Finally.
The plods turned up without prior notification and found me at home and actually working.
They were cagey about the reason so I decamped to the dining room and asked Joyce to take notes.
However, the thrust was regarding the date on which our gear was moved [Joyce keeps an engagement book / diary so life's little events like the dentist cannot be forgotten]. The removal firm [a minor player in the league of movers] were seemingly in the habit of charging M o D for journeys and jobs which owed more to the imagination than the truth. The Feds were offered a swift coffee and departed, never to be seen again.
WFH turned out to be rather hard, and threatened to become harder when I was asked to consider an extension of service to revise the Met Office War Book. The more we looked at it, the more unwise it seemed. There was no safe at home, thus it would have involved a tedious merry-go-round of Wittering for custody, London, Bracknell and Strike for consultations and an increasingly demob-happy family wanting a proper holiday.
Came the day when I became a nobody, having walked into RAF Waddington with a slack handful of passes and all sorts of clearances, and walked out with a list of countries not to visit for several years [countries that I had no desire to visit anyway.]
The DG sent me a nice letter on blue notepaper, and with one leap LB was free.