A good story to tell is a precious thing. I wish you could give them to kids for Christmas, because a good story lasts longer than anything you can wrap up and put under a tree. A really good story will last a lifetime, whether you like it or not. I have such a story. It tends to come up when I am being interviewed to promote a TV programme I’ve made or, as has been the case recently, a book. Whoever is preparing for the interview casts around for something to ask, about anything – in their view – more interesting than the book. I imagine the production office conversation about my prospective appearance goes something like: “What, 10 minutes with him? How am I supposed to make that interesting?” It is at this point that someone, with the help of a search engine, will find a passing reference to the following story.
It was 1991. I was 24, just out of university, with a slow to heal, badly broken leg – a football injury. I didn’t have a clue what to do with my life but happened upon the idea of becoming a diplomat. Accordingly, I did the civil service entrance exams, the standard one and the fast-track test for graduates. I failed them both. And that was the end of that, until a short letter arrived in the post informing me that there was other government work for which I might be considered. I could only assume they needed cleaners or something. The address for a response was given as the director of establishments, Ministry of Defence. OK, so the MoD needed cleaners. Whatever. I ticked the box. Beggars can’t be choosers. I had a mediocre degree, a decidedly gammy leg and I was wildly overweight having been immobile for six months at my parents’ house with my mum providing a running buffet. The director of establishments, whoever that might be, was informed of my interest.
