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.
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