But we work on.
And when anything goes wrong we won’t be surprised. We have our models, we can foresee.
Much good it does us when nobody listens.
Much good it does us when the central collation of data will always seem to come between God and His elected and give rise to the contradiction of core aims and objectives and also create disproportionate expense.
It is disproportionately expensive for our masters to know anything.
It is disproportionately expensive for our masters to be informed and therefore culpable.
It is disproportionately expensive for our masters to be culpable.
And yet they are still, of course, culpable. Forever.
And now they are forever uninformed.
But we continue to inform them, to toil for them, as if it matters what we do.
I continue to toil also.
There’s a sort of nobility about that.
There’s a sort of stupidity about that.
And after the election some of those I serve will leave and others will arrive — for various reasons, innocent and malign. And I may be ageing, but it seems the new intake is each time not only younger, but more ignorant and happier and more steadfast about its ignorance. They have found it to be their bliss. We must try to inform them — that’s our duty — but, because they don’t like it, we no longer inform them very much. They insist on attending only to their demons — internal and external — and to their familiar spirits who whisper better spells than ours into their ears, draw flattering conclusions.
Their visitors from the outer world: industry, finance and so forth — Business — these are the sources of all wisdom.
They are the Neighbour’s Dogs. A bank, say, lends us someone to talk with, work with, as a new neighbour might ask us to walk, or feed, or please just keep an eye on their dog. You get used to the dog, you know it, you take to it — and then your neighbour has to be your friend. Because of the dog. Whitehall is cluttered with Neighbours’ Dogs. They roam the Estate, shit in the hallways and bark.
Makes me tired. Knackered.
Cynical.
No, this isn’t cynical. This is so far from being fully cynical, I promise … So far from a full awareness of failings and wrongs.
And change will be instituted — inflicted on all but those who institute it — because there must always be change, especially where it is least needed, least expected, least wanted, because that’s where change will catch the eye. My masters like to draw a crowd.
My customers like to yell beside their barrows, squeal in their prams.
Still, it always felt like coming home, this walk to his department. And this had made a kind of sense when he’d been weathering the marital home, avoiding its issues. But with his Chiswick existence now fairly far behind him, he was still overfond of his desk, cherished his mouse pad with its picture of Beauly — a view from Phoineas Hill over Strathglass, to be more accurate. It was a present from Rebecca. With green hills kept too far from him, he could feel most relaxed when he was strolling through the suitable bustle of his professional precincts, or seated and thinking, devoted to his calling, inside a place where he might strive to do good.
He could have that aim.
Becky’s wrong — the office doesn’t eat me. It has eaten me. I was swallowed up long ago.
But that wasn’t so bad, not really, and he was coping with and moderating the challenges of his day. The taxi from Chiswick, defeated by traffic, had dropped him at the far side of Parliament Square and he’d been only negligibly late.
He’d walked the small homecoming distance to his department, thankful that he had an overcoat to wear and hide his shame.
Now my coat is hiding corduroy, brushed cotton and my heart.
A man’s got to have a coat.
Anorak or parka with a business suit — it was a rotten combination, made you look like an estate agent or a copper, and yet one saw it all the time. A declaration of defeat.
And over there on the opposite pavement: grey overcoat with a flash black velvet collar, something approaching a blue suit beneath and caramel-coloured shoes, for God’s sake. Inexcusable. Pacing about and speaking intently into his phone as if the world depends upon him when it doesn’t. I know him. And it does not. He whispers in ears. Thinks he’s an intimidating figure, and that he is large in the world, but that isn’t so. He’ll drop through the fabric of how things truly are and the world will heal over him like water and not a sign will show he ever was.
For some reason the street had looked a bit off, a bit unkiltered to Jon as he’d first rounded its corner — it had seemed weird. It still did. There was something too bright about it, or else too grey — it had badly adjusted colours … badly adjusted something.
God. I’m in a strange mood — joy with phases of fury. I’m going feral in my dotage. It’s the kind of thing one might anticipate if I’d been sent out on secondment to the UN. That place breaks you. It’s not old enough, not enough layers and labyrinths and customs to keep you locked away from rogue motivations, to temper your impulses and moral imperatives. But here — here one can be expected to render acceptable counsel, be open to the necessary pressures, lie down beneath them and have faith that all is well.
Parliament has a long-established mind designed to supersede your own. Its brain has grown into suitably baroque coils and undulations, redundant organs and strange structures of unclear purpose. It dominates — like the will of a grand old beast, like a God set apart from God.
When I’d get a new team member, I used to tell them the story of the Eastern monastery where a cat was always tied up outside the hall while the monks meditated. Whenever a cat died, they’d find a replacement and tie it up. Across centuries. One novice asked why. He was told the community once owned a playful cat which had troubled the monks as they tried to worship peacefully and perfect themselves. So the animal was tied up when they needed calm. And what was once practical and necessary had become a habit and then a tradition and then a sacred necessity. Now no one would think of meditating in the absence of a tethered cat. At the end of the story I used to say, ‘Beyond the obvious implications — try not to be the cat. Don’t let them tie you.’ I haven’t bothered for a while.
No one would ever send me to the UN … Why would they? Why would I think of that? Off the leash in New York and looking for blues connections — being ashamed of myself in the corner of no-longer-smoke-filled clubs … Ridiculous.
He was almost at the office now and could picture the wide and automatically opening doors — two sets, like an airlock. And they’d installed these little gates in the foyer that snapped away and back when you tapped in your key — like gaining access to a provincial railway station.
The decor inside was more reassuring — not luxurious, but of definite quality and in the neutral tones currently preferred by homebuyers and classy landlords. If you paid attention to the standard of your surroundings, you could be reassured that what went on here was of value. Why else have such charming natural wood features and detailing?