Special Delivery, or How I Didn’t Bring Down The Government

Most interesting package of the day:

He’d not even been prime minister 24 hours!

I debated vandalizing the letter in some subtle way – letting a cab run over it, or getting someone to fart on it. But I settled for sticking it in my fetid courier bag, in between my lunch and a very graphic Alan Hollinghurst novel (somehow appropriate, since his books all seem to be about Tory boys buggering each other).

And the coolest thing was – instead of sending me round the block to a boring delivery entrance, or even directing me to a special post office several streets away, as has happened in the past, the policemen at the gates ummed and awwed, and then waved me through into Downing Street itself, where I was scanned and searched, and then directed right up to the door of Number 10.

I almost thought they’d made a mistake – particularly when I saw a crowd of about 50 photographers on one side of the road, with all their lenses and lights trained on the famous front door (with its solitary policeman) on the other. I tried to ignore them as I walked up and asked the policeman if I was in the right place (stupidly), knowing that they were probably all wondering who on earth I was, and what I was doing there. The door itself was much much shinier than I expected, and had a plaque saying First Lord of the Treasury, which confused me momentarily.

It appeared I was in the right place – he ushered me in, introduced me to the gentleman on the inside, and closed it behind me. The lobby was a typical and unsurprising Georgian interior, much like lots of the place I deliver to in Mayfair and Belgravia. And they signed for the letter, and let me out, and it was all over in a minute. (No photos, I’m afraid. I wasn’t sure they’d let me.)

I’m still slightly awed that I actually walked through the door of Number 10 in person – especially on a day when it’s been all over the news. I’m not sure how many people get to do that. Anyone can go to the Houses of Parliament, and I’ve been several times. I’ve a feeling Number 10 is a bit more exclusive. I just wish I were a bit more excited about its latest resident.

(And I now have even more ammunition for my arguments with receptionists about why I shouldn’t have to go all the way round to the loading bay. If I’m allowed in the front entrance at 10 Downing Street, I should be allowed in the front entrance everywhere!)


8 Responses to “Special Delivery, or How I Didn’t Bring Down The Government”

  1. marchapple Says:

    Very very impressed – wish I’d seen it on the telly !

  2. Exenger of Doom Says:

    “If I’m allowed in the front entrance at 10 Downing Street, I should be allowed in the front entrance everywhere!”


  3. thatmessengerchick Says:

    Hi Dad! Looks like that’s one less anecdote to tell you this evening then…

  4. Kim Says:

    Wow! Very impressed. But I do hope you also left a silent-but-deadly fart before being ushered out…

  5. thatmessengerchick Says:

    I didn’t. 😦

    But I did today, when I delivered to Conservative HQ on Millbank! Way scarier than Number 10. They have a bronze bust of Thatcher in their reception, and signs saying ‘Careless Talk Costs Votes’.

  6. Kim Says:

    Fabulous! I hope the fart was so noxious that next time you go back you’ll discover the bust of Maggie has melted… Keep eating those baked bean cupcakes! (Apologies for lowering the tone.) We can bring down the Tories yet!

  7. Pete Says:

    I actually think I could have seen you on the TV delivering that letter. Admittedly it could have been any courier but I was watching 24hr rolling news and a courier rocked up to deliver something which I thought was really surprising.

  8. sarra Says:

    Bloody awesome. Really enjoying reading back through your blog. (long linkchain from somewhere in the Birmingham bike blog sphere!)

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