The Jackdaw

Marie Le Conte | Issue 2 | Comment

From the Archive

Parliament may be up and running but what’s the point of Westminster if all those endless drinks receptions are still forbidden? All work and no play is no fun for anyone.

I never thought the day would come. I can’t even remember when it happened; some time in May I think, maybe June. I was sitting alone at home – where else? – and it hit me: a deep, painful yearning for the House of Commons’ own-label wine. If you are reading this, you have probably drunk it before. If you haven’t, imagine wine, but worse. I was sitting there, a few miles away from Westminster, and all I wanted was to be in a room in parliament that was either too cold or too hot, and I wanted to grimace as I took each warm, acidic sip while talking to someone I did not want to be talking to. Like a child idly daydreaming of summer camp in early September, I thought of receptions in the Thames Pavillion on the terrace, which were somehow designed to only ever look so empty to be soul-crushing, or so heaving they felt claustrophobic. I longed for drinks in those fancy rooms on Carlton House Terrace, where the ceilings are so high it never gets warm and everyone has to awkwardly stand the...

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