Small beer is still beer

I am in a state of grin right now, which contrasts nicely with yesterday's state of grumble.

The Parliamentary Question I was expecting and dreading did indeed arrive this morning. Complete, as feared, with comedy deadline.

I have, however, fulfilled a minor ambition today; one which only makes sense to someone who has worked as a UK civil servant in a headquarters building. Written PQs are deadly and fearsome things requiring that everything else is put on hold and a full and proper answer, devoid of any political content is provided together with background notes as necessary, for the Minister.

The PQ was along the lines,

To ask the Deputy Prime Minister, pursuant to his Answer of 3rd July, Official Report, column 461W on housing revenue account, whether housing revenue account money may be used to fund the....(blah, blah).

For the first time in nearly twenty years in this God-forsaken pit, I was able to give a brief and appropriate answer with no background:

No.

Read it in Hansard on Thursday.

Unless I'm carted off to the Tower for taking the piss in the meantime.

Small beer is still beer

I am in a state of grin right now, which contrasts nicely with yesterday's state of grumble.

The Parliamentary Question I was expecting and dreading did indeed arrive this morning. Complete, as feared, with comedy deadline.

I have, however, fulfilled a minor ambition today; one which only makes sense to someone who has worked as a UK civil servant in a headquarters building. Written PQs are deadly and fearsome things requiring that everything else is put on hold and a full and proper answer, devoid of any political content is provided together with background notes as necessary, for the Minister.

The PQ was along the lines,

To ask the Deputy Prime Minister, pursuant to his Answer of 3rd July, Official Report, column 461W on housing revenue account, whether housing revenue account money may be used to fund the....(blah, blah).

For the first time in nearly twenty years in this God-forsaken pit, I was able to give a brief and appropriate answer with no background:

No.

Read it in Hansard on Thursday.

Unless I'm carted off to the Tower for taking the piss in the meantime.

(no subject)

Gentle reader, the worst of all contingencies has come to pass.

My electric fan, the Punkah-wallah 2000 is no longer capable of exerting a cooling influence on my room. Operating at maximum velocity, it merely shifts hot air around the room. Far from wind chill, I feel like the Sunday roast in a fan oven.

And self-basting, to boot.

London was somewhere in the low 90s today. The Evening Standard was crowing the fact that intepid reporters who, in previous generations would have sought out Livingstone on the Dark Continent, had essayed the Tube and discovered the truly un-British temperature of 98F.

It has come to this: I have broken out and donned my shorts. Woe unto me and all that is civilized. That it should come to an Englishman wearing shorts outside the environs of the rugby field. But it is true, and it is the only way to gain a measure of relief without contravening a number of basic precepts of decency and dignity one hesitates to mention.

So, Bryan's army surplus legs are on display.

And what a sorry sight are these once fine pins.

Pale and freckly, they look rather too much as if carved from day-old porridge. And my scabby left knee (the recovering remains of the fall a fortnight back) looks as though I have knelt on a particularly elderly raisin.

Pass the knotted hanky. I cannot fall further so improperly attired.

(no subject)

Gentle reader, the worst of all contingencies has come to pass.

My electric fan, the Punkah-wallah 2000 is no longer capable of exerting a cooling influence on my room. Operating at maximum velocity, it merely shifts hot air around the room. Far from wind chill, I feel like the Sunday roast in a fan oven.

And self-basting, to boot.

London was somewhere in the low 90s today. The Evening Standard was crowing the fact that intepid reporters who, in previous generations would have sought out Livingstone on the Dark Continent, had essayed the Tube and discovered the truly un-British temperature of 98F.

It has come to this: I have broken out and donned my shorts. Woe unto me and all that is civilized. That it should come to an Englishman wearing shorts outside the environs of the rugby field. But it is true, and it is the only way to gain a measure of relief without contravening a number of basic precepts of decency and dignity one hesitates to mention.

So, Bryan's army surplus legs are on display.

And what a sorry sight are these once fine pins.

Pale and freckly, they look rather too much as if carved from day-old porridge. And my scabby left knee (the recovering remains of the fall a fortnight back) looks as though I have knelt on a particularly elderly raisin.

Pass the knotted hanky. I cannot fall further so improperly attired.