Police roadblocks

Something of a last minute decision… The police have cordoned off my little bit of the embankment. All the roads in and out of my area are blocked off and manned by multiple officers. They’ve been brought in from all over – you see Yorkshiremen, Kenticles, Suxxesonians. They don’t know the streets they’re policing but, fuck it, they are gonna police the hell out of them.

The road is even quieter than it was in lockdown. Occasionally there’s a limo with diplomatic plates, frequently there’s a squad car. No private vehicles apart from the very small number of people who live inside the roadblock footprint. Letters dated today were posted through our letterboxes to tell us this was happening just hours before it happened. The resulting mess outside the closed off streets will be spectacular to behold. Here it is peaceful apart from the helicopters and the walkie talkie sounds in the street. And the limos, the limos the limos.

Just down the road from mine sits The Royal Hospital. Chelsea Pensioners. Huge amounts of crown land. Lots and lots of bedrooms. Whole unused wings.

Tonight the unused bedrooms of the Royal Hospital will be likely full of people you’vw vaguely heard about. Major dignitaries from countries and places where perhaps there is no room in the London Embassy, or no London Embassy at all.

The archduchess of Alpha Centauri is likely sleeping there in her little canister of methane with Tinkerbell and Pan, enjoying a strange entente with The Great God of the same name who is trying to practice his pipes in the garden after having been dead again for a while. That terminally ill widow who wrote you an email asking you to help her launder hundreds of millions in from a small country somewhere – she’s still just alive and is there trying to persuade Pierogi to help. The Darklord of Helgedad is sharpening his blade hoping that Lone Wolf shows up tomorrow, whilst trying not to get annoyed by the fact that Nicol Bolas is snoring. Galadriel is sharing a room with Danaerys Targaryen. The Akond of Swot… Who or why or which or what is the Akond of Swot? Does he sleep with the pensioners snuggled up tight, was he given a teddy to cuddle at night, or NOT? He’s there too, with the Owl and the Pussycat. The jumblies live too far away – the boat they put to sea didn’t make it yet. They’re starting to worry. Mr. Benn is there but he can’t work out what to wear and he just stepped on Pikachu. It’s crowded. Godzilla hasn’t showed up yet, but there are unusual waves in The Thames. The room that was put aside for The Spanish Inquisition has been given away on reliable intel they they are not to be expected.

Right now I’m sleeping next to all these famous people, and likely next to other very very rich people from all over the world. The limos I saw coming in all had personalised plates and stern looking smart men and women in the back. Ambassadors and local celebrities no doubt from all over this big old world. People who their country has decided to send as representatives. This death is globally huge. This transition is significant. I fear we will soon discover the extent to which her dignity and service protected us from the worst in international terms. We do not have a statesperson as our political leader right now. We haven’t for a long long time. Elizabeth has been a huge buffoonerybuffer. Helping us appear internationally credible.

I kinda wanted to be out of London by now frankly… If I was Putin, I would have itchy button fingers. But … I’m here. Cornwall on Tuesday. Joy.

Author: albarclay

This blog is a work of creative writing. Do not mistake it for truth. All opinions are mine and not that of my numerous employers.

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