Bernard was quite wrong. Conscription would certainly be a courageous policy in times of full employment -- but nowadays it would give young people something to do.
In fact, there are other definite plusses. Conscripted young people would be learning trades and skills. Theyd even learn to read -- the army never discharged anyone who was illiterate. In fact, we will be able to give our young people a comprehensive education, to make up for their Comprehensive Education.
We shall call the whole thing National Service, just like they used to -- to remind everyone that the young people will be out in the country, serving the community and the nation.
Its a great policy. A new deal for Britain. I shall call it my Grand Design. Hackers Grand Design. I already have notes for my House of Commons speech in which I shall outline the whole concept: From time to time, in our great island story, it falls to one man to lead his people out of the valley of the shadows and into the broad sunlit uplands of peace and prosperity.
I wonder why I never thought of all this till tonight.
[One reason, perhaps, was that Hacker and Professor Rosenblum had only just met Ed.]
January 26th
Things have really got to change round here, and Im the man to see that those changes happen. [After only a week in office Hacker appears to have slightly lost touch with reality Ed.]
A very busy morning was spent in Cabinet Committee and in appointing the remaining members of my government including some junior ministers. Then I went upstairs to the flat for lunch.
But there was none. As I came in Annie was putting on her raincoat. And she wasnt in too good a mood. When I asked her in a tone of only mild surprise if she was going off somewhere she reminded me that she was late for her Voluntary Services Committee. Whatever that is.
I asked her if there was any chance of some scrambled eggs or something. Anything really. She told me that there were eggs in the fridge.
I couldnt believe it. She wanted me to make lunch. I mean, its not that Im a male chauvinist or anything, but I am the Prime Minister and I do have plenty of other things to do. And as a politician Im not really eligible to eat with all the Downing Street civil servants in the Cabinet mess [attached to the Cabinet Office Ed.].
I can see her point. We did agree that she could carry on with her work if I became PM and we moved to Number Ten. She had been very opposed to the move here anyway, and I begin to see why. Theres not much privacy. We were just discussing the eggs and I was fairly unhappy at finding myself cast as Mother Hubbard when there was a knock on the open door and a young woman messenger marched in with a Foreign Office Green Box.
Foreign Office telegrams, Prime Minister, she explained.
Annie was absolutely fed up. See what I mean? she complained. Its bad enough living in this goldfish bowl anyway. Ive got to be able to get out and live my own life. Every time I want to step out for some cigarettes I have to walk past a dozen journalists, a TV film crew, a bunch of messengers, housekeepers and policemen in the lobby, and fifty gawping tourists at the bottom of the street. Theres no privacy anywhere!
I pointed out that there is a back door. She thinks it makes virtually no difference which door we use. And theres total privacy up here in the flat. Or nearly total privacy. Well, some privacy, anyway.
Our lifes not our own any more. She hammered home the point. What about the President ringing you in bed from the White House at two oclock this morning?
Rather foolishly I replied that it was only nine p.m. in Washington, which, I agree, hardly makes it any better from her point of view. I was about to explain that it was an important call to discuss my forthcoming visit to Washington when there was another knock on the door and in burst two sniffer dogs with tongues hanging out dragging a couple of police dog-handlers behind them. Apparently there was a bomb scare, and they had to search the place.
Annie looked at me and asked, Privacy?
She wasnt being very reasonable, in my opinion. Surely shed rather have security checks than be blown up. I told her that she could always have privacy if she went for a walk in the garden. Ive never seen anyone out there at all.
Ive tried that, she answered with defiance. About sixty people stare at you from the windows of Number Ten, Number Eleven, Number Twelve and the Cabinet Office. Its like exercising in a prison yard and being watched by the inmates and the warders. To think we actually have to pay rent for this place. They should pay us to live here.
I must admit I share her resentment about the rent. I should have thought -- I did think -- that we would be given the place to live in, in view of the great personal sacrifice one makes for ones service to the nation. [Many non-politicians do not see the acquisition of the greatest political power and patronage in the land solely in terms of great personal sacrifice. And many others may wonder why Hacker imagined that, on attaining power, he should be entitled to live rent-free Ed.]
The dogs and dog-handlers left. I said to Annie: Look, its actually a pretty nice place to live, at least its quiet. It was an idiotic thing to say -- no sooner had I uttered it than the bloody brass band started playing on Horse Guards Parade, right outside the window.
She snarled at me. Thats been going on since seven oclock this morning. True, but it is Horse Guards Parade out there, and they are the Horse Guards -- they have to rehearse somewhere. Of course, Im lucky, because Im always up by 7 a.m. in any case.
I tried to calm her down. Be reasonable, Annie. A career of public service inevitably involves some sacrifice.
She buttoned her coat up. Fine. I sacrifice my sleep. You sacrifice your lunch. And off she went.
I ran after her. What did you have for lunch? I called down the staircase.
Half a Yorkie bar.
Seething, I returned to the flat to look for the other half. I couldnt even find it. There were indeed some eggs in the fridge but I just couldnt face cooking. So I meandered gloomily down the stairs and mooched into my study. Hungrily I stood at the window, watching the military band marching up and down. I left a message in the private office that Bernard should pop up to see me as soon as he returned from lunch.
Forty-five minutes later he bounced in, cheerful and well-fed. I turned and asked him if hed had a good lunch.
He was slightly surprised. Quite good, yes.
Where did you have it?
In the Cabinet mess.
Three courses?
Yes.
Wine?
A glass of claret, yes. He paused, trying to understand what I was driving at. Um if youre interested, Prime Minister, I had mulligatawny soup, followed by a veal chop with saut potatoes and
Im not interested, Bernard, I snapped. Do you want to know what I had for lunch?
He sensed that I was upset, but still couldnt quite see why. Um do you want to tell me? he asked.
I smiled unpleasantly. Yes, I snapped. Nothing.
Are you dieting, Prime Minister?
I explained succinctly that I was not dieting. I expressed my total astonishment that there are facilities at Number Ten for feeding Bernard, and all the private secretaries, the whole of the Cabinet office, the press office, the garden-room girls, the messengers but not me. And I bloody live here!
[Garden-room girls is the name given to the very high-class ladies of the registry and typing pool at Number Ten, who worked in a basement room that leads out on to the garden Ed.]
Bernard asked if Mrs. Hacker could cook for me. I reminded him that she has her own job. Then he offered to get me a cook. It looked a good offer -- until closer examination revealed that I would have to pay for it. And, according to Bernard, the cost of a full-time cook would be between eight and ten thousands a year. I cant afford that. Trying to get himself off the hook, he suggested that I talk to the Cabinet Secretary -- obviously he didnt want to get involved in a discussion when it wasnt in his power to change the system.