I have not been able to type the name of the above peoples since The Secretary – in my opinion a little to enthusiastically – slashed the tendons in my left wrist.
The story began on a March morning in a calendar year that rhymes with the name of a popular brand of cheese. At this point however my memory fails me, and nothing remarkable can be said about the intervening period. I do however have rather rude, childishly garish recollections of the moment when the story recommences with The Secretary bursting into my temporary office in the Finchley Road public conveniences offering to cure my arthritis. I told him that I felt fine, but he assured me that it was ‘latent’: for a brute utterly without manners of decency, he can be remarkably persuasive at times, especially when already holding the scalpel with which he intends to operate.
Stalling for time, I asked him what the hell he was talking about and – sagely as it turned out – questioned his sanity. He told me some bizarre story – obviously the deluded ravings of a first class fantasist - that he had been sent to Moscow (3) three months previously by The Society’s ‘esoterica’ department, more specifically by a panel headed by myself. In his foolishness, he claimed that we had sent him to Moscow just to get him out of Societal HQ when mother was visiting because we suspected him to be her favourite (god knows why we would think that ape found favour). Feeling only partially guilt, we had the foresight to plant The President’s crack pipe in his luggage, ensuring that on arrival he would be provided with warm accommodation courtesy of the Russian state. In my opinion, that was a kindness (if it happened, which I formally deny). He asked me why I thought he’d been absent for three months and why the diplomatic service had been trying to contact the Society. “Pish-posh", I retorted, "you’re lazy and a rotter”.
At this point his eyes grew large with some kind of unholy lust. He began to convulse and dropped his scalpel on the floor. It’s metallic clink seemed to restore him to some minimum of normality. His hand, at least, no longer shook in front of me around like a sick puppy's tail. He picked it up and assured me “infection was only a possibility”, took a step forward and pressed his face closer to mine. “I have learned so much, I have become something else” he howled, liberally dosing me with his stinking saliva. He got out a piece of paper: it looked like a Russian fast food menu to me, but he told me that he was now a qualified doctor and that it gave him the right to perform emergency procedures when necessary. Unfortunately he was blocking the door of the cubicle, and I could no more hope to burst past him than I could believe that he had washed in the last month. My horrible fate was sealed. Next time I shall plant the Presidential opium in his suitcase, just to be sure.