The Eye of Providence

I am in the shadow of Thames House. Sixth floor. Windows open to defeat stuffiness. The droning circles of a military helicopter crowds the room. Low in the sky, a trajectory taking it towards the Babylon-on-Thames building. Its bullying sound obscures the 11am chimes of Big Ben. It passes quickly, but the thworp thworp of its blades dominates until it has nearly crossed the river. Over the next two hours, more follow.

Desensitisation to my surroundings is rare. The city lives in my senses and imagination. I can navigate by the smell of agarwood incense and fried sambusac along Edgeware Road. Close my eyes, listen to the soft exhalation of traffic and know whether I am in Kensington or Earl’s Court. Still the psychic static and I can feel temporal echoes of history occulted by the exigencies of everday life.

Yet in this particular corner of the Westminster village, I become strangely insensitive to the stories of stone and brick. Numb to the paranoid reek that should sting my eyes. Inside the security triangle, some protective mechanism kicks in and forces you to tune out the whole industry of fear embedded in the territory. Tune out Five and all its manifestations of the Eye of Providence.

Today, after the intrusion of helicopter flights, ignoring my milieu is not an option. The spell is broken. Armoured Range Rovers charge down Horseferry Road like metallic black rhinos. I cannot help but recognise chaps I know from Five emerging from Starbucks. View architecture as a series of adaptations to the risk of explosives measured in the clinical horror of high yield numbers.

England occupies little more than 0.1% of the globe’s inhabitable land mass, yet boasts more than 20% of the world’s CCTV camera. It seems as if a good proportion of them are concentrated in this section of Millbank. Step outside the blast doors and the invisible tyranny of constant observation begins. Smart and suspicious software analysing number plates, faces and gait. Cameras chittering data to distant electronic brains. Kick-starting paranoid pouring through stored information for recognised faces, walks and numerical sequences.

Walking here turns us into data ghosts. Our movements translated into a virtual world where our very existence is reason for distrust. Each camera capture a new scene in a fragmented narrative obsessed with trying to discern motive from detail. We have become extras in a film we will never get to see.

A Placatory Cream Tea

You wait all through the cold, deluged months of English weather for your first cream tea of the year and then suddenly the opportunity to have one is everywhere. If it had not been for my indulgence yesterday, not only would I have let a Government Minister buy me a cup of Earl Grey today, I would have taken him up on his offer to experience the Devonshire tea on offer at Portcullis House. However, two cream teas less than 30 hours apart are a bit too much, even for a wanton devourer like me.

Despite not being a huge fan of New Labour, there are some Government Ministers it is hard not to like. A dancing intelligence, a surprising patina of charisma for someone still relatively young and an obvious bit of nous is always an attractive combination. Throw in the sort of easy charm that offers of a placatory cream tea as an apology for already understandable lateness and you are faced with a Minister that could make you momentarily forget about the Counter-Terrorism Bill.

Sitting around the table, it became clear we would both rather enjoy a discussion on reasons for political non-engagement at a community level and how the hippy influence can still be felt in Californian corporate culture. As my tea cooled to a drinkable temperature it became impossible not to think: “It is a shame they are not giving you the same hype as James Purnell. You might actually get my vote.”

Back in the Village

Early morning, I walk along Embankment towards the Westminster Village and find myself standing at the crossroads of Westminster Bridge and Parliament Square. A bubble in the incessant traffic stream appears. A sports car with an actor whose face is memorable enough to recognise, but not to name, is driving. He is accompanied by a cameras mounted on a truck and police motorcycle outriders.

For some reason the suit, brutally polished muscle of the car and the actor’s determined sang-froid make me think classic celluloid secret agent. My mind moves beyond James Bond to John Drake, sparking sudden remembrance and possible recognition. I think the driver is James Caviezel.

Suddenly it strikes me I may be watching a recreation of the most iconic opening sequence in television history. If it is Caviezel, then it can only be filming for the new version of The Prisoner. I am living in the fantasy of my 14-year-old self who was entranced by McGoohan’s masterpiece. Libertarianism grew inside me while watching the defiance of Number Six. Views that found expression 20 years later in Secrets & Lies, began with a Lotus Seven growling past the Houses of Parliament and into an underground car park.

I stand on a traffic island and watch the car cross the bridge and out of sight. Suppress any delight by recalling how my excitement at being part of Star Wars history turned to a quinine bitterness when I actually saw The Phantom Menace. The classics are often unforgiving to those who try to fuck with them.

At 7am I slide my security key and open the blast doors. A heavy push on the thick, cold metal and six flights of stairs take me to my new space. Like banging the blackened skin of a bruise and being reminded of the original injury, the 80mm of armour makes me painfully aware I am in the Westminster security triangle. Even without this, my window view of the Thames House transmitter towers screaming paranoia into the static confusion of the infosphere prevents any denial that I am well and truly back in the Village.

Becoming David So

At the moment I keep reading official documents that refer to me as David So. I worry that this interesting approach to energy conservation while typing in some circles will eventually lead to the creation of a tulpa. I am not sure the David So who currently lives only in the words of bureaucratic papers is a homunculi I would want to see achieve awareness. David So is certainly not a man to be trusted. He spends far too much time talking to politicians and attending functions where he behaves impeccably.

Worse still is the prospect of this strange entity taking possession of me in the way Ziggy once consumed Bowie. I am resisting with all my strength becoming David So. His path is one that leads to disavowal of chocolate and recommendations for membership of dubious orders.

It is a good job that there are more corporal beings called David So – a mortgage broker, a programmer et al – to block his way. Otherwise I suspect he might escape from his existence in reports and memos. He is definitely the sort to bleed into cyberspace, establish a virtual beachhead before trudging through the murky mire bordering the Westminster Village.