19 May 2015
It is my first full day as CIPA President. I am so excited. I cannot wait to start walking the Corridors of Power, even if there is only one of them at CIPA. So I get to 95 Chancery Lane nice and early, and pretend that it is the Biscuit Pixies’ fault that I have arrived with two large boxes of celebratory chocolate things in tow.
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18 May 2015, midnight
So. I am no longer the Pee-to-Be. I am the real, actual Pee. I have spent the last twelve months, as VeePee, waiting to be found out. It has not happened. I have learnt many things, some of them about CIPA and some about myself, but the biggest revelation is that you can hold office for an awful long time before people realise you are totally unfit for it. In fact, they may never realise. You can drop all sorts of hints – and all sorts of straw; you can confess to knowing nothing, and indeed provide convincing proof of the fact; you can trip over your rucksack, spill tea on a baroness’s aide and drink so much gin that the juniper fragrance wafts ahead of you into the following morning’s meetings. And what is the mechanism within CIPA for dealing with this? What protection do the Bye-laws provide against straw-shedding, biscuit-crumb-dropping wurzels? They make you President. Congratulations, everyone. You have just elected the most un-Pee-like Pee that CIPA has ever had. This is a proud and historic moment for all. 18 May 2015, 7 pm
I have drunk several glasses of wine in quick succession, to celebrate having made it through my initiation ceremony. I have also consumed a couple of crackers, some smelly cheese and a stick of celery. But the wine was better. There is a carnival going on outside. People are singing and cheering and playing drums and from the third floor at 95 Chancery Lane, it is possible to imagine that this is all to celebrate the election of a new CIPA President. I know this is not really true, of course, but then I also know there is not really a Big Bad Wolf. No matter. I think I got away with it. 18 May 2015, 11 pm Obviously, now I am President I get to stay in the very best Presidential-quality hotels. Obviously, this is a joke. Even allowing for the lateness of the hour and the worryingly high specific gravity of my bloodstream, it is clear that my hotel room is on the bijou side. The ratio of bed to not-bed is about 10:1. There is a desk, and a stool wedged under the desk, but if you want to use both at once – for instance, to sit on the stool and work at the desk – you have to sit side-saddle with your feet in the waste paper basket. Not that I am in a fit state to work at the desk, you understand, or even to end up in a waste paper basket, but it would have been nice to have the option. I shouldn’t complain, though, because for the price I’m paying it is clearly a privilege to stay here. And at least the high bed to not-bed ratio means I stand a better chance of ending up in the right place overnight, so long as I don’t accidentally mistake the wardrobe for a guest annex. Today is the day. The day of the Annual General Meeting. I am going to be turned into the new CIPA President, or Pee for short.
By 5 pm I am a gibbering wreck. So is Mr Davies, who is the Chief Eggsek and thus likely to get blamed for what happens in the next twelve months. |
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