A stroll around Westminster Village to use my eyes and not my camera. Like playing squash without a ball.
Cutting through the churchyard at Westminster Abbey brought me to St Margaret's, the Parish Church of Parliament and burial place of William Caxton, Walter Raleigh and John Milton.
Next door is the Jewel Tower. An amazing little tower, dating back to the reign of Edward III. I have passed it hundreds of times, vaguely wondering what it is. Today was the first time I walked around its tranquil little garden and surveyed its moat.
Across the road and past the Sovereign's Entrance to the Victoria Tower Gardens, pausing to bow briefly in front of the statue of Mrs Pankhurst and the memorial to the WSPU, before walking to the river. The grand panorama of London stretched before me: the baroque splendour of the Houses of Parliament, the curiosity that is Lambeth Palace and, further up, the London Eye. A solitary seagull sat on the wall. Across the river the wall was lined with hooks for the tying of boats, fashioned as lions' heads.
In Black Rod's Garden stands a fibreglass cow, seemingly abandoned to the elements.
Back towards Parliament Square. Mark Mardell and I did one of those embarrassing street dances you have to do when tourists are crowding the pavement to get onto their coach and Mark and colleague are inconsiderately strung out across the rest of the pavement. And he gave me that look - you know the one "Yes, insignificant person, I am that bloke off the telly."
David Sheppard gave me a wry smile. Some familiar, but for the moment I forget his name, eminent law lord or some such, often on TV, gave me a second glance as he realised I was giving him a second glance.
I passed the statue of Oliver Cromwell in front of the Palace of Westminster. I must have seen it a thousand times, but it has never struck me before, what a perverse thing is British English Democracy. This man deposes the King, to become the only non-regal head of state. Regicide is committed. He dies, his ineffective son takes over. The monarchy is restored, the surviving regicidists are executed; all are condemned to a memory of shame. We maintain a monarchical system of government and erect the most fabulous statue to Oliver Cromwell, taking pride of place above all monarchs and all Prime Ministers.
I cross the road and technically almost participate in a blogmeet as Austin Mitchell crosses in the opposite direction.
And back to the office, as the car of the Norwegian Ambassador passed me. I saw India last week.
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