One of our submariners is missing

Well it's been a long time since I put pen to paper (in the virtual sense). apparently since I last did so, I've been awarded a new title...Chairman or something. Well I don't know - I tried (like Caesar in Shakespeare's play) to 'put it by thrice', but the buggers insisted, so now you will all have to address me as Madam Chairman (apparently this is better than being called a Chair - in case someone attempts to sit on you)

Meanwhile after an unusually long truce, the old sods in the Catering Corps have launched a new assault planned for 13 hundred hours today. I am told I will be invaded by several dozen Submariners bearing Champagne rather than Arms. I have put my legions of books on standby and warned them that if attacked by champagne corks they are immediately to retaliate. Fortunately I  have positioned Sun Tzu's Art of War (de luxe French edition) in a key strategic position and if he fails me, not only do I have several volumes featuring heroes of the Battle of Midway, but Nelson is guarding the Left Flank. The buggers are not going to catch me napping.


Oh - and by the way - I've given birth again...to a new online catalogue. Watch this space.......

In which our brave Librarian takes on the Pirates...and a few casual diners

Avast there ye landlubbers for 'tis international Talk like a Pirate Day evidently. Now I personally, am not sure if my brave lads fought two World Wars and several other skirmishes involving an array of enemies ranging from imagined aliens to the far deadlier mosquito, just to dress up as cheap corsairs, but that's the modern way apparently, so let us take a moment to make sure we can identify one of these scoundrels should we come across 'em

Course 'tis unlikely that a real pirate will be presenting a sitting (standing) target like this one, who appears to be performing some sort of sea shanty in front of a captive audience of his victims who he is either torturing to death by singing the wrong lyrics, or entertaining, to distract them from the fact that there is a large plank at the rear of the auditorium which they will be forced to walk, into a crocodile pit once the concert is over.

As for my brave boys, they are still befuddled from attending a lecture on Naval & Military portraits at the National Gallery. Most behaved beautifully, but I had to restrain a couple of the younger recruits from painting moustaches on some of the exhibits apparently on the grounds that someone's grandparents had been victim of a particularly cruel flogging when acting as a Fag at some minor public school or other.

Other than that, it's been rather quiet in the Library...apart from migrating a rather old and creaky catalogue to a nice shiny online version and devising a digitization strategy that is, but, all in a day's work as they say.

And today, as the Library yet again disguises itself as a Dining Room, I am resorting to a few rounds of my favourite sport: firing old rubber stamps and (formerly sticky) labels at passersby in order to distract them from their food and entice them into reading some of my most memorable Military Histories. If that doesn't work I could try Plan B: wandering around with an air of Amazement at the sight of all these wonderful volumes, or Plan C: pretending I have fleas and scratching at the next table. 

If all else fails, it's back to the Pirates.

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.

In which our brave Librarian makes peace with Germany but not with the Catering Corps

So I got into work nice and early this week with lots of plans in my head, only to find the Professor tucked neatly into a (newly re-upholstered) armchair, reading the day's papers.  Said professor - delightful fellow though he was, insisted on detaining me to discuss the latest developments in engineering and academic publishing, which I decided almost counted as work, so I passed a pleasant half-hour with him before going about my business.

This included writing a digitization strategy for the benefit of the chaps over in the Indies and writing an essay on the activities of a certain Captain Burgess who wrote over 100 letters of complaint to the CO here back in 1873. Needless to say, he was eventually removed from his post, but not before a great debate was had on whether having a cigar in one's mouth was proof that one was actually smoking (a dispute that foreshadowed a legal argument involving a certain President Clinton and his friend Monica Lewinsky by some a century or so I believe).


Progress was further slowed this week by the activities of my old nemesis: the Catering Corps, who strategically placed a Cash Bar just outside my luxury office suite (aka the Broom Cupboard) preventing my egress into the main body of my library. I contemplated a raid on said bar, but was dissuaded from doing so by the presence of Russell the Barman, a man whose charms I was completely disarmed by and who I do not want to treat as an enemy in case I ever need a sneaky G&T.

By the way: I suspect the enemy of trying to infiltrate the Library Committee, as a new member has appeared whose former career as a German U-boat commander has put some of the old chaps on their guard. Not me though: forgive and forget I say - we're all friends now (except the Catering Corps of course).

Toodle pip

In which our Brave Librarian liberates Paris...maybe

So it's been a triumphant week in the Barracks. I finally managed to evacuate the whole  Platoon of Ancient Ledgers from their unsatisfactory accommodation at the back of my Luxury Office Suite (aka the Broom-cupboard which may - or may not - be shortly transformed into a disabled toilet). This feat was achieved mainly thanks to a Kosovo-Albanian regiment - aka - The Maintenance Team who moaned constantly, despite my attempts to distract them with the music of a popular brass band from their homeland:

fanfara tirana v transglobal underground






Anyway, the old boys look very happy in their new home and the Luxury Office Suite was temporarily uncluttered. It felt like the Liberation of Paris - give or take a few French people - and I am finally able to breathe the fresh air of...mouse droppings and carpet moth residue. No matter that it's a poky office - it's my office to fill with whatever regiments I choose in my Grand Design of making the Library look....well - more like a Library really.

Meanwhile my quest to make sense of the archive continues and while some members looked more than a little frayed at the edges, most are happy to be filed away, and gave their Name  Rank and Serial Number without any need for interrogation or subterfuge. The only notable exception was a splendid series of photograph albums from a mysterious character who does not appear on any of the Membership Records. I may have to call my friends at MI5 to assist on this one.


Back in the Indies, Maj Gordon Gin-soaked of the eponymous Highland Regiment reappeared after a few weeks break, exuding a faint whiff of battlefield action. He was, it turns out, so delighted with my Cricket-related display of Books and other Artefacts,  that he had to take a few weeks of to drink Gin and declare war on a small battalion of ants who had invaded his bathroom (hence the battlefield whiff).

Next week I shall continue my efforts to liberate legions of oppressed ledgers from bondage (though, bearing in mind the fact that they are mainly comprised of elderly English Gents, that may not be wise, or even desirable)

Until next time....

In which our Brave Librarian rescues several old soldiers and fights of Rowley Birkin

Well it's been a busy old week in the Barracks. I am negotiating re-locating a whole platoon of really elderly veterans henceforth to be known as the Old Ledgers of 1862. If the move goes according to plan, I shall be able to put some of my finest soldiers on display: they are currently languishing in the office owing to the CO fearing they are too valuable to put in the lending front-line and frankly, some of them are somewhat champing at the bit (despite being frayed at the edges...and inside too in some cases). Tomes like the Armies of India and the Seven Pillars of Wisdom just can't wait to get out there and connect with their readers, and I for one, am determined not to hold them back

Meanwhile over in the Indies, General Gordon Gin-soaked of the eponymous Highland Regiment, seems to be on shore-leave and has failed to show his face for some weeks now, despite my attempt to entice him in with a cunningly fashioned display of books on the history of Cricket. He will be most upset if he misses it, especially since next month's theme: Explorers, is a subject which I happen to know he is particularly keen to avoid, having got into an argument once with Sir Richard Burton's widow about whether he, or Dr Livingstone was the best role-model for sensible footwear. The row was rather abruptly settled when Peter O'Toole entered the room dressed as Laurence of Arabia, sweeping aside all opposition and declared the contest invalid.

I was somewhat compensated for missing Gin-Soaked by a visit from Rowley Birkin QC, on fine form as ever. He felt it was his duty to warn me about the impending Islamic Apocalypse. When I told him I thought he was being somewhat alarmist, he instead decided to regale me with tales of his ex-wives and the problems of alimony, before attempting to recruit me to his harem. Naturally I refused, citing a whole pile of un-catalgoued histories of the East India Company as a pressing concern. He was most accommodating and left me with a recording of a recent TV appearance he made. Enjoy it at your leisure
Rowley Birkin on form as ever

Fifth Columns, Warplanes and Internet Pornography: the Real War starts

Well chaps - it looks like things are about to get serious: the Phony War is over and the Real War starts. The previous skirmishes have a been a mere picnic. Which - come to think of it - may explain why the Catering Corps' weapon of choice thus far has been elderly diners armed with American Express cards. Now they are playing dirty (in fact as I write, they appear to have recruited a primate to distract me with Adam and the Ant videos). I will stand firm: the battle must be fought - and will be won.

So I am not sure who they are teaming up with now: is it the Library Mice who are angry that I have destroyed two of their leaders with the power of Poison and a pair of Marigold gloves? Or is that Kaiser Friederich Wilhlem von Bog-Brush not - as we had been led to believe - a kosher member of our Volunteer Resistance movement? Is he using his brilliant encryption skills to double cross us? Might that explain why at least three recently purchased volumes of World War One memoirs have mysteriously vanished without being signed out in the Loans Book (and no - before you ask - there are no computers in the library. The CO doesn't want young recruits to be tempted online by the siren lure of naked swords and bloody women... or was it?.....anyway, I'm sure you catch my drift)

What - you may well ask - has led me to come to this pass? Well: this week - as has been my habit of late - I was searching through the deepest darkest recesses of my Luxury Office Suite (aka the Broom-Cupboard, which may - or may not - be destined to be turned into a toilet for disabled veterans) and what did I find? Only a series of around thirty original blueprints for war-planes. I telephoned the most senior officer I could find, but he was unable to fathom out who the infiltrator might be. I may well have to resort to bringing in the RAF Museum, although a volunteer member of the Flying Corps has already expressed a keen interest. Come to think of it: have his credentials been thoroughly checked? Could he be our Fifth Columnist? In the words of that dashing young Fox Mulder Chappie: 'Trust No One'. The battle for the soul of the Library continues and the Librarian lives to Die Another Day.

Of Mice, Men and Archives

Ye gods, will this war never end? The barracks has been under attack from yet another army this past fortnight: a smaller furrier enemy than usual, viz a family of mice. I have heard them for several weeks scratching about behind several dozen ancient leather tomes but not - until last week - seen the buggers. Fortunately young Tim from the Catering Corps has had the foresight to use the old entrapment technique and the furry scoundrels have been gorging themselves on poison with the rather unfortunate result that they've been literally dying in front of me. I have had to make extensive use of the old Marigold gloves to catch the buggers by their tails and dispose of htem in a humane and environmentally friendly fasion.

Needless to say this state of affairs did not impress the delightful visiting WRENS from the London Metropolitan Archives who muttered something about 'suitable environments' and 'integrity of the collection'. Since when has anyone ever questioned the morals of a bundle of minute books and ledgers I ask?

Anyway that all went off fairly smoothly, but last night I had to vacate the place, as the Men from the Ministry (of Defence no less) had decided to hold an extremely Top Secret meeting in my library. Apparently they are having another go at the old Entente Cordiale and had arranged an assignation with various of their French counterparts. Just don't spill  Ribena on any of my books eh chaps or there will be hell to pay.

It Ain't Half a Classification System: Our unfortunate Librarian faces ambush in the jungle

Von Bog-Brush

Well it's blooming freezing in the barracks, so I asked Major Business-Suit if I could start a Hot-Toddies fund. He was frightfully pleased with the idea, but so far I've only raised 20p - don't think that's going to go very far. So meanwhile, it's Brass Monkeys rather than Top Brass or Regimental Silverware for me.

The soldiers around here are all being remarkably well behaved - no subordination in the Ranks (not even the notoriously rebellious Catering or Volunteer Corps) since before Christmas. I am getting increasingly nervous and fear they are about to launch a major assault, particularly if Kaiser Friederich Wilhelm von Bog-Brush gets his hands on Catering's stale bread rolls and launches an assault from under the dining room table. If that were to happen, we're all for it I'm afraid.

Meanwhile at the Indies, the bosses were all very excited about a beauty contest they wanted to organise to entertain the troops, who are out on jungle manoeuvres. I was all for it, having got several years experience organizing concert parties on behalf of ENSA (well - ok - I had a minor role in It Ain't Half Hot Mum, but that's almost the same thing).

Anyway - imagine my dismay when I realized the true intentions behind said beauty contest: they actually want me to rearrange all the books in the Library, with the most attractive facing the door in order to entice members in (rather like an Amsterdam 'shop window' if you catch my drift). It seems that Melville Dewey, the American Library of Congress and several others (did someone mention Ranganathan?) have got it all wrong. Henceforth all books shall be arranged according to appearance. Either that, or I'm retrospectively joining the Indian Mutiny of 1857.

Onwards and Upwards.

Rum, Sodomy, the Lash and Death in the Family

It's a rum do as we say in the Navy. Having silenced Kaiser Wilhelm Friedrich Von Bog-Brush of the 9th Volunteer Rifle Brigade (who - incidentally - felt it best to warn me not to bet the firm on one ship's cat: ie 'back-up' my data, as if he was the only person who's ever considered it), by the cunning insertion of a link to a digital Drop-Box (works every time), and dispatched the Catering Corps by frightening them with an Iron Cross I found hidden in the archives, I went on shore-leave for Christmas.

The Old Boy does Fred Astaire

Said leave didn't go according to plan. My father, that well-known Red-under-the-bed, Enemy of the State, took ill and was dispatched off to the Sick Bay for Christmas. Sadly the old chap (93 and a bit) didn't make it, and the old bugger - in true subversive style - died on Christmas Day. Naturally at this time of year, the old Wheels of Bureaucracy ground to a halt completely so it took a devil of a time to get the old  Death Certificate sorted; and for some poilitico-environmentalist reason the old chap chose to be buried in the woods rather than the more traditional Burial at Sea (or even Synagogue as I'm sure his antecedents would have wished) so we will have to wait another week to say toodle-pip to the old boy.





I'm anticipating something along the lines of a French Cabaret as a woodland burial offers no protection from the elements and the little'uns have requested the inclusionof various farewell rituals ranging from a Bach Cello Suite (infant prodigy grandson) and a self-penned poem (naked-rapper granddaughter  who actually wears no fewer clothes than Rihanna, so may be re-named soon). It's what he would have wanted, bless the old Radical.

The Old Man (centre) attempts to flog the
Daily Worker  in the East End of London

So that's it from me for this week. Next week I hope normal service will be resumed, to bring you more tales of rum doings in the Navy and adventures from my old friend Sir Richard Burton in the enticing East. But meanwhile, it's goodnight from me and goodnight from him.