From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 158)
Today has been a black day. I blame the cheese. I should never had had the Stilton at luncheon.
The day began with one of Griffin’s omelettes. I can only assume an ill omen passed overhead for it was spectacularly dreadful, even by his standards. I felt quite queasy afterwards. It certainly encouraged me to eat out come midday.
I spent the morning reading up on paperwork I’d removed from the office. Completely forbidden of course. The reports are generally locked away securely, as if they’re government secrets. I suppose some are - but I digress - it was barely a challenge to liberate them and bring them home. Honestly, one expects better security from one’s own department.
They made depressing reading. All signs point to war, and after the hard work that I, Alice, and so many others have done to pull the country back from the brink. We’ve risked our necks time and time again for King and Country. It’s not like I expect thanks. In fact, I’d find such a thing far too embarrassing. What I don’t expect, however, is all the bloody politicians undoing all my - our - hard work. The wrong word in the wrong place and six months’ worth of missions, the death of three spies, and various other hardships, all willingly endured, are done away with in a trice. And for what? These wretched sparring matches between those parliamentary fools are rarely for the good of the people, and more about boosting their own damn egos.
At my club I overheard a number of fools talking about being patriotic. This was followed by how ready each and every one of them were prepared to go into battle. They spoke of the Boer War as if it had been little more than a jolly vacation and talked enthusiastically of the practical improvements that have been made in the killing of one’s fellow man. Not a single one of them under sixty, and none of them going to see any further action.
Gods, but I despise these old men. I sometimes wonder what the world might be like if it were run by women. I simply cannot see those who have to spend nine whole months and undergo frightful pain in order to create a human life being so eager and ready to sacrifice the youths of our society the battlefield.
One always hopes that wisdom comes with age, but it appears not to be so for the crusty old duffers at my club. I’m sorely tempted to poison their whisky and do away with the lot. Except, it is rather a fine whisky, which would be a terrible waste, and I suppose I might get into a modicum of trouble with the department.
Ah, well. I’ll press on regardless, continuing to strive to bring peace to the world, or at the very least, shorten any war. Considering the idiots that surround me, is it any wonder that I prefer the company of the gentler sex? Although, I have to say, the lady I’m currently seeing, I shall call her Ruby here, is a positive wildcat in the bedchamber. Now that’s the kind of active engagement I really enjoy.