Anne Greenwing is short, and has dark hair, apparently.

[caddyman]

It's been an odd sort of day so far. Apparently 24 January is the most depressing day of the year, what with the weather, darkness and realisation that Christmas must now be paid for as the credit card bills come in. Speaking as someone with staggering amounts of perpetual debt, this makes no odds to me, and I quite like cold weather. A bit more day light would be nice, but hey.

So, I personally don't find the day depressing.

On the other hand, it is odd.

This morning, I had to wander off just before lunchtime for a meeting at the Department for Work and Pensions (DWP for short) at the grandly named Adelphi, just up from Embankment. The Adelphi is a strange place. The entrance foyer looks much like a very posh 1920s hotel (indeed, I am told that scenes for a couple of Poirot episodes have been filmed there), with copious amounts of marble and brass. I understand the upper floors are much the same, inhabited as they are, by a number of posh firms who have plasma screens outside their lift entrances, displaying the latest stock market figures. Sandwiched between the two levels however, are offices maintained by the DWP. It is something of a shock to exit the chrome and mirror lifts and walk into a series of offices that appear to owe much to the 1960s, and indeed do not appear to have been painted since then. Our own offices are positively opulent in comparison.

This is a digression, however. On the way over to the meeting, our group had to share a tube carriage with a drunken and belligerent chav who appeared to have had an altercation with the ticket office and was now peddling his drunken aggression on anyone else who took his fancy. Up until a constable from the British Transport Police explained to him precisely why he should behave.

I have to applaud his stamina for being drunkenly coherent before noon. Even the Stockwell Gentlemen's Drinking Club who habitually congregate around the benches outside Stockwell tube station to sample and discuss the merits of the latest shaving lotions and oven cleaners tend to wait until the sun is over the yard arm before hitting the stronger lighter fluids.

Having returned to the office for a late lunch, I am chewing my way through a cheese and onion torpedo while reading the latest Dr Who rumours on the web, when fencingsculptor appears and we have one of his speciality¹ conversations.

The conversation starts normally enough, chatting about the weekend just gone. "I read your LJ entry about the move," he asserts and then proceeds to prove that he hasn't, not properly, anyway². A burst of mild sarcasm later, and we move on to Dr Who rumours from the web.

"I hear Simon Pegg is going to be in it", quoth he.
"Yes," I reply, "for an episode at any rate".
A moment's amiable silence follows, and then I proffer the observation that Tamsin Greig has been cast in a role too.

"Who's she?"
>glare<
"Oh, I know. Black Books. Anne Greenwing. Short, dark-haired girl. "
"Eh?"
"She's the short, dark-haired girl."
"Well I'd say he's quite tall, really. And who's Anne Greenwing?"
"No, she was in Green Wing, and has short, dark hair."
"Who?"
"Tamsin Greig."
"So there's no-one called Anne Greenwing, then?"
"No."
"Just checking."

I need more coffee, and then a smoke, I think.

¹These are bizarre little chats where he appears either unable to remember a reference from a sentence earlier in the conversation or, alternatively, strings concepts together in a misleading way and then appears appalled that no-one understands what he is talking about
²These conversations are even more rewarding when conducted by Microsoft Messenger, by the way.