Close Protection
I was absentmindedly gazing out of our holiday let window in Devon when my eye was caught by a family promenading along the seafront opposite. That man looks a lot like Keir Starmer, leader of Her Majesty's Opposition, I said to myself. Of course it couldn't be. My mind was befuddled by an excess of sea air and ice cream.
He was just some bloke strolling by the seaside with relatives on an overcast day at the tail end of August. One of the many pacing up and down wondering what to do after they had ordered a takeaway coffee, eaten fish and chips and been dive bombed by seagulls in this quiet corner of the English coast.
The group stopped opposite my window and the man who wasn't the Labour party leader crossed the road and disappeared into the deli a couple of doors down. Phil had been in there only a few minutes earlier where she witnessed an intense conversation between a mother and her children regarding a jar of Damson chutney. The kids, I am informed, were less than enthused by the condiment. In order to do our bit to boost the local economy Phil returned with an armful of artisanal cookies, a tin of Elderflower Collins cocktail, a homemade quiche and a Portuguese egg custard. Total cost: approximately equivalent to a small yacht or an entire year's groceries from Aldi.
I was marveling at how much you can charge for artisanal cookies in this part of the world when my eye happened upon two blokes who were loitering behind a car trying not to be noticed and thus drawing attention to themselves. They had short, neat hair cuts and were obviously close protection officers. Their coats bulged suspiciously at the back. So it was Sir Keir Starmer in the deli. I called Phil over and we peered pruriently out of the window. If the place had curtains instead of blinds we would've twitched them.
The close protection officers looked embarrassed as a woman carrying a yoga mat chatted to them before moving her car. It was their job to be inconspicuous and they had been made conspicuous. It must be a very strange job.
The pair glanced up and down the street, keeping an eye on the deli as a police van drove past. I fear they would be waiting a while. The homemade quiche is delicious but the service is not the quickest.
Phil, with her innate sense of decency, urged me to stop craning my neck and intruding on a family holiday. They were entitled to their privacy. I ignored her. I was simply looking out of the window. It just so happened that a public figure was visible beneath it. I wasn't following him down the street or taking photos while he crammed a Pastel de Nata in his gob. If I did, would I be wrestled to the ground by the close protection officers? I wasn't willing to find out, not even for the sake of this newsletter.
Sir Keir eventually emerged from the deli, a bag of goodies in hand. I can say for certain that the bag did not contain fresh clotted cream. That was the reason Phil had gone in there in the first place only to find they had sold out. Unless the deli had a secret stash kept in reserve for visiting political figures. I also can't say if he bought a very small packet of candy striped pasta for five quid. I hope being leader of Her Majesty's Opposition pays well because your money does not go far in the delis of Devon.
Keir and company soon disappeared out of view, their close protection officers trailing behind like sulky teenagers. As far as I'm aware, no firearms were drawn on dive bombing seagulls.
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