“I have London on the line, sir.”
“What do they want?”
“They’re asking about the penguins.”
“The penguins?”
“Yes, remember, penguins is the codeword . . .”
“For what?!”
“You know, sir, the uh, devices . . . the prophylactics. . .”
“The prophylactics?! What the hell is that supposed to be?”
“Oh, sir, please. The rubbers. The con-domes…”
“Ah, yes. Well, tell them we’ve got that situation under control. And Jenkins?”
“Yes sir?”
“I’m sorry I snapped. It’s just that I’m fused to this desk, and . . . well, you know . . . It puts one off one’s game.”
“Very good sir.”
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They were never going to give him a Nobel Prize for Buffoonery.