Resignation is a serious matter, not to be undertaken until the red mists clear. However, as a succession of dull digs and limited pub menus took toll, the initial thought prevailed. Having spent 40 years climbing the greasy pole, and having spent about a year in the comfortable Brize Mess among like-minded and interesting people, I decided not to tolerate the fall in living standards and told Assistant Director Defence I was off and away in one month's time.
He of course had dozens of LB equivalents, all faced by economics into leaving Messes up and down the country. A very bad deal for the services as well as the individuals.
Such was the usual lack of succession planning in the organisation that nobody could be found willing and able to do my job at short notice and foolish enough to live away from home under the new financial regime. After some running round in small circles and disappearing up the usual orifice, Defence Met. suggested that I should serve to age 60 by working from home, car provided, and all relevant comms wired in. Days on the road to attract full subsistence, and at least one day a fortnight at RAF Waddington Main Met. Office retaining currency, reading Orders and generally being available for ear-bashing from on high. Being a decent bloke, I very reluctantly accepted these harsh terms.
Fortunately the house was big enough for a study and the arrangements were quickly sorted. There were some awkward moments, such as having to take a phone call in the bath at 0930. My boss noted the strange acoustics but did not pursue the matter. When "my man in BFG" phoned, there was a long delay, as I had been cutting the grass at the end of a long garden, Joyce dropped me in it, so Germany suggested that Gardening Leave was in progress.
And then two military fuzz arrived on the door step, in the usual flashers' macs and Trilbys.