Ok, the wait is over. The new political TL is at hand but first a taster from the lobby of the House of Commons not too long ago:
Nicholas William Peter Clegg was irritated – his friend was late which was hardly unusual – but Nick also didn’t know where he had to go which of course his friend did.
He recalled the breakfast panic as Miriam got the children ready for school before the taxi arrived to take her to Heathrow for her flight to Brussels and the nanny rushing around getting lunches organised before children were quickly patted, kissed and hurried out the door. Nick had hoped to be back in time to pick them up but he was already running late.
“Excuse me, my dear fellow; can I be of any help?”
Nick turned and looked ahead, then down slightly. He saw an elderly man looking straight at him. There was something vaguely familiar about him which Nick couldn’t place. Nonetheless, the eyes retained intensity, an almost mischievous glint
“Well, I’m waiting for a friend, a colleague actually. I’m trying to find the Whips’ Offices.”
“Ah yes, “the older man replied, “You must be part of the new intake. I was once standing where you are now, it must be nearly fifty years since I first entered these hallowed portals. The world was a very different place then of course, dear boy.”
Nick furtively looked to see if his friend had arrived but, seeing no sign, quickly interrupted the older man, “There must have been some real legends back then?”
“Oh yes, dear boy” the older man continued, “I knew many of them – Churchill, MacMillan, dear Hugh Gaitskell, Jo Grimond of course, Harold Wilson, Edward..”
“You knew Jo Grimond?” asked Nick with some incredulity.
“Oh yes,” replied the older man, “though he had been an MP for a good few years before I first got to know him. I also knew Mark Bonham-Carter as well. Ah, it looks like your friend, the Etonian, has arrived. Excuse me.”
“Uh, how did you…?” said Nick. Suddenly he became aware of David standing next to him.
“Sorry, I’m late, Nick,” said David, “Sam was busy sorting out the children and having to get to the office.”
“Don’t worry, David. I was just talking to this old boy, one of the Crossbenchers I think. He’s been here fifty years or more. He was just standing with me. Frail man but with powerful eyes.”
Norman didn’t hear David reveal his identity to Nick but he had heard the gasp before. It always pleased him to think he still had some influence behind the scenes.
As Nick and David moved away toward the Members’ entrance, Norman glanced over to see his old nemesis, Ralph, deep in conversation with two young men. Ah, his boys, Norman realised. The smaller younger one wouldn’t amount to anything but the taller one, like that young Nick Clegg, was well worth keeping an eye on.
Norman checked his watch. He started to make his way to the Strangers’ Bar where his faithful biographer, Mr Odge, would be waiting. Poor Sebastian Thomas, he mused, he was always keeping him waiting but a double from behind the bar, preferably from one of Sir Russell Johnston’s better malts, would soften his mood.
It always did.
Nicholas William Peter Clegg was irritated – his friend was late which was hardly unusual – but Nick also didn’t know where he had to go which of course his friend did.
He recalled the breakfast panic as Miriam got the children ready for school before the taxi arrived to take her to Heathrow for her flight to Brussels and the nanny rushing around getting lunches organised before children were quickly patted, kissed and hurried out the door. Nick had hoped to be back in time to pick them up but he was already running late.
“Excuse me, my dear fellow; can I be of any help?”
Nick turned and looked ahead, then down slightly. He saw an elderly man looking straight at him. There was something vaguely familiar about him which Nick couldn’t place. Nonetheless, the eyes retained intensity, an almost mischievous glint
“Well, I’m waiting for a friend, a colleague actually. I’m trying to find the Whips’ Offices.”
“Ah yes, “the older man replied, “You must be part of the new intake. I was once standing where you are now, it must be nearly fifty years since I first entered these hallowed portals. The world was a very different place then of course, dear boy.”
Nick furtively looked to see if his friend had arrived but, seeing no sign, quickly interrupted the older man, “There must have been some real legends back then?”
“Oh yes, dear boy” the older man continued, “I knew many of them – Churchill, MacMillan, dear Hugh Gaitskell, Jo Grimond of course, Harold Wilson, Edward..”
“You knew Jo Grimond?” asked Nick with some incredulity.
“Oh yes,” replied the older man, “though he had been an MP for a good few years before I first got to know him. I also knew Mark Bonham-Carter as well. Ah, it looks like your friend, the Etonian, has arrived. Excuse me.”
“Uh, how did you…?” said Nick. Suddenly he became aware of David standing next to him.
“Sorry, I’m late, Nick,” said David, “Sam was busy sorting out the children and having to get to the office.”
“Don’t worry, David. I was just talking to this old boy, one of the Crossbenchers I think. He’s been here fifty years or more. He was just standing with me. Frail man but with powerful eyes.”
Norman didn’t hear David reveal his identity to Nick but he had heard the gasp before. It always pleased him to think he still had some influence behind the scenes.
As Nick and David moved away toward the Members’ entrance, Norman glanced over to see his old nemesis, Ralph, deep in conversation with two young men. Ah, his boys, Norman realised. The smaller younger one wouldn’t amount to anything but the taller one, like that young Nick Clegg, was well worth keeping an eye on.
Norman checked his watch. He started to make his way to the Strangers’ Bar where his faithful biographer, Mr Odge, would be waiting. Poor Sebastian Thomas, he mused, he was always keeping him waiting but a double from behind the bar, preferably from one of Sir Russell Johnston’s better malts, would soften his mood.
It always did.