In which our intrepid reporter is forcibly removed from the main gate at Buckingham Palace:
(Police officer: Could you stand back please, Ma'am
Gert: nod and nervous smile, stands back)
Just a normal lunchtime, really. Wander through the park onto The Mall. A lone sandwich-boarded-and-placarded protestor strolls slowly along, sloganning for a free Palestine. A tanker sucks water from the drain. the lampposts are festooned with Union flags and Stars-and-Stripes. Police presence is evident, but relaxed.
A tented village with satellite dishes is erected in Green Park. The Victoria Memorial is boarded. A crowd of a couple of hundred - tourists and lunchtimers with cameras - mill around. The traffic is stopped by a police outrider; another police bike shepherds through the Prime Minister's Rover, coming east down Constitution Hill. Gert lingers freely on the Spur Road in front of the Palace. Down Buckingham Gate comes the Queen's Rolls Royce, with Royal Standard on the front, and an elderly woman in the back. No visible police escort, mingleing freely in the moderate traffic. A few minutes later, as I stand taking photos, I see the Roller again, this time no Royal Standard, no elderly occupant. This time I manage a photo as it waits at the Pedestrian crossing. Within a few minutes I was in range (theoretical, of course - I failed even to shoot a photo) of being able to assassinate the Head of State and Head of Government.
