I’ve been reading James Lees-Milne’s memoir, Another Self (in preparation for, I hope, picking up his diaries very soon) and came upon a passage near the end, which made me laugh so hard I spit out the wine I was drinking – JL-M would have been horrified.  Ordinarily I’d read it aloud to Steve, but he’s in the middle of a video game and I can’t get his attention.  So – I take to the blog.  Here’s Lees-Milne talking about his days fighting for His Majesty during World War II:

I had spent barely a month at the training barracks at Lingfield, when I was posted to Dover.  The Battle of Britain was in full swing.  Hitler’s invasion of England was expected at any moment.  We lived on the alert.  Day and night an officer was kept on duty awaiting from some higher intelligence the warning code signal, ‘Oliver Cromwell.’  When this ominous name came down the telephone the officer knew that the invasion was on the way.  He must instantly without wasting a second ring through to the Colonel and arouse the whole battalion.  At 3 o’clock one morning it was my turn to be on duty.  Rather drowsily I was reading Barchester Towers.  The telephone rang.  I picked up the receiver.  ‘This is Higher Command QE2X speaking,’ came from a rather cissy voice a long way off.  ‘I say, old boy, sorry to tell you – Oliver Cromwell!’  ‘What?’ I screamed, my heart in my boots.  ‘Are you sure?  Are you absolutely sure?’  I had no reason for questioning the man’s words beyond the utter horror of the announcement.  ‘Well, I may have got it wrong,’ the voice said affectedly.  ‘Then for dear Christ’s sake,’ I pleaded, ‘do get it right.’  There was a pause, during which I had my finger on the special telephone to the Colonel’s bedroom, as it were on the pulse of England.  ‘Sorry, old chap,’ the voice came back again.  ‘It’s only Wat Tyler.  I get so confused with these historical blokes.’  ‘Wat Tyler,’ I said sharply, ‘was a very different sort of bloke indeed.  He didn’t unleash hell and damnation like the other.  No doubt he would have liked to.  But he was strung up by the Lord Mayor before he got a chance.  You deserve no less for giving me the fright of my life.  So good night to you, or good morning, or whatever it is!’

We have James Lees-Milne to thank, largely, for the National Trust, for writing twelve volumes of witty and slightly rude diaries that I can’t wait to read, for being singularly unimpressed by Princess Margaret, and for causing me to choke on my sauvignon blanc.  That is a contribution to the arts and letters indeed.

Have you ever read Lees-Milne?  Do you happen to know if he’s related to Christopher Robin?