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.