Westminster Worrying

My third day in the Houses of Parliament and things, while not exactly going terribly, frequently totter along upon a tightrope suspended above tragedy. The major problem is that while I am absolutely in love with the place, I am also terrified of it in an equal measure- hardly a good recipe for an individual of naturally neurotic temperament and blundering, inept method.

A major incident today and an example of my deficiencies: I was charged with picking up four coffees from the bar four floors below. Well, not only did I confuse which required an 'extra shot' (the cappuccino) with the one which required 'extra milk' (the americano- a little strange, you must admit!) but I obviously spoke too slightly for the guy behind the counter who smilingly provided me with medium, instead of the requested large, size. I discovered this to my consternation on the way back up in the elevator so immediately had to head back down to the ground floor where I wrangled with the guy to place the original drinks in bigger cups which, to his credit, he eventually did. I hardly noticed the latter however, for now the chocolate powder in the cappuccino was everywhere and the four drinks were too heavy to take back upstairs...

...Things weren't looking so good in the lift so I crossed my fingers but, on my return to the office, I realised that not only had I, indeed, mixed up the order (as outlined) but that, furthermore, I had forgotten the crisps! Down I headed again, all the while conscious of what a ridiculous figure I cut, preparing to be gunned down by the anti-Terror police (Village Idiot Branch) at any moment. I had to go to the big restaurant this time and it was extremely busy but I pushed my way through and grabbed a packet of Walkers, concerned about the negative sentiments, no doubt spreading like wildfire upstairs. Well, you wouldn't credit it but as soon as I had lobbed them at the checkout assistant and taken my change, a little nagging voice began speaking up at the back of my brain telling me that I might have picked up the wrong packet...

Guess what? It was right!

Barging back through, I found the larger, sea-salt variety for 65p and instantly the voice of the guy who had given me the money flashed back across my brain:

"The big packet, Neil, yeah? Are you listening?'

Desperate now, I was back in the lift, shooting up to the fourth floor... Luckily the connecting door between the main part of the office and the place where I worked was closed and nobody was about so I dashed to the cupboard, got my own money out of my duffle-coat pocket and returned to wait for the elevator. It was about now as I recall, tapping my foot impatiently, I turned and was absolutely astounded by a marvellous view of the toppermost part of Big Ben just across the road. It was so close, like the moon at its largest, all its ornate, golden bits flashing in the light of the winter sun... but there was simply no time!

I finally sorted everything out but not without some damage to my already well-tarnished reputation in the office. Suffice to say, there were some twisted, unconvincing near-grimaces levelled at my person when I finally got to return to my desk with my own cup of coffee and continue to fudge the constituency mailing list.

How much longer I have in this exciting, stimulating, stressful environment is debatable...