After several years abroad, I yearn to
feast again on Britain’s
beautiful places. Last week, I headed to Lincoln, a compact, cobbled cathedral
town and among the most beautiful British places indeed. Needing plenty of time
to enjoy the many goodies on offer (cathedral, interesting shops, antiques, cream
teas, St George’s Day parade, castle, old friends, stately homes, history, home
made fudge etc etc), I booked into one of the small independent hotels which
Britain does so well. www.thelincolnhotel.com
During my recent forays abroad, I must confess
to having lost track not only of beautiful Britain but also of what is going
on in the jolly blue, red and yellow world of British politics. Neither the
Middle East nor Africa are sufficiently
interested in our playground squabbles to devote airtime or column inches to
British parliamentary affairs.
While overseas, I did overhear that we now
enjoy the stewardship of not one but two fresh faced leaders, one blue and one
yellow, and that both are old Etonians. I heard tell of fiddling and pocket
lining which has (obviously) been ongoing for years and has latterly been the
subject of gentle hand wringing. I was also bombarded by so many pictures of
Jimmy Saville that I felt moved to pretend that I wasn’t British at all on many
occasions!
How delighted was I last week when I
entered said hotel in Lincoln
and headed towards my cathedral view room (oooh) to find the reception area
infused by a Royal Blue mist from which upper-class cadences and Crabtree and
Evelyn floral scents wafted. This would be a golden opportunity to take a crash
course in the updated priorities, values and objectives of the jolly old Tory
party, I concluded.
My exit from the lift was hampered by a
throng of blue suited persons festooned in rosettes, smiling and milling.
Several clutched large sheaves of leaflets which would surely contain all the
information I needed to bring myself back up to speed in no time at all.
As I approached the multitude, it became clear
that I, the potential voter, was at the very underside of the Tory party
priorities on that particular day. To a man, they were preoccupied with far
more important matters. All talk was of photographs, lighting, film crews and
forehead glare. My request for a leaflet was met with derisory disbelief. Undaunted,
I battled through clusters of blue balloons and yet more rosettes to the front
of the mêlée.
An enormous hoarding bearing the words ‘Securing
Britain’s Future’ (or something similarly rousing) was parked outside the hotel with the aforementioned
cathedral looming buttressed and beautiful behind. Someone whom I concluded
must be a minor cabinet minister, both in stature and seniority, yet with not a
hint of forehead glare, was posing with the cream of his rosetted cronies in
front of the hoarding.
The chosen were having their photographs
taken to the adoring ‘oooohs and aaaahs’ of the blue multitude. By now, the vast
majority of the leaflets had been discarded on the tables in the reception. I
watched the bizarre spectacle for a while before wandering unnoticed away
bearing a pile of the discarded leaflets to review at my leisure.
If indeed I had harboured any suspicion
that the Tory party were equipped with whatever is required to ‘Secure
Britain’s Future’ when I arrived; by the time I reached my room, any such
suspicion had been well and truly sequestered.
I resolve to see what the other lot, the red ones, have to offer. While
abroad I did actually hear that that they too are preoccupied at the moment. In
the case of the reds, I understand the current priority is brotherly barneying
rather than the blue predilection for preening and portraiture.
