I drink several glasses of wine in quick succession, to
celebrate having made it through my Pee Investiting Ceremony. I also consume a couple of crackers, some
smelly cheese and a stick of celery. But
the wine is better.
There is a carnival going on outside. People are shouting and cheering and playing
drums and from the third floor at 95 Chancery Lane, it is possible to imagine
that they are celebrating the election of a new CIPA President. I know this is not really true, of course,
but then I also know that there is not really a Big Bad Wolf. No matter.
I think I got away with it.
18 May 2015, 9 pm
So. I am no longer
Pee-to-Be! I am the real, actual Pee!
Breadstick. More
wine. Smelly cheese. Crisps.
Wine again.
Oh look: a grape!
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. You can, in fact, be a complete numpty.
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.
Wine. Cracker. Grapes.
Wine. Peanuts!!
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, 11 pm
Breadstick.
Wine. Cheese.
Obviously, now I am President I get to stay in only the best
Presidential-quality hotels.
Obviously, this is a joke.
Even allowing for the lateness of the hour and the rather worrying
specific gravity changes in 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. In the bathroom, there is
no room for a shower curtain, so when you use the shower, you also sluice down
the entire floor, giving a whole new meaning to the term “wet room”.
I shouldn’t complain, I know, 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.
Wine. Peanuts. Who put this celery in my rucksack??!