over £200 for the experience. I suspect it's time I found a new dentist, and one where the receptionist doesn't chirp out in a loudly nonchalant fashion:
'No, you can't book an appointment with Mrs Engelblatt, she's dead'. I suspect there are better ways of breaking this news.

But I digress from my purpose. The old feller (or 'im indoors, but usually out as I call him) has apparently been drafted into the Albanian army. He went there on a sort of musical exchange programme, but appears to have come a cropper in the fashion of that nice Liam Neeson (or was it his daughter?) either ways, our offspring's reaction by text was :

The ungrateful brat! Remind me to put her on half rations for the rest of her tour of duty.
I am currently negotiating with various ambassadors and the makes of Ferrero Rocher to pay the ransom.

I have been putting a lot of work in building an electronic roll-call of soldiers which I am

thinking of turning into a musical, along the lines of Privates on Parade (although - given the amount of flesh I've been forced to face in the last few days - I'm not sure that this is wise). 
My version shall feature several old salty Sea Lords and the odd Cotton magnate and will start in the National Portrait Gallery where, it appears, they feature dozens, nay hundreds of illustrious former members of my platoon. 
Naturally, they will all be fully clothed: 
I guess Some Like it Hot, personally I prefer formal wear, as they say. 

The Enemy Within moves closer to home

So this week ladies and gents I have extremely serious news to report: I fear the enemy has infiltrated my own home. My evidence for this is having caught my good husband sneaking off late at night wearing two-tone brogues and a bowler hat, and carrying a cane. when questioned as to his destination, he muttered something about a photo-shoot, but I postulate that he was off for a secret rendez-vous with Count Friederich Wilhelm Von Bog-Brush (the suspected double-agent on my Library Committee). Said Count appeared in my luxury office suite (AKA the Broom Cupboard) the next day carrying a file marked 'Top Secret' which included such dubious items as a paper on how to digitize your archives with the use of a contingent NADFAS Volunteers. Later that day, I caught my husband watching a programme on Moon landings and NASA conspiracies, so I have - sadly - concluded that I will now start looking closer to home for traces of enemy activity.

This rather took the shine off my latest victory which involved a tame monkey who managed to interview nearly 300 businessmen and women as well as a handful of veterans for me, as part of my plans for Market Research into a new diversionary tactic (known as a History Book) which the chaps here are determined to trial before the end of the next Tour of Duty. Said Monkey even managed to turn up some potential financial backers - a matter which caused much excitement in the ranks, let me tell you. It also broke up the rather more gloomy task of searching the Commonwealth War Graves Commission website for evidence of any of our boys Killed in Action.


The other piece of good news this week involved a book-signing featuring a little-known author I had encountered while doing research into a former member of the SOE who left a legacy of rather exciting (but naturally secret) items in a file marked 'to be opened in the event of my death'. Obviously I have to keep schtum about much of this, but let's just say that  he 

 

  and that - my friends is how we won the war. Toodle-pip.

The coming of the misspelt Messiah (these week in Monochrome)

The end of  Empire is nigh, there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth. Well - more like a few pots of tea and the odd G&T as far as my colonial outpost goes. This month we are preparing to climb Everest in tribute to Tenzing and Hilary's achievement sixty years ago. Trouble is: boys these days just don't have the stamina and my expedition leader seems to have got himself detained selling dodgy pieces of hi-tech equipment to a bunch of anally-obsessed surgeons in St Albans. In the event, I had to postpone the expedition and make to with an exhibition of books all about Everest (the mountain, not the double-glazing firm obviously).

Meanwhile things were proceeding as usual in the barracks: the truce with the Catering Corps is holding, but ENSA decided to use the library for one of their gala shows which - as far as I could see - consisted of the (retired Gurkha) commander of the Household Cavalry (aka the Maintenance Team) grabbing the microphone for several hours reciting the well-known performers' mantra known as 'One-Two, One-Two, Two, Twooo, Two-One'. I left before things started to get ugly and they summoned the spirit of Bamber Gascoigne for their annual Club Quiz.

As it's officially Spring, I decided to do some Spring-Cleaning and ordered all troops to present their rifles for inspection. In so doing, I discovered several hundred volumes seem to have made it onto the register (AKA the online catalogue or OPAC) minus their dog-tags. This was owing to a misunderstanding between myself and a Welsh Guardsman whose job it had been to convert all my troops from their state of Agnosticism (an Excel Spreadsheet  to True Followers (of the cult of the OPAC). I put them all On Report, but I fear I have created rather a lot of work for myself.

Oh - and did I mention that I had a visit from the Messiah? (no - not Handel's one that sings about liking sheep) I told him that he'd spelled it wrong, but he insisted his name was Massiah. Just think: one indefinite article away from spiritual domination of The Universe, instead of which, he's Just a Naughty Boy. Better luck next week eh?

The Iron Lady vs the Iron Duke (oh the irony)

Mainly quiet on the Western Front recently and I have had time to engage in joint manoevres with other regiments around the square. This proved fascinating as we had a secret rendez-vous with a top international crime -fighter who brought us tales of major book thieves (and none of them - despite what Markus Zusak would have you believe) called Liesel. Having been informed that plates that had been surreptitiously removed from rare books are probably financing international drug deals by now, most of us were somewhat shaken out of our cozy complacency and vowed to set up an undercover 'sting' involving Gin (supplied my my good friend General Gordon Gin-soaked of the eponymous Highland Regiment), Marzipan and a few AK47s (supplier confidential).

I returned to the barracks feeling suitable steeled-up, only to face a delegation from the Household Cavalry led by a female general (no doubt related to the recently deceased Iron Lady) with a voice like a screech-owl who proved to be on her metal  - much to my dismay. Said general insisted that the book trolley was unsightly and clashed with the luridly floral sofas near the fireplace and therefore had to be removed immediately. I informed her (borrowing some Iron from Sartre's Soul) that if she wanted to provide me with a bookcase with shelves tall enough to display several folio-sized tomes, I would be happy to removed said 'unsightly' trolley. This battle, I feel, will raise temperatures higher than the average blast furnace (though - partly thanks to aforementioned Iron Lady, you won't find too many of those around these parts). But beware Iron Ladies: I have the Iron Duke himself on my side. Let battle commence.

In which our brave Librarian enlists volunteer hoodies

http://www.napkinfoldingguide.com/03-birdofparadise/

So it's been a busy week in the barracks. The Catering Corps had another of their shindigs and built a barricade out of newly upholstered settees to prevent my usual attempts to sabotage their operations. On this occasion, I tried a new tactic: stealing the napkins and creating a scale model of Valhalla, but sadly this did not work as their guests were totally unaware of the cultural reference and assumed it was the Pompidou Centre, which they demolished with a relish I found frankly distasteful and then used said napkins to clean up the marmalade a careless waitress had spilled.

On a far more positive note: a retired general has offered support to the regiment in the form of a shiny new bookcase. This was excellent news and involved much excitement among junior members of the regiment (particularly those who - like me - had not spotted it was 'repro'). Let's hope some of the traditionalists don't
demand its removal at a later date! Sadly, in my eagerness to find a home for said shelter for troops of wandering books, I broke the Turkish general's tape-measure and - despite my offer of a two unused locks, complete with keys in compensation - he has not yet been pacified (I suspect his ulterior motive is that he quite fancied the bookcase for his office, but no matter).

Naturally installing said new piece of regimental artillery involved my having to move 1,000-odd soldiers (who for the sake of simplicity, I shall call Books) in order for the whole thing to work correctly, and this knowledge necessitated my having to come up with a strategy for the battle ahead. Having persuaded various members of the Household Cavalry (aka the Maintenance Team) to do the heavy lifting (despite the - by now - expected complaints from the Kosovan Hobbit), I managed to enlist a temporary worker (known to some as Offspring #Two) with the promised of a wage infinitely higher than that she would earn on Workfare. Only problem with this cunning plan was that she turned up in her Regimental Uniform (Jeans, Trainers and Hoody) which violated every regulation in the building and I had to sneak her in via the back entrance with a blanket over her head to avoid the Dress-code Klaxon going off. Anyway All's Well that Ends Well and I will report back next week as to whether any more outrages in the name of taste and decency  have taken place. Fingers crossed and toodle pip.