Den of Thieves

Mr Pooter is going up in the world. The other day I was invited to a reception at the Houses of Parliament to mark the retirement of a senior member of the institute for which I occasionally do some work.

After a few glasses of parliamentary claret (English legislatures know how to look after themselves), some volauvents and a few worthy speeches, I mentally prepared myself to step back out into the miserable London weather. As I walked towards the cloakroom a feeling of horror rose within me. My umbrella! I searched in vain, under the benches and behind the coats. No, it had gone.

Outside, as I shuffled past the statue of Cromwell, shoulders hunched, rain soaking through my new suit, I gave a silent prayer that we will one day see his like again.

“I tell you we will cut off his head with the crown upon it.”