West Bromide Albion 2

In the sepulchral depths of the Ministry for Education the air conditioning was on the blink again. Resembling an arctic explorer, Claude Biggins was failing to write out his weekly report for the big-wigs on the eightieth floor. He had discovered at least one of the reasons Scott hadn’t taken a computer on his journeys; keyboards were not designed to be used with thick mittens. He was timing how long he could go on without protection on his hands and had made it up to 2 minutes and 35 seconds. “Must be growing accustomed to it” he said aloud, shaving the frost from the screen of his terminal with an old American Express card he’d found whilst wandering about Hyde Park one Sunday afternoon. There was the sound from behind him of a heavy sledge being pulled by a tea lady. “D’youwannacuppathendear?” “Yes, thank you very much Mrs E.” “Annastickydear?” Claude inspected the permafrosted buns and Iceberg cakes with glacier cherries and thought better of it. “No thanks Mrs E.; just the tea.” “Thereyougodearbyefornow.” The tea sledge scraped away down the aisle propelled by the heavily wrapped Mrs. 

E. Hocroft Simmons jnr. Sat in his environmentally controlled supervisor’s office studying the security camera monitors and turned to his secretary. “I’m a bit concerned about young Claude,” he sipped his coffee and sighed contentedly. “Why Sir?” The servile tones of his secretary grated on Simmons’ nerves and he had never liked the way he managed to pronounce capital letters. “His heart doesn’t seem to be in it any more. I’ve noticed his attention wandering more and more these days. I wonder if there is a problem at home, or whatever it is worries youngsters nowadays.” He fiddled with the controls of the controls of the security camera and focused on the Scott-like figure hunched over its terminal. “Shall I break out the parka,” there was the tiniest of pauses, just enough not to be rude, “Sir?” “I think not Wilkins; perhaps we should just, how can I put it?” “Be aware of a potential weak link,” again the pause, “Sir?” “Very well put Wilkins. See to it.” “As you wish, Sir.” Although Wilkins didn’t rub his hands together with the sound of autumn leaves rustling on the forest floor, he should have done; perhaps with a bit of moustache twiddling thrown in for good measure. It wasn’t that he hated Claude, he didn’t actually hate anybody (apart from his Uncle Reginald of course) he was just one of life’s moustache twirlers. He could do a damn good evil chuckle as well. In a previous life he would have been a Vizier or knife wielding priest spilling the blood of sacrifices, not gleefully that would be wrong, but with ruthless efficiency. It was almost certainly one of his ancestors who worked out the relative cost of bullets and Zyclon B. Still, he was tall and bald with a nose you could open envelopes with so what choice did he have? You can’t fight genetics.