I found him, as expected, in the tiny cubicle he used for an office. Scuttlebutt has it he repeatedly refused larger rooms, trying desperately to impress the rest of the staff by setting an example of frugality. It didn’t work, but he kept trying and hoping.
His desk was elbow deep in paper covered by tiny little numbers which he alternately peered at and changed while moving various sheets from stack to stack. There were similar stacks on the floor and on the only other available chair, leading me to believe he had been at his current task for some time. Seeing no available space for sitting or standing, I elected to lean against the door frame.
“Working late, Lord Chancellor?”
That earned me a brief, dark glare before he returned to his work.
“If I were a magician, I’d be working late. As Chancellor of the Exchequer, these are my normal hours. For your information, things are going rather smoothly. So smoothly, in fact, I may be able to wrap up early tonight, say in another three or four hours.”
“What are you working on?”
“Next year’s Budget and Operating Plan, and it’s almost done. That is, providing someone doesn’t want to risk incurring my permanent disfavor by trying to change a number on me at the last minute.”
The last was accompanied by what can only be described as a meaningful stare.
I ignored it.
I mean, what the heck! I was already on his bad side, so his threats didn’t scare me at all.
“Then it’s a good thing I caught you before you finished your task,” I said nonchalantly. “I want to discuss something with you that will undoubtedly have an impact on your figures. Specifically, a change in my pay scale.”