It is, although I don't quite realise it, the depths of the pandemic. Everyone is relegated to working from home. Thousands of Civil Servants trying to keep things running from their kitchen tables, on dodgy WiFi, with crying children in the background.

Things are happening quickly. Much more quickly than ever before. Perhaps that's a good thing, but it doesn't leave much time for preparation. I know it is terribly clichéd of me to think I'm in an episode of The West Wing, but this scene keeps running through my head:

Today I have meeting with one the Internet's "Main Characters". You know, that politician. The one you (and certainly I) have send snarky tweets about - the duplicitous lickspittle. Every time I see them on TV I physically cringe. How can someone like that be part and parcel of the democratic process? Ugh!

The Zoom call flickers to life. A couple of dozen people start appearing like the world's dullest advent calendar. The Minister is, of course, late. The twat. We make small talk and eventually their grinning mug graces us with their presence.

I've seen this wazzock lose their rag on Question Time - there's no way they can manage a meeting with this many people.

But… I'm wrong. I'm very wrong. They are collegiate and welcoming. They acknowledge the strain we're all under and give us a reassuring - and human - thanks for our hard work. They have complete command of the room. They know who to call on to ask a question. Their follow ups are friendly and incisive - not flippant and ignorant.

They're as good as any CEO I've worked with.

And then they turn to me.

My job is simple. They have requested something from our department. It is my job to say "no".

I'm nervous. Lockdown has worn me down and there's every chance I'll make what's euphemistically called "a career limiting remark".

"Terence! Thanks so much for joining us. I know you're all frightfully busy. Have you had the chance to consider...?"

I give them the bad news. I distil several hours of technical discussions and (small p) political wrangling into a couple of sentences. I brace for impact. Surely this smug git isn't going make me walk the plank?

"I see. What about...?" they then launch into a, frankly, excellent dismantling of my position. I cynically wonder who has been briefing them. But as our conversation progresses (!) it's clear they've actually read the paper we presented them. They know the science, the law, and the technology.

I wasn't prepared for the fact that they were… competent!

However after a few minutes (that feel like an eternity) they concede. I am right. They are wrong. There are no fireworks. No histrionics. No sloganeering, Gish-galloping, or threats. They are charming, intelligent, and happy to be contradicted.

The eye of Sauron moves on. I breathe. If we had capitulated, I'm sure the decision would have been in the papers. It might even have been in (what we're all grimly calling) The Inevitable Public Inquiry. As it is, it will be a dusty footnote about what might have been.

Later that night, I scroll through Twitter. The Minister's account pops up - and they're spewing the sort of appalling rhetoric which would make a Roman Senator blush.

I speak to my mentor about the encounter. "Politicians aren't the characters they play on TV," they say.

Sure, some of them are idiots. But it is hard to be elected without having some level of charm and ability to make personal connections.

Yeah, a few are promoted above their ability, but many are quietly competent at running a department of thousands of people.

And, of course, they all play up to the cameras. Every sound-bite is a vote. Every spittle of fury a chance to go viral and raise their profile. Every stunt a chance to embed themselves into the nation's psyche.

We all code-switch. The way you talk to you partner isn't the same way you speak to your friends. The way you talk to your co-workers isn't the same way you speak to your plumber.

And the way politicians speak to their electorate isn't always the same way they speak to their public servants.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to figure that out.

Whoever you think this is about, you're wrong. I had the same experience several times throughout Covid and have amalgamated them into this parable of a blog post.

An MP has written to the Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster asking about some work our department is doing. This is all rather usual for Government business.

In the letter, the MP mentions me. By name. This is decidedly unusual!

Civil Servants at my level are anonymous, interchangeable cogs in a vast machine. Those in charge of the machine want information - they don't usually care who gives it to them.

I now have various people asking me how I caught their attention (official blog post, probably?), why they mentioned me (no idea!), whether I'm in trouble (doubtful…), and how much attention needs to go to the reply (the usual diligence).

And so a little flurry of excitement disrupts an otherwise uneventful day. The response gets written up, then rewritten by others, then checked, rechecked, and formatted correctly - whereupon is disappears into the æther. No doubt it will manifest in a Red Box somewhere.

The problem with proximity to power is that it is seductive. The little vicarious thrill of being in the room next to the room where it happens! Perhaps a little bit of the glamour and prestige will rub off? Maybe my name will be spoken in higher and higher circles until someone says "let's get that Eden chap in here to sort this mess out!"

It is nonsense, of course. My ego enjoys the brief allure of being puffed up, but then safely returns to a more manageable size. But I can see why people like it - and why it drags down so many otherwise upstanding people.

One of the weird things about working in Westminster is how terrifyingly normal it becomes to work in grand old buildings, stuffed with grand old artworks, and staffed with grand old politicians. You turn a corner and there's a bit of Henry VIII's tennis court. There's a Tracy Emin hanging on the wall. That's the table where that peace treaty was signed. For goodness sake - don't sit on that chair!

Every time you open a cupboard door, you're confronted with a little bit of history.

While working in one building (I'm far too modest to say which) I was sent to grab a few extra chairs from a store-room. Oh, it is all glamour, let me tell you!

In amongst all the trestle-tables, old coffee urns, and discarded filing cabinets, was this:

Zoinks! The infamous Jenga Podium for erstwhile PM Truss.

Naturally, the only thing to do when you meet a celebrity is snap a selfie with them 😆

I've scrubbed the EXIF metadata so as not to reveal its top secret location.

This post is a little silly, but contains a serious message. Everything is kept. Short of deliberate destruction, every decision - good or bad - is recorded somewhere. Sure, the Post-It Notes might fall off, and the Zoom call wasn't recorded, but the consequences of those decisions linger on.

It's all there. Just waiting for an eager - or lost - Civil Servant to literally open the door.

The day the EU referendum was announced, the then Prime Minister came to visit our office. We were given a chance to talk to him in front of TV cameras.

This was my chance. I could ask a question - the perfect question - which would win the referendum and bring down the government. I spent the morning practising what I would say. I psyched myself up, and positioned myself in the PM's eyeline.

Of course, I wasn't called. And, of course, my question wasn't that great. The PM would have smoothly brushed me off. Or, maybe, I'd have had five minutes of fame on the local news. Or, more likely, I'd be fired.

Tomorrow, I have a call with the current Prime Minister. I expect it will be listen-in only with no chance of questions. But what if it isn't? I have fantasies of asking the question. The one which makes a madman reconsider his wicked life and repent. My mind is stewing. Could I craft such a question and get through to him? The one which trained journalists have so far failed to land.

No. Obviously not. At best, he would make a joke and move on. At worst, I'd irreparably damage my career - and sabotage the project I've worked so hard for.

The joy of capitalism means that I need to be employed to survive.

But.

Shouldn't I at least try? What's the point of being in the room if you can't speak truth to power? What's the point of promising to give professional, impartial advice, if that advice is curtailed by fear?

I'm not a super-senior Civil Servant. I'm a tiny pawn. He doesn't know me and my words carry no weight. My sacrifice means nothing.

Morally, I know that speaking out is the right thing to do. But can I find the words which protect myself and my team at the same time as speaking truth to power? I'll spend the night tossing and turning, trying to find the right words. Trying to find any words at all.

The next afternoon They didn't allow any questions.

It's the evening of the 2019 General Election. I am plagued by two thoughts.

Briefly stated, the Gell-Mann Amnesia effect works as follows.

You open the newspaper to an article on some subject you know well. You read the article and see the journalist has absolutely no understanding of either the facts or the issues. Often, the article is so wrong it actually presents the story backward-reversing cause and effect. You read with exasperation or amusement the multiple errors in a story-and then turn the page to national or international affairs, and read with renewed interest as if the rest of the newspaper was somehow more accurate about far-off Palestine than it was about the story you just read.

You turn the page, and forget what you know.

And

The pre-election period (purdah) is the term used to describe the period between the time an election is announced and the date the election is held. Civil servants are given official guidance by the Cabinet Office on the rules they must follow in relation to Government business during this time.

People tweet wrong things all the time. But, during this election, I've seen people I admire and respect tweeting out things I know to be false.

I don't mean slightly wrong about an esoteric policy. I mean balls-to-the-wall, head-up-the-arse, foot-in-mouth, inexcusably wrong.

I get that part of politics is enraging people to gather them to your cause. But these were people who I eagerly followed so that I could understand what was going on in an increasingly complicated world.

In normal circumstances, I'd've argued with them online. Sure, it's neither healthy nor a good way to change people's minds - but it would be something.

Purdah - a somewhat politically-incorrect term - prevents Civil Servants from commenting on things during the election. It's a sensible policy - but a bit annoying when People Are Wrong On The Internet. In fairness, I probably shouldn't get involved in arguments - that's best left to the press team.

But I am conflicted. I have first-hand, expert knowledge about a subject. I can objectively prove my arguments. Why shouldn't I be able to correct people's mistakes?

Even worse - and the thing that mildly terrifies me - if my idols are wrong about that thing, what else are they wrong about?

This is the exact moment, on Thursday May 7th, I hit the Big Red Button - three of them! - to open source the UK's COVID-19 Beta test app.

It was thrilling and terrifying. We'd spent the last few weeks getting ready to open source the repos and then, at the last minute, it all went wrong. The plan was to launch on Tuesday - but fate conspired against us.

The problems fell into three main areas:

1. Threats and personal safety. This was probably the highest profile code release that we'd ever done. There were already people grumbling online that the people writing the code were "traitors". Did we want to expose our people to that sort of personal abuse? What if they were targets of phishing attempts?

2. Redacting history. Probably the most contentious issue. We all wanted to release everything from the very first commit. Would that reveal anything dangerous? Had someone slipped and accidentally committed an API key they shouldn't?

3. Communications. The other most contentious issue! The department were in "crisis comms" mode. Everything was delayed. No one had reviewed the blog I'd written, there was no pre-arranged plan in place for this sort of thing. Understandable really - this was a tiny piece of a much larger puzzle. But it was still frustrating to wait for people to be ready for us to publish.

We took the pragmatic approach. We took a snapshot of the code, thoroughly scrubbed it of all identifying information and secrets, and prepared to release it. Then we waited. And waited.

Every time we thought we had the go-ahead, there was another delay! There was a strict comms schedule. We couldn't launch now; it would interrupt that other announcement!

I was asked to help rewrite bits of the announcements. This led to some memorable questions from the comms squad. How can you explain to the average user...

• what "Source Code" is?
• why the Android code is different from the iPhone code?
• who are "Git Hub"?

And, the kicker? All these questions came in while I was on a conference call with a bunch of government ministers! The joys of multiple monitors!

It was interminable. I sent texts which went unanswered. Emails. Phone calls. Just a few minutes more. Any moment now. We need to wait for...

And then!

"Can we launch ASAP?"

Yes! The email I was waiting for. But I am a paranoid and cautious Fraggle. Was that "Launch now!" or "Can we launch now?"?

So I sent a reply. "Just to confirm - do you want me to publish now?" And waited.

And waited.

I got an email from my boss "Launch now!"

And a second later, from comms: "Please hold off - no go. Will call you shortly."

How I longed to press that button. I could say that I only saw the first email... No. Maybe. No.

An eternity. During which time I casually glanced at Twitter and read all the angry messages from people demanding the release of the code.

The call came. "Publish it - but don't tell anyone." Weird flex, but OK.

I called my very-patient wife into my home office. I wanted the moment captured. She opened her camera. A few clicks, and it was done.

Terence Eden is on Mastodon

@edent

Replying to @peteslater@peteslater @tobias1087 @NHSX The source will be released shortly on GitHub.com/nhsx
As you can imagine, we've been working flat out to get this ready, accessibility assessed, and security checked.
It will be released under a FOSS licence.

---

Terence Eden is on Mastodon

@edent

Replying to @edent@peteslater @tobias1087 @NHSX pic.x.com/3wqghy6ctm

---

I did a little dance. Let all of the tension out of my body. And waited for the hate to roll in.

It didn't. The response was... positive! Yes, there were grumbles, but so many people were fulsome in their praise that it was overwhelming. Congratulatory tweets and emails did the rounds, and I had a nice cold ale.

I took the bank holiday weekend off. Well, I obsessively read all the tweets, answered questions about my blog post, and kept half-an-eye on GitHub. I'm not good at relaxing.

Has it worked? Did we make the NHS more open and transparent? Did open source win the day? Did the beta test work? Were lives saved? Or was it a damp squib?

As I write this, we're still in the eye of the storm. Perhaps, when this post is published, we'll know the answers.

My life is weird. Again.

Looking out over London from the top floor. The Eye is glittering and the Palace of Westminster is glowing.

Someone pours me a glass of (very expensive⁰) champagne, as the Secretary of State laughs at my witty bon mot.

Is this my life now? People of distinction and influence listening to what I have to say? It isn't an oak-panelled room, with deep armchairs, where cigar-smoking men carve up the world. It's a modest and plain office where men (and women!) have gathered for a bit of mutual backslapping. But I am here. I'm in the room and being thanked.

And why not! We've all worked hard on launching NHSX and are rewarded with a little audience. The chit-chat is awkward - despite the geniality, we're all aware that the boss is here.

Naturally, I believe someone is going to tap me on the shoulder and ask me what the hell I think I'm doing in a room full of proper grown-ups. But, no, people keep asking me questions and telling me their well-practiced anecdotes.

It is simultaneously amazing and banal. I've been at this work-party several times in my career, with dozens of companies, with a parade of CEOs. This feels different. A tiny glimmer of "I've made it a difference!"

I eat my fill of crisps - I am driving later - and slip out. I want to savour the moment, but know too well the perils of outstaying my welcome. I float all the way home.

Proximity to power is a powerful glamour. I understand why some are drawn to it, and some are seemingly addicted.

But I'll be different, I'm sure, as I bask in the experience.

My 4th day in a new job and I'm sat in a meeting with the Secretary of State.

I've been in rooms with CEOs. With celebrities. With politicians. But this is the first time I've faced someone this senior, discussing sensitive issues. It's a moment.

I'm in the room. I disassociate briefly. All of a sudden, I'm interrupting someone and making a surprisingly intelligent point. The SofS agrees with me and, seemingly, is impressed - carrying my point forward and referencing it towards the end of the meeting.

The poor chap next to me is getting eviscerated. He either doesn't know his brief - or is being deliberately evasive. The atmosphere is congenial - but there's an undercurrent of menace. The guy is floundering, and the SofS is... not exactly merciless, but lets the guy know he isn't falling for the patter.

I'm simultaneously glad I'm not in the firing line - and worried that I'll one day find myself out of my depth.

The meeting ends and I'm formally introduced. He seems pleased to have me on board - I'm just glad I didn't make a complete fool of myself. And mildly impressed that he actually knew what he was talking about when it came to the details of technology.

That evening, my Great Aunt Sonia dies - aged 90. She had been gently cared for by the NHS. And the work I'm doing suddenly feels a lot more viscerally real.

In August 2008, I published a blog post about being stopped and searched by the British Transport Police as part of The War Against Terror. A journalist, Elena Favilli contacted me asking if I'd be interviewed about the experience.

I agreed and, in November 2008, they shot the following video:

It was strange being interviewed and photographed. At the time it wasn't something I was experienced at. I found it all rather fun seeing how a photographer and interviewer worked together. At the same time I was acutely aware that I didn't want this incident to become the defining moment of my life.

The interview was published on the (now defunct) Colors website:

Terence Eden is on Mastodon

@edent

Remember all that S44 business? My interview with Colors magazine is now available. http://tinyurl.com/cmpn7p

---

I think I was a little disappointed not to have been featured in the final magazine - although they were kind enough to send me a copy.

Fall asleep (or pretend to) until the last 15 minutes. Wake up, say "Oh dear, better get cracking." and do some gibberish work. Turn it in a few minutes early.

Get a copy of the exam, run out screaming "Andre, Andre, I've got the secret documents!!"

If it is a math/science exam, answer in essay form. If it is long answer/essay form, answer with numbers and symbols. Be creative. Use the integral symbol.

Make paper aeroplanes out of the exam. Aim them at the instructor's left nostril.

Talk the entire way through the exam. Read questions aloud, debate your answers with yourself out loud. If asked to stop start talking about what a prat the instructor is.

Bring cheerleaders.

Walk in, get the exam, sit down. About five minutes into it, loudly say to the instructor, "I don't understand ANY of this. I've been to every lesson all term long! Help.”

Bring a Game Boy. Play with the volume at max level.

On the answer sheet find a new, interesting way to refuse to answer every question. For example: “I refuse to answer this question on the grounds that it conflicts with my religious beliefs”. Be creative.

Bring pets.

Giggle. Loudly.

Fifteen minutes into the exam ask for more paper. Repeat this process every fifteen minutes.

Do the exam with crayons, paint, or fluorescent markers.

Come into the exam wearing slippers, a bathrobe, a towel on your head.

Be as vulgar as possible on the exam paper.

Do the entire exam in another language. If you don't know one, make one up! For math/science exams, try using Roman numerals.

Bring things to throw at the instructor when s/he's not looking. Blame it on the person nearest to you.

As soon as the instructor hands you the exam, eat it.

Walk into the exam with a Siamese twin.

Every five minutes, stand up, collect all your things, move to another seat, continue with the exam.

Turn in the exam approximately 30 minutes into it. As you walk out, start commenting on how easy it was.

Hold an unlit cigarette in your mouth. If you are told there is no smoking, politely point out that you are not smoking; just holding an unlit cigarette in your mouth.

Bring a black marker. Return the exam with all questions and answers completely blacked out.

Get the exam. Twenty minutes into it, throw your papers down violently, scream out "Screw this!" and walk out triumphantly.

Insist on going to the toilet. You will have to be accompanied.

Show up completely drunk. (you should start crying for mother).

COUGH!

Comment on how sexy the instructor is looking that day.

Come to the exam wearing a black cloak. After about 30 minutes, put on a white mask and start yelling "I'm here, the phantom of the opera" until they drag you away.

Insist the person next to you is cheating.

Upon receiving the exam, look it over, while laughing loudly, say “You don't really expect me to waste my time on this drivel? "Teletubbies" is on!!!”

Bring a water pistol with you. ‘Nuff said.

From the moment the exam begins, hum the theme to Countdown. When they finally get you to leave begin whistling the theme to the Bridge on the River Kwai.

Start a fight in the middle of the exam.

If the exam is math/science related, make up the longest proofs you could possibly think of. Get pi and imaginary numbers into most equations. If it is a written exam, relate everything to your own life story.

Bring a friend to give you a back massage the entire way through the exam. Insist this person is needed, because you have bad circulation.

Bring cheat sheets FOR ANOTHER CLASS and staple them to the exam, with the comment "Please use the attached notes for references as you see fit. "

When you walk in, complain about the heat. Strip.

After you get the exam, call the instructor over, point to any question, ask for the answer. Try to work it out of him/her.

Loud, Rumbling, Echoing, Deadly Farts.

Try to get people in the room to do a Mexican wave.

Play frisbee with a friend at the other side of the room.

Bring some large, ugly idol. Pray to it often. Consider a small sacrifice.

Get deliveries of flowers, pizzas, telegrams, etc. sent to you every few minutes throughout the exam.

Get lots of people to call your mobile phone. Make sure it has an annoying ring.

During the exam, take apart everything around you. Anything you can reach.

Complete the exam with everything you write being backwards at a 90 degree angle.

Bring a musical instrument with you, play various tunes. If you are asked to stop, say "it helps me think. " Bring a copy of the official exam rules, challenging the instructor to find the section on musical instruments. Don't forget to use the phrase "Told you so".

Answer the exam with the "Top Ten Reasons Why Examiners Suck"

These exam stress relieving jollities were brought to you by........... Campaign to Relive Accumulated Pressures!