《No, Minister.(存一下英文版)》用其他笔名

8、[Interlude] S01E00.5 Charles Hyde's Diary

　　Charles Hyde's Diary
　　Monday, 21st January, 1980.
　　Finally home. This morning I wanted a strong cup of tea, but now I just want a whisky.
　　Absurd. The summary of the day.
　　The ceremonies, the oaths, the royal wax seals… all like a play rehearsed to death. The actors change, but the lines remain unaltered.
　　But the real absurdity was yet to come.
　　The Victor on the telephone turned out to be the Cavendish on this side of the door.
　　Absurd tautology, absurd protocol, absurd victor.
　　Victor, my 'Observer' friend, the man who, in a weary voice on the phone, predicted I would be immersed in 'the art of discretion'.
　　Is in fact Alistair Cavendish, my Permanent Secretary. My Acting Permanent Secretary.
　　Acting. What a fitting title for our Observer, a master of the performative arts. His acting is simply divine.
　　I should have known. That precise turn of phrase, that obsession with procedure, that—in retrospect—deliberately maintained distance.
　　I was fooled. That's not the worst of it.
　　I was thoroughly fooled by someone I had taken for an intellectual equal, someone with whom I thought I could share a laugh from the spectator's bench at this circus. That is the worst of it.
　　I thought I had found a kindred spirit, only to discover he was a foxhound.
　　Cavendish. Lord Alistair Cavendish. Even the name sounds like it's walked straight out of a Victorian novel.
　　The day before yesterday, I was prattling on the phone like a clown, enthusiastically walking him through my process of elimination, from the Treasury to the melancholic cod. And he, this damn Victor, was on the other end, listening quietly, enjoying a farce to which he already knew the ending.
　　He knew all along the Prime Minister would throw me into this gilded cage, and that he would be the one to shut the door, the keeper tasked with taming me.
　　Today, I have gained a profound understanding of the essence of the word 'Tautology'.
　　It is not merely a concept in logic. It is a life form. It breathes, it walks, it wears Savile Row suits, and it writes your every move into its schedule.
　　He isn't a guardian of bureaucracy; he is bureaucracy incarnate, a self-calibrating precision machine, weaving a net of procedure and regulation to ensnare all who try to escape.
　　His nonsense about "protocol ensuring red tape, red tape ensuring protocol" sounded so noble, so exquisitely clever. He beautified his surveillance and prediction of my actions as the duty and service of an observer.
　　"Ministerial command is Civil Service writ?" It sounds like submission, but in substance, it's the drawing of a boundary.
　　He says the department's mission is "Subtle Control." How fitting.
　　He is already controlling me, with his precise procedures, his unassailable logic, his calm, arrogant face.
　　And then, the whiteboard. My one, small, specific request. A space for me to scribble freely, to think in chaos. And it, it had already appeared on his damned draft schedule, with a completion time accurate to two o'clock in the afternoon.
　　Checkmate. Before I had even properly seen the board, he had not only anticipated my move but had already written the minutes for it.
　　Excellent, Charlie Fox. You are now locked in a gilded cage, and your keeper has even pre-emptively placed your favourite toy inside, with a thoughtful user manual attached.
　　Well then, let's play.
　　A fox… does not stay meekly in its cage.
　　Since you've prepared a spotlit stage for me, don't blame this fox for a little improvisation in the limelight.
　　Just you wait, Victor. Or should I say, Alistair Cavendish.
　　The game has only just begun.
　　If this ship is the Titanic, I can at least decide the angle at which we hit the iceberg.