The journey progresses. Sometimes we’re walking briskly, at other times shuffling along - because of a bottleneck - and at more frustrating moments grinding to a halt. But there’s no rain (a great blessing) and I’ve actually taken off one of my sweaters, I’m so warm. One of our group goes off on a drinks run - he comes back with coffee and beer (I’m desperate for caffeine).
We’re now at South Bank Complex (they are showing footage of a young queen and Prince Philip, on a big screen, outside the National Film Theatre). Trading past. I take a snap of young George (who hasn’t complained once, yet, about the trek!)
Next door to the NFT is the Royal Festival Hall, where I’ve spent many a happy hour, listening to piano recitals.
I decide to nip in to relieve myself. As luck would have it, they have thrown their facilities open to all those who need them.
That’s the thing about standing in a queue - you start to feel that when a toilet break opportunity presents itself, you shouldn’t pass it up!
And the bridges we’ve passed are mounting up - Southwark, Millennium, Blackfriars, Waterloo, and Hungerford.
We’re tired, for sure, and our feet are aching but as we pass Westminster, there’s a surge of enthusiasm from all eight of us - because we know that we can finally turn right at Lambeth Bridge and head south from north, towards the Houses of Parliament!
It’s now 3.50pm by my watch and I think “Blimey, we’ve made decent time.”
And then I stare at the next line of zigzags, which goes on as far as the eye can see. This is ‘soft security’ apparently and although I don’t realise it, it’s going to take us almost two hours to get through.
On the upside, there are plenty of portaloos (I use one, it’s remarkably clean). The sun is shining, the atmosphere is good–humoured and all around me there’s an air of anticipation.
I’m also noticing quite a few army veterans who are here, with their medals.
As we head towards ‘hard security’ we are instructed to eat or throw out what’s left of our food and water. Nothing can be taken inside Westminster Hall. There’s an enormous mound of sandwiches, sweets, packets of nuts, bottles of water to one side. Everyone’s trying to give their stash away, rather than see it binned. Unfortunately, I’m not hungry so after after unsuccessfully offering my goodies to people everywhere, the last of my snacks join the growing pile.
Then, the bag search. My lord, security’s tighter here than at Ben Gurion Airport, in Tel Aviv!
The guy who rummages through my backpack is incredibly thorough; nothing escapes his eagle eye. He leaves me with a pen and a packet of tissues but, unbelievably, confiscates a brand new packet of anti-bacterial wet wipes. They’re on the ‘forbidden’ list apparently. Well, it’s a small price to pay, I suppose.
Bag search over, Westminster Hall is in sight.
A hilarious official gives us a jokey speech about the ‘dos and don’ts’ inside; he’s so funny that I’m minded to film him.
Unfortunately, it’s strictly ‘phones off’ now and everyone (and I mean everyone) is utterly obedient.
Partly, I suppose, because we don’t want to risk being denied entry but partly because we are British (this ‘phones off’ routine would not work in, say, Italy or Israel).
I check my watch, It’s 5.55 pm. Almost eleven hours since I collected my wristband, here I stand. The entrance to Westminster Hall is just two metres from me. I take a deep breath and, standing next to me, I see George’s eyes widen. And then we walk in.