I am definitely back on the farm again. The day starts with the ritual of shaving. Archaeology. Trying to recover the face I used to wear. Next the uniform is assembled: black suit, white royal shirt, knot cufflinks in red and black and a clubbable tie.
For official purposes, my picture is taken. No one looks good reduced to 2cm x 2cm, but somehow I manage to take on the appearance of a morose CID boozer and brawler. Gene Hunt without the brutal sex appeal.
I am given a computer, Blackberry and a time to be at the House of Commons. As soon as I get to the first security barrier it becomes natural. Mental muscle memory. I tune out the armour and machine guns. Empty pockets, go under the scanner and assume the position for the type of vigorous frisking I doubt even those with a fetish for being manhandled by a police officer wearing purple latex gloves could enjoy. As usual, the more sophisticated security technology remains inconspicuous.
Once inside the Palace of Westminster, even more comes back. Trying not to become emotional at the though of buying Edradour whisky in the shop for my grandfather, I push on deeper into the building. My recall of stones is strong enough to navigate along corridors and up staircases to the Committee Rooms without getting lost.
At one point, as the Minister spoke, I looked out beyond the wood panels through a window as the sun hit St Stephen's Tower. It looked beautiful. I felt history whispering to me and allowed myself the thought: my grandfather would have loved to hear about this.