《No, Minister.(存一下英文版)》用其他笔名

3、【Interlude】S01E00.5 Cyril's Diary and Memos (1980.1.19-21)

　　【Interlude】 S01E00.5 Cyril’s Diary and Memoranda (19-21 January 1980)
　　Saturday, 19 January 1980 | Pimlico, London | Overcast and cold, with a thin mist
　　A Saturday morning ought to have been a morning of welcome quiet.
　　However, just past eight, the doorbell rang.
　　A messenger from the Cabinet Office handed me a sealed manila envelope, the flap stamped with the conspicuous crest of his department.
　　I opened it. A transfer order. The wording was concise, efficient, and carried an unquestionable authority:
　　'Mr Cyril Astley is hereby temporarily seconded to the Preparatory Unit of the Department of Synergy Coordination (DSC), to assist in the establishment of its framework and initial operations. Effective immediately. Reporting to: Mr A. Cavendish.'
　　The Department of Synergy Coordination.
　　The name had been whispered along the corridors of Whitehall for a day now, the newborn of a hung parliament's compromise, with a name as awkward as an academic thesis. And I, a young man who had only recently climbed to the rank of Principal on the Civil Service □□, was being drafted directly into its core preparatory unit, reporting directly to him.
　　The legends about him were already legion among junior civil servants. Not because of his distinguished surname—though that was certainly a topic of conversation—but because of the dizzying pace of his ascent and the stories that followed him: how, in a Department of Energy budget review, he had reversed the entire course of a project with a single, devastatingly logical memorandum; how, during a thorny inter-departmental coordination, he had compelled several Permanent Secretaries, far his senior, to concede with grudging respect; and that ever-present air of calm precision, as if he could see through everything.
　　And, of course, the talk of how he was 'burnishing his silver spoon'. There were always those who sourly suggested his rise was owed to his birth, while selectively ignoring that every step he took was planted on the irrefutable bedrock of merit. I knew he was not fond of his title; from what I'd gathered, it had something to do with the invisible ostracism he'd encountered in his early years on account of it. In Whitehall, a silver spoon can become a burden if you do not polish it into gold yourself. He, evidently, understood this well, and had forged it into a weapon.
　　During a brief rotation at the Treasury, I had the good fortune to work for a short time in a subordinate section of his team. I had observed him chairing meetings from a distance on several occasions: quiet, sharp, with not a superfluous word.
　　In fact, it was perhaps even earlier, at Balliol, when I was still an undergraduate, that I first witnessed his calibre. He must have been a Treasury official then, reviewing education spending, visiting the college for an informal consultation, a hearing on the education budget. A small secret: it was listening in on that session that finally convinced me to sit the Civil Service examinations.
　　But respect is one thing; my current feeling was more akin to trepidation. Seconded to build the framework of an entirely new department? The responsibility far exceeded my current grade.
　　But the order read, 'Effective immediately'.
　　So much for the weekend. Time to pack and report for duty.