Yesterday was a day of retreats. First and foremost came the withdrawal of Albian troops from Iraq, their mission - according to Prime Minister Bragdny Door, at least - accomplished. Having spent some time in Basra during the First Gulf War(1), I suspect that the Prime Minister's assessment of the mission will come as something of a surprise to the average Iraqi, who was hitherto unaware that Albia's goal in Iraq was to bugger up the country's infrastructure, shoot thousands of its people and replace one vile dictator with the prospect of a multitude of petty new ones.
The Prime Minister, meanwhile, was making his own rapid retreat, this time in the face of the forces arrayed against him over his plans to reform BGs' expenses and allowances(2). The PM's authority now appears to be vanishing faster than the polar ice-caps ... and leaving an equally drippy mess behind.
The last retreat is being made by yours truly. I can assure you this is nothing to do with any fear over swine flu and that my choice of residence in a hermetically-sealed, isolation unit on a remote island off Dipfryde is entirely coincidental. I will be back on the 11th(3). However, there is no need to mourn my absence: in a fit of unwonted effort, I have prepared a series of articles on aspects of Albian people and culture I have not previously had a chance to cover in detail. They will appear on Monday 4th, Wednesday 6th and Friday 8th at 9am BST ... assuming I have managed to work the intertube correctly. In the meantime, farewell ... and pass the Darth Vader facemask.
(1) complicated story, I was meant to be covering the Chelsea Flower Show at the time. I seem to recall alcohol may have been involved.
(2) see Swine Flu Fever.
(3) recalled by my sense of duty and not by the fact my credit will only run to a one-week stay at the unit, I assure you.