【Interlude】S01E00.5 ……
【书友最爱小说：梦晓悦读】【女生最爱小说：轻语书屋】Monday, 21 January 1980 | Piico, London | Bitingly cold, with a thick fog
After a day of sheer chaos, I finally have a nt to collect thoughts, though I scarcely know where to begin.
My God, today was… a baptisby fire. Not even the Whitehall winter wind could clear the buzzing in head.
Speaking of the wind, arriving at the DSC building nearly two hours early, the da cold was bone-deep. The fog was thiough to chew, carrying that unique, grichill of the Thas straight into one''''s rrow. Even in a thick overcoat, it felt useless.
The building was still ety, footsteps eg in the corridors. The heating had yet to fully defeat the stubborn cold of the old structure, so I iediately called estates to turn the valves to xi
After double-cheg the to-do list, I went outside to await the Minister. It was nearing dday, but after standing at the entrance for less than ten nutes, fiips were already nu, and the white plus of breath were instantly torn apart by the wind. I regretted not wearing heaviest coat, but it was too late to go back for it. I could only hope the Minister''''s car would arrive soon, so I could escape into the warh. A civil servant froa neighb departnt passed by, ed up like an Arctic explorer. He gave a look of deep syathy, probably thinking this young n was risking his life for the sake of ''''propriety''''—or rather, to ke a good iression on his new Minister.
The new Minister was The Right Honourable Charles Hyde, the Liberal rising star. The papers alortrayed hias eic, rcurial, at tis with a… dangerously uional streak. I wondered if he would be difficult to work for. My na was o Office''''s PPS list; I hadn''''t sed self out, aher had Sir, but the final decision was his. This job… I hoped it would work out.
To be Principal Private Secretary to a Minister of a new departnt was a case of risk and reward in equal asure. Succeed, and it''''s a fine addition to one''''s record. Fail, and I''''d likely spend several years in obscurity in so nistry''''s records office. But re iortantly, the ce to work under Sir, especially frothe ground up in a new departnt, to learn at close quarters how he would captain this new ship, was a rare opportunity.
The thought ward slightly—though it robably just the illusion of warh that follows nuness.
At 11:08, the black Jaguar finally arrived, a little later than scheduled, but at least I hadn''''t frozen solid oeps of Downing Street. I took a deep breath, suppressed the nerves of a neoi—well, the Minister''''s neoi; I was still just a didate—and hurried forward to open his door, ntally running through the protocol and praying I wouldn''''t ke a fool of self by shivering at a crucial nt.
The Minister was re vibrant in person than in his neer photographs, dressed in a brown wool overcoat. His face showed a touch of weariness frothe day''''s cerenies, but when his eyes swept over , they were sharp, assessing, and curious. My tentative pleasantry, "Good Minister. Or rather, good afternoon?" did not, it see, fall flat. The Minister sled aended his hand. A good start.
I delivered planned introdu, perhaps a little too quickly, hurried by the cold. He naturally sheard na, and the "Sir Relahstlee" suanding alst de laugh. I o keep a straight face, clarified, and explaihe vention of ''''Sir'''' in the Civil Service, sothly ntioning role as PPS designate. When the Minister said he was sure we would get along, his eyes were serious. It felt prosing.
Oo his third-floor office, the Minister was affable, askio call hiby his first na, but it had the politi''''s knack for rapidly closing distance. I derred, saying I was re fortable addressing hias Minister. Poised but not obsequious. That was Sir''''s instru, and a civil servant''''s duty.
Pushing open the door to his office, the vast p of Britain I had hung self on the north wall looked on like a silent, sli
After a day of sheer chaos, I finally have a nt to collect thoughts, though I scarcely know where to begin.
My God, today was… a baptisby fire. Not even the Whitehall winter wind could clear the buzzing in head.
Speaking of the wind, arriving at the DSC building nearly two hours early, the da cold was bone-deep. The fog was thiough to chew, carrying that unique, grichill of the Thas straight into one''''s rrow. Even in a thick overcoat, it felt useless.
The building was still ety, footsteps eg in the corridors. The heating had yet to fully defeat the stubborn cold of the old structure, so I iediately called estates to turn the valves to xi
After double-cheg the to-do list, I went outside to await the Minister. It was nearing dday, but after standing at the entrance for less than ten nutes, fiips were already nu, and the white plus of breath were instantly torn apart by the wind. I regretted not wearing heaviest coat, but it was too late to go back for it. I could only hope the Minister''''s car would arrive soon, so I could escape into the warh. A civil servant froa neighb departnt passed by, ed up like an Arctic explorer. He gave a look of deep syathy, probably thinking this young n was risking his life for the sake of ''''propriety''''—or rather, to ke a good iression on his new Minister.
The new Minister was The Right Honourable Charles Hyde, the Liberal rising star. The papers alortrayed hias eic, rcurial, at tis with a… dangerously uional streak. I wondered if he would be difficult to work for. My na was o Office''''s PPS list; I hadn''''t sed self out, aher had Sir, but the final decision was his. This job… I hoped it would work out.
To be Principal Private Secretary to a Minister of a new departnt was a case of risk and reward in equal asure. Succeed, and it''''s a fine addition to one''''s record. Fail, and I''''d likely spend several years in obscurity in so nistry''''s records office. But re iortantly, the ce to work under Sir, especially frothe ground up in a new departnt, to learn at close quarters how he would captain this new ship, was a rare opportunity.
The thought ward slightly—though it robably just the illusion of warh that follows nuness.
At 11:08, the black Jaguar finally arrived, a little later than scheduled, but at least I hadn''''t frozen solid oeps of Downing Street. I took a deep breath, suppressed the nerves of a neoi—well, the Minister''''s neoi; I was still just a didate—and hurried forward to open his door, ntally running through the protocol and praying I wouldn''''t ke a fool of self by shivering at a crucial nt.
The Minister was re vibrant in person than in his neer photographs, dressed in a brown wool overcoat. His face showed a touch of weariness frothe day''''s cerenies, but when his eyes swept over , they were sharp, assessing, and curious. My tentative pleasantry, "Good Minister. Or rather, good afternoon?" did not, it see, fall flat. The Minister sled aended his hand. A good start.
I delivered planned introdu, perhaps a little too quickly, hurried by the cold. He naturally sheard na, and the "Sir Relahstlee" suanding alst de laugh. I o keep a straight face, clarified, and explaihe vention of ''''Sir'''' in the Civil Service, sothly ntioning role as PPS designate. When the Minister said he was sure we would get along, his eyes were serious. It felt prosing.
Oo his third-floor office, the Minister was affable, askio call hiby his first na, but it had the politi''''s knack for rapidly closing distance. I derred, saying I was re fortable addressing hias Minister. Poised but not obsequious. That was Sir''''s instru, and a civil servant''''s duty.
Pushing open the door to his office, the vast p of Britain I had hung self on the north wall looked on like a silent, sli