I prepare to enter my new role in life

27/08/2008 by April First.

Spent the morning reading up on military intelligence.

MI1 it seems belongs to the director of military intelligence. It is also the home of the cryptography unit – which the file helpfully pointed out was the transformation of data in order to hide its information content, prevent its undetected modification, or prevent its unauthorized use. MI2 was responsible for Russia, the Baltic States and Scandinavia, while MI3 was responsible for Germany and Eastern Europe.

That then took me naturally onto MI4 which controlled eye-view reconnaissance (which apparently meant surveillance by the old method of following someone around) and MI4 itself came under MI5, domestic intelligence and security. As I already knew,

MI6 handled the overview of foreign intelligence and security, while MI7 looked after alien invasions and general activity from beyond the sky. I was glad they had that covered.

I studied the rest of the list and set it aside. Somehow having access to this information seemed to have put me at the heart of our country, for, I reasoned, if the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is about anything it is about knowing what is going on. And I felt I knew.

And if I didn’t I soon would.

As I put my files away in the broom cupboard under the stairs I reflected on the fact that by and large this birthday was the best birthday I have had. Not only had military intelligence accepted me, that evening I had taken my best friends to the regular Saturday evening dance (or “bop” as we Dancers call it), at the Rat and Hedgehog in MadDogs Avenue, and wowed them with my newly acquired skills. True to their promises earlier in the week, several gentlemen from the dance classes were there and they were able to lead me through a myriad of steps. Oh how I floated. Oh how they admired my skill. I am even quite looking forward to a return to work.

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At last my talent is recognised

26/08/2008 by April First.

The bank holiday weekend, and my birthday. 19 cards, plus phone calls from the family. The one from my Aunt Melina was apparently in Klingon. I phoned to ask for a translation but she was out. Aunt Melina is currently appearing at the Hippodrome as a knight trapped within a mechanical game invented by a seven-year-old. I suggested to my uncle that this sounded more like a pantomime than a summer entertainment. He agreed with a sigh, but said, “you know what your Aunt is like.”

But much more to the point, among saturday’s post I received, to my utter amazement, astonishment, delight, glee, general enhancement and I must admit a certain level of tension and apprehension (aren’t emotions complicated?), a letter from MI6. They expressed considerable interest in my application and suggested that I called them at once. I phoned at 10.03am and was told by one Wayne Hellinger-Sztompke that a field officer would visit my house at 10.15am. I was advised to keep the matter completely secret, so I am deliberately not writing this in my diary.

A Mr Roger Beshears turned up at 10.16am, apologised for being late but said it took him longer to walk down the garden path than he had anticipated.

I invited him in, offered coffee, offered a biscuit and offered to listen.

“You work for Mr Berlusconi ,” he said. I was about to deny it when I remembered that was the name of our headteacher. “When you return to school he will no longer be there. We are gathering data on his successor wish you to work with us. You will be assigned to MI17.”

“I thought you were MI6,” I said. “Foreign intelligence and security.”

“How do you know that?” he asked looking around cautiously. “Have you been approached by… others?”

“I’m just impressive,” I told him. “And I looked it up on the Guardian web site. That’s why I applied – overseas surveillance. I have been practising my dancing.”

“Dancing?” he asked curiously.

“A woman can pass herself anywhere if she knows enough dance steps,” I told him with more certainty than I felt. “What is MI17 Mr Beshears?”

“Administration,” he replied, adding, “call me Roger”.

“But I am already an administrator,” I said.

“An excellent qualification,” Call me Roger replied. “You are ideally placed. I look at you and cannot believe you are not really an administrator at all. You know how to administer, and I have heard on the climbing plant you are brilliant at the task. You will be in charge of co-ordination of data received, collating reports, and returning them to me.”

“No dancing?” I asked.

He confirmed there would be, as far as he could see, no dancing, although stranger things, he suggested, can happen to those of us inside military intelligence.

“But why are MI6 interested in Mr Berlusconi’s successor ?” I asked.

“That, of course, is secret, but I can tell you that the request has come from MI9. You will find your school changed.”

“Who are MI9?”

“Clandestine operations – escape and invasion.” He spoke in a tone that suggested surely I, as a respected member of MI17 would know that. I gave a nod to suggest that of course I did and was just testing him out.

I asked if there was a list of all the MI’s. “In your briefing pack,” he said, handing over a ring binder from his case. “Study it well, keep it safe. You live here alone?”

I told him I did, hoping he didn’t check the electoral roll. At the last count there was 86 in the broom cupboard. “The assignment,” he added “is to find out about the people running your school, as well as what happened to Mr Berlusconi . You will gather data and forward to me.”

I then suggested to my visitor that MI6 was surely already pretty much up to speed on the issue of how schools worked, and that if not they could ask the Department for Cushions and Soft Furnishings. Surely us worthy servants in MI17 had more we could offer in other fields. Whatever is happening at the school now is probably just a case of a lack of nutritional value in the custard and outbursts of swine fever among certain teachers.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Call, getting interested. Despite myself I had let myself get onto first name terms. “I knew you would be a first class operative. “File me more reports and we will get on famously.”

“But how?”

“You should wear your hat,” Call told me. “Would you like to come out for a meal tonight?”

I told him I was going dancing.

“I liked your notion of casual vandalism as a hobby,” Call said reminding me of what I put on my application form. “But we also need to know about the missing money from last term.”

“I like to keep up appearances,” I said.

“I’ll see you at the dance tonight then,” he said.

“What missing money?” I said.

“Do you jive or Salsa?” he said.

“But you don’t know which dance I’ll be at.” I said.

“The £2.5 million illicitly taken from the DfES,” he said.

“Ceroc,” I said.

“You can rely on military intelligence,” he said.

“We’re talking code, aren’t we?” I asked, “answering questions before they are answered,” but he was gone. I rushed down the garden path. “Where do we meet?” I asked breathless.

“At funerals,” he said.

“Any particular sort of funerals?” I aseked.

“Funerals of Romanians.”

“In Britain?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t they hard to find?””

“That’s the point.”

I bade him goodnight, feeling rather impressed. I appear to be a spy. And MI17 does seem to have a certain ring.

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Summer hols

21/08/2008 by April First.

And so I went on holiday.

It was, in essence, a stunner.  Slovenia is an incredible country which I cannot hope to describe, but here’s a few bits.

First, you can’t get England’s national dish (MacDonalds) there.  That, for me is a good start.  There are virtually no fast food outlets at all - no KFC, Burger King or anything.

Second it is beautiful beyond compare - I stayed in the Julian Alps, at Lake Bled, and it looks like a film set.  Even when I fell into the lake (my first adventure into an Alpine lake in fact) it was fun and not nearly as cold as I thought.
Third,  the music.  Bled is a small town, but every night there are at least two, sometimes four, free musical events going on.  From Irish folk music at the bandstand to two guys playing 1950s rock on guitars in the shopping centre.   Live music is what Slovenia seems to live for, and it is utterly wonderful.   Of course if you don’t like live music, then the place loses its appeal, but if you enjoy cafe society with scenery that looks like it was painted into a 1960s movie backdrop (castle at the top of a mountain, that sort of thing) with real people playing real music that they love to an appreciative audience, this is the place.

And there is the friendliness.  And the fact that the three year olds speak English.   Plus all the usual stuff to see (the caves are particularly beyond belief - mile after mile of underground caverns with stalactites and the stuff that goes the other way - they have trains that drive through the caves so you can see them).

One of the most amazing things was the music from Macedonia.   I have to admit I wasn’t too sure about it - knowing that Macedonia was next to Greece, and that personally I am not a fan of Greek music (all that plate throwing), so I sat by the door ready for a quick exit.   But a Macedonian band turned up to play one night in the Festival Hall.  (This is a town of 5000 people and it has a magnificent, modern, festival hall, that puts on free concerts).  It was utterly sensational.  A choir of 11 women, and a band of 7.    Beyond anything I have ever heard.

Stupidly I didn’t have enough euros with me to buy the CDs so I am still searching on the internet to be able to get a copy.   Macdeonia looks like being my next destination, although I did meet this Irish guy who suggested that Waterford would suit me down to the ground if it was folk music I wanted, and he had a spare room in his apartment.  But I think I will stick with Macedonia - and a lot of recommendations to everyone I know that they should go to Slovenia.

One little word of warning.  I went to the Post Office to buy Euros before setting out, and was told (and indeed shown on an official PO notice) that Slovenia’s currency was not the Euro but in fact the Flavian Pibble Bead.   This is untrue.  They are an EU country and they have the Euro.  Couldn’t be easier (except of course that we are not in the euro and so the exchange rate is really naff - that was why the Irish were having such a great time - no problems with an exchange rate).

Go there - if you like people who don’t shout, don’t argue, where there are no police cars racing by with sirens blaring, where everyone looks healthy, where the weather is great (4 days of sunshine, one night of violent lighting, one day of cloud and then repeat), where everyone speaks wonderful English, where the national dish is the cream cake…

On Monday I am back to school.  Hey ho.

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A disbelieving end to the term

02/08/2008 by April First.

The auditors came into our office and informed us that we had received £300,000 from the DfES before it mutated, that we should never have received. Janice agreed this was the case, but countered with the story appearing in the press that we had in fact had £700,000. “This money,” she stated, “never arrived, and yet it is being credited to our account. Which means we are £670,000 plus interest down. When will we get that?”

The auditors shook their heads and started to explain that this was not how the world worked when I inadvertently took out my wooden ruler and taped it on my desk. A look of terror passed the auditors faces and they backed out of the door.

Another auditor appeared two minutes later. He was six feet four and had horns – although I may have been mistaken on that point.

“Ms First,” he announced as I sat down. I nearly missed the chair. He knew my name!

He looked at me curiously. “Don’t rush,” he said.

“Thank you sire,” I replied.

“I like your work,” he announced, lifting up a copy of the analysis of staffing levels in non-teaching departments which I had written four years previously. “Your reports. They are about people.”

“I try and write about them,” I said. “Sincerity is the key.”

“You joined administration late in life,” he said.

I had no idea where this was going, but I did know that it was important for me to throw him a few false leads. That is what us military intelligence administrators do. I think.

“I worked for a while as a mud wrestler before becoming a merchant seaman,” I admitted.

“Are you always this modest?”

“Only tomorrow.”

We looked at each other. “I am given to understand that you arranged some additional finance for the school.”   I said nothing, as befitted my regular involvement in state secrets, and tried my best to keep my head still. “Something to do with some Latin students. I believe you are now in charge of Grant Mining.”

“Latvian,” I corrected. (Grant Mining?)

“Quite so,” he said. “A sum of £350,000, I am told.”

“Not quite that much,” I said. “These things always get exaggerated. If it is a matter of accounting…”

He waved my remarks aside imperiously. Well, I think it might have been imperiously, although I have to admit I have never actually seen an imperious wave having never been to Rome. But it was another Italian connection. I watched him even more carefully. He cut the air with the side of his hand, while moving it at around 25 degrees to the plain of the earth. “My question to you is, how fast can you get this additional funding?”

“Are you wanting to take me around the world with you?” I asked.

“No, I just want you to use your talents to raise the school some more money.”

“Are the banks shut?”

“No I want you to raise the money without our having to pay it back.”

“A non-internet, non-repayable eternal loan from the Dept for Cushions and Soft Furnishings?” I asked.

He nodded and I chose this moment to look at him curiously – or was it crimsonly. With luck he was going to do my entire MI5 project in one go. With no luck I was going to look guilty and give the game away. Put another way, I was either about to get promotion both at school and in military intelligence simultaneously or be locked up for 20 years for stealing from the government that now employed me twice.

“We could have a beetle drive,” I said.

He looked at me blankly. “John Lennon as chauffeur,” I tried. Silence.

“Why do we want more money?” I asked.

“It is this town,” he sighed. “We should never have taken it from the Russians. As it is, the school can always do with more money. The staircase to the music block is apparently unfit and liable to collapse, and the head’s study could do with redecorating. And I am told that there is a plan to take the recruitment of supply teachers away from the management and give it to administration, which means administration will need extra staff. But mostly it is physics. I am ready to make the supreme sacrifice. When cornered I am capable of anything.”

I continued the disbelieving look. Not because of what he said, all of which made sense (apart from the bit about redecorating – the dentists had done that only a week before – and the bit about sacrifice, and the stuff about being capable didn’t sound right either) but because he seemed to have realised that we paid for things with money. Quite how he found that out was utterly beyond me. As far as I knew no headteacher in history knew stuff like this.

But if this was what the auditor wanted, and if I was being seen as central to his drive for the funds, then not only did this play straight into my role with MI5, it would allow me to keep the project rolling for weeks, if not months. I could have an interesting time raising the funds, and report back to my MI6 controller with the details of what I was doing, and be sure that my information was complete, not least because I was the source. A splendid time was likely to be had by all. I would mark the money. I just wished military intelligence had confirmed my position.

I told him I would look into the matter at once.

“That is the mark that sets you apart from the world,” he announced.

I cleared my desk, exchanged hugs and kisses all round, and left to go on my holiday.

Slovenia is booked, but I might slip across the border.

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I think I am getting the hang of this

01/08/2008 by April First.

Sometimes, I begin to wonder if our school is typical.

We have been invited to take over the whole SATs process for the country.  The head and deputy head have been discussing it in a makeshift HQ - a tent on the playing fields. Janice also believes that they are going to attempt a wholesale re-structuring of the administration of the school.

I asked Janice what we should do about that.   She said that we had a number of ways of handling the matter.

“First there is the issue of witchcraft in the town,” she said.  “Then there is your contact with MI5.  Havoc Blythe knows all about the Cult of Merlin and our senior managers are sitting in a tent.   You and I have changed the entire parking culture within parts of the town, we have a set of deals with every estate agency within 30 miles, and even though the dentists have gone back to Latvia we are still in contact and they worship you as the person who gave them their big break in England.”

I told Janice about my concerns as to whether the school is typical.

“Do other schools have spiders eating all the W’s from their typewriter?” she asked.  “Do other schools have Binky who thinks that her mobile ringing is a bird trapped in the staff room roof?”

“I am not sure they do…”

“But do you know what Havoc Blythe found in the staff room roof when the ceiling was taken down looking for Binky’s bird?”

I said I didn’t.

“Ask him after your holiday,” she said.

“But really,” I replied, “is this normal?”

“You know the Dept for Cushions and Soft Furnishings?” she asked.  “Is that normal?”

And so we left it.   I went dancing in the evening with Binky.  I think I am getting the hang of this.

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School under attack. Police called.

31/07/2008 by April First.

The headteacher reappeared for the first time since the end of term.  And all hell broke loose.

As we put the story together later, it turns out that the Head of Design and Technology had, contrary to all convention and agreement, been getting the children to work with wood. Three of them had built a wooden sword, put on Jack Sparrow costumes and taped into on the inside of the door of the Head’s office on the last day of term, as a little jape.

It seems that the alarm system fixed to the door was only programmed to recognise metal and explosives, and classified all other materials as being of alien origin.  When the head unlocked the door, the security system considered itself to be under attack by a technology from beyond the stars the door flew open in submission, instantly breaking itself off its hinges and falling on the Head’s head. 

This event then turned on the sprinkler system within the office, which effectively destroyed the school’s entire admin system, leaving us without work.   

A new and even more viperous round of betting developed on the timing at which each of the inevitable Four Stages that would follow would take place. We then had a debate as to whether “viperous” was a word or not, and if so what it meant. Dr Havoc-Blythe, who had made a killing in the previous round of betting, arrived in school (how DOES he know when to come in) and joined in the debate and contributed to the wagering. On a vote “viperous” was allowed. 

The gist of what would follow hard on the heels of the attack on the Head’s study was itself never in doubt. With all our records gone, we were helpless, and would have to re-do the timetable in longhand, and use Rent-A-Teach, more properly known as Central Supply, the supply teacher agency to cover missing people next term.  The staff there would (as always) promise the earth and deliver (metaphorically if not literally) a load of earth. If you take my drift. (Havoc-Blythe interjected at this point that “a drift” is “a flow” but I am not asking you to take my flow. A drift it stays.)  

Working from memory the Head ordered us to do our best. We sat and waited.

As the emergency services did a final sweep of the Head’s study the anti-terror squad arrived, interviewed us all, and told us not to leave town for a couple of days.  We went to the Toppled Bollard for lunch.

Back home in the late afternoon I found one of the old military intelligence postcards and stuck it in the window of my living room.   They might be interested in developments.

Fortunately my own summer holiday starts on Saturday, so this interruption to work is unlikely to affect me greatly.

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