Charles Hyde's Diary
January 21st, 1980, Monday.
Finally home. This morning, I wanted a strong cup of tea. Now, I just want a whisky.
Absurdity. That's the conclusion of the day.
The ceremonies, the oaths, the royal wax seals... all felt like a play rehearsed to death. The cast changed several times, but the lines remained verbatim.
But the true absurdity was yet to come.
Victor on the phone, turned out to be Cavendish behind that door.
A tautological absurdity, an absurd protocol of red tape, an absurd Victor.
Victor, my "Observer" friend, the one whose weary voice had predicted my long immersion in "the art of discretion."
Was, in fact, Alistair Cavendish, my Permanent Secretary, my acting Permanent Secretary.
"Acting" – what a fitting title for this observer, a master of performance art. His acting was simply sublime.
I should have known. That precise phrasing, that obsession with procedure, that – now I realise – deliberately maintained distance.
I was fooled. That's not the worst of it.
I was utterly, completely fooled by someone I considered an intellectual peer, someone I thought I could join on the sidelines to mock this circus. That's the worst of it.
I thought I'd found a kindred spirit, but he turned out to be a foxhound.
Cavendish. Alistair Cavendish, Lord Cavendish. Even his name sounds like it's from a Victorian novel.
Just two days ago, I, like a clown on the phone, eagerly rehearsed my "process of elimination" to him, guessing from the Treasury to the "melancholic cod." And he, this damned "Victor," just listened quietly on the other end, like a man appreciating a farce whose ending he already knew.
He knew all along the Prime Minister would throw me into this "gilded cage," and he was the "tamer" responsible for closing the door and breaking me in.
Today, I truly grasped the essence of the word "Tautology."
It's not merely a logical concept; it's a living, breathing, walking Civil Service Code, a Machiavelli in a Savile Row suit.
He wasn't merely upholding bureaucracy; he was a work of bureaucratic art, a precision instrument capable of self-repair and tripping everyone else up.
All that drivel of his, about "protocol ensuring red tape, and red tape upholding protocol" – how noble it sounded, how ingenious! He glorified his "surveillance" and "pre-emption" of me into the "duty" and "service" of an "observer."
"Minister command is Civil Service writ?" It sounds like deference, but in essence, it's a boundary marker.
He said the department's mission was "Subtle Control." Perfect.
He was already controlling me, with his precise procedures, his unassailable logic, his calm, arrogant face.
And then there was that whiteboard. My sole, small, concrete request. A space for my free scribbling, for my chaotic thoughts. And it... it was already on his damned draft schedule, precisely marked "installed by two o'clock this afternoon."
Checkmate. Before I'd even properly seen the chessboard, he'd not only anticipated my move but had already drafted the minutes of the action.
Well, Charlie Foxy. You're now in a gilded cage, and your tamer has even thoughtfully placed your favourite toy inside, complete with instructions.
Then play nicely.
A fox... doesn't stay quiet in its cage.
Since you've prepared a "focal point" stage for me, don't blame this "fox" for improvising under the spotlight.
Just you wait, Victor – or rather, Alistair Cavendish.
The game, has only just begun.
If this is the Titanic, I can at least decide the angle at which it hits the iceberg.
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