At the Core

Saturday 30th May 2020

No sooner did I have my brainwave about how the Queen could be on Zoom while ordinary members of the public carry out her engagements on her behalf (Be Queen for an afternoon) than who should I run into on the way to Rufus Pitman’s for a doorstep visit than Marmion Beaufleasance who is so near the Throne as to be on it for all practical purposes (especially now).

Why should I run into him twice by chance during this Time of Wrong? It must mean something. It must mean Monarchy being near and that can never be a drawback.

‘Can you get through to the Secretary?’ I said. Marmion of course could, there and then if necessary. He was a little doubtful about my brainwave, just for the moment, I’m sure. As with all new brainwaves, the first response is bound to be shock and dismay followed by the penny dropping.

Rufus has been low but his spirits lifted sufficiently for him to use his App which tells you which aircraft are flying overhead. So we found out the first one to pass was arriving from Beijing. Then there was another and that had arched through the air from Shanghai. Rather worrying but you must be careful what you say.

The next day Royston King called and said, ‘Where near you does Dominic Cummings live?’ Dominic Cummings, in case you don’t know, is an odd-looking person nobody likes who advises the Prime Minister and is always seen in Downing Street in unsuitable clothes which are all part of the act. ‘I didn’t know he lives near me,’ I said. By chance I was collecting my order of country vegetables from the temporary depot (oh, in London one mimics village life) run by the son of an old friend of Robert Nevil’s and mine with whom we were at University (if you can call it that. I never had much patience with the life of scholarly retreat. Couldn’t wait for the sales to start in the shops). That old friend latterly worked for Reuters. So I asked the son, ‘Do you think your father would know where Dominic Cummings lives round here?’ A random person distancing in the doorway piped up, ‘I know where he lives but don’t say I told you.’ So there we were. Brilliant coup and penetration just like that.

It’s funny how the private address of a hate figure is still considered private. It was the same last summer. Guy Bostock knew where the Prime Minister was holed up throwing red wine about with his Carrie. Although supremely anti-Tory,  he didn’t like to reveal the name of the street.

I was round at Dominic’s in minutes. No sign of him. Big house, not in the best part. All the blinds pulled down. A bit like the Camerons living in that odd bit of North Kensington. A woman resembling Carol Thatcher (but not) came out of the house next door and approached one of the men in the street. I heard her saying, ‘It was in the middle of the night… I’ll have to check with my secretary the exact dates…. that’s important is it?’ Plainly she was offering a ‘story’. I’ve no idea whether she made the front pages.


Posted Saturday, May 30, 2020 under Adrian Edge day by day.

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