Nor Labour MP Emily Thornberry, one of the speakers outside parliament protesting the presidential visit and generally all things Tory.
Nor Mark Rylance, as seeing him on the small screen doesn’t count.
This is who I’m talking about:
I was hardly in my element yesterday, as I don’t like crowds,
(we all have disreputable bedfellows at times)
and don’t see myself voting Labour again any time soon.
But as happens so often, London beckoned.
I can’t imagine Lilibet was giddy with excitement at another opportunity to do her duty, even as the BBC graphically wet itself with anticipation.
Balloonists, on the other hand, had a field day.
As did punsters,
and anyone in the mood to rattle some cages.
My goal for the afternoon had been to see Jeremy Corbyn, if only for ammunition to give him a speech balloon. This was not to be, as he took to a platform on Whitehall rather than the expected patch of green surrounded by stone cold worthies where I had stationed myself.
Every party needs a DJ. Ours started with Comfortably
which would come to half describe my arm after holding an umbrella for an hour. Then came the relentless rain and reggae (even groovy tunes can wear one down).
Midway through the speakers
I packed it in and commenced escape, only to be stopped short opposite Green Park, where a hassled but humbled group of us were barred from crossing the empty road for an indeterminate length of time.
The only sure way across the border was to catch a train. One expects to be herded through cattle fencing during such events,
but this seemed a pointless exercise in creating a power vacuum.
Before heading home I stopped by the National Gallery. It looked a little like a protest was going on there, too.