We were supposed to report to the Household Cavalry barracks in west London at 8.45 but didn’t wake up, in south London, with a crucifying hangover, till nine. I’d been sick in the taxi on the way home, and when I went to put on my suit found that a good deal of it was still stuck to the left leg of my suit trousers. Which made us later still.
We’d been invited to a parade and lunch as a thank-you to The Spectator for sending free copies of the magazine to the regiment the last time they were in Bosnia. I knew it was always going to be a struggle getting to Hyde Park for 8.45. Really we shouldn’t have stayed out so late and drank so much the night before. But as an ex-council worker with a long-term service medal, I’d judged that the Army and the town council were probably similar, in that getting there on time was the main thing. As long as we turned up at 8.45, everything else – my jeans, our taciturnity, our collapsing into the nearest chair – would be forgiven us.
On the council, as long as you clocked in at the depot on time, you could always climb into the nearest skip and go back to sleep. (In my entire career as a council worker I was late for work only once, after being arrested the night before for doing a smash and grab on an off-licence. And even then I saved up my statutory phone call to ring the council supervisor in the morning to tell him I might be a bit late.) If the worst came to the worst, and circumstances permitted it during the parade, I thought, we could always fall asleep behind our sunglasses and wake up, moderately refreshed, in time for a couple of pre-lunch hairs of the dog.
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