There are some civil servants who have gone down in history as great leaders, possessing astute minds coupled seamlessly with razor sharp wit.

And then there is the office where I work.

I do constantly strive to do good for Queen and country, though.

Today I worked out a way to reduce call times in the call centre, by way of introducing a new law.

Caller: Could you just confirm if my address is correct on the system?

Disaffectedcivilservant: Would love to, but couldn’t possibly.

Caller: Why ever not?

DSC: To do so would breach the Data Disclosure and Disability and Morbidity in a Target Driven Working Environment Act.

Caller: Oh… ok then.  Bye.

DSC: Thanks for calling, have a nice day, now.

All over and done with in sixty seconds. 

Enough time for me to add jam and cream to my scone before another poor unfortunate happened to call my line.

Working in the service is akin to a journey.  A journey fraught with boredom, apathy and occasionally tragedy.

Huge volumes of calls, paperwork so high that by the time you have cleared it sixteen people have occupied the desk opposite you and then left and you’ve never even met them, information goes missing and the press bandy round accusations of inefficiency and uselessness.

But then there are days when you really wish you hadn’t got out of bed.

Days when every silver cloud is solid black inside and you wish you had died in the night just so you wouldn’t have to suffer the following day.

That’s right.

I ran out of tea bags.