I must sincerely apologise to my legion of faithful followers for my inability to entertain two indolent teenagers and a grumpy wife, whilst taking in the many and varied sights of London and write a blog at the same time. Julian in London, laptop in Eastbourne didn’t help either. After three testing days I am back on the Sunshine Coast, watching the rain come down, whilst re-familiarising myself with the Mac Book Pro.
London was all that I remembered; big, busy and bankrupting. Since the halcyon days when I lived and worked there many things have changed, but probably the most depressing is how everywhere around Westminster is now littered with bollards, steel blocks, security fencing, armed police and prying cameras. Taking a stroll around Parliament Square late one evening, I could feel a thousand eyes boring into the back of my neck. Behind the entry gates to the Palace of Westminster, a cohort of constables appeared to chatter inconsequentially, whilst being clearly poised to pounce should anything vaguely untoward occur. Trying to appear like any other innocent tourist I politely asked what time proceedings would start the following day, as I had thought a visit to the Strangers’ Gallery might be of interest to my son, at least. PC “Extra Large” replied “2.30”, with a degree of suspicion. Further probing merely increased his suspicion, to the point where I thought it wise to move on. No doubt the Face Recognition cameras were already pinging my ugly features back to SIS HQ for a quick character check. With no previous terrorist record I was permitted to wander on my way. Stopping at the end of the House of Lords’, I found a most obliging Constable in a booth who was happy to chat. I learned that the very comprehensive scaffolding above our heads was there, not so much to allow skilled craftsmen to climb to their workplace, but more to prevent the not infrequent cascades of falling masonry from turning our brains to mush. I also learned that while parts of the Palace are now encased in enough scaffolding pipes to re-plumb Buckingham Palace, our honourable MPs and noble Lords will soldier on amidst the grime, dust, leaks and rats until 2026, at which point they will debunk to either Richmond House or the Queen Elizabeth Conference centre (or both), both of which will have been re-fitted to accommodate a lot of chatter, name-calling and brilliant oratory; although the last might be in limited supply. The whole operation is expected to last for an unbelievable thirty years and cost a very believable undisclosed sum running into many billions of pounds. The Mother of Parliaments has got a dangerously serious dose of arthritis and a few other nasty diseases besides. One just has to hope that while the operation to heal her is taking place she doesn’t fall foul to a super-bug and end up in intensive care, or worse. It’s an intriguing thought to ponder who will be PM when the MPs move back in? The only certainty is that it won’t be Teflon Jeremy, who does finally appear to have discovered the meaning of “unstuck”.
My late night stroll concluded a day spent patrolling the battlements of The Tower and learning some of the intriguing tales that have unfolded within its thick and ancient walls. The visit started with a highly entertaining briefing from a Yeoman Warder, formerly a Royal Marine Sergeant Major and now a Beefeater. Surprisingly, considering all the historical minutiae that he uncovered, no one really knows why they are called Beefeaters. He managed to slag off Americans, Scots and people from Essex without offending anyone. With a clever use of irony, his comments would have gone straight over the heads of the Americans, the Scots are too permanently angry to notice anyway and the Essexonians were too busy looking in their compacts to check their lipstick hadn’t smudged. On that offensively racist note I shall retire into my boots and fire through the lace holes.
The story of The Tower……to be continued.
ADayInTheStrifeOf 