First in Cabinet

I arrived for Cabinet early, as usual. I like to be there to greet the other ministers as they arrive. Often those snatched seconds of conversation are the first indication I get of a new rumour or scandal, sometimes even a new policy. Also, it’s easy to be forgotten, 24 ministers and a 30 minute meeting, sometimes you can go months without getting a word in, and if that happens it can be the end of a career, even if you’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve seen it happen lots to lots of good people.

Alun Davies was already there, in his customary pose of tucking into the biscuits.

“You’ve nothing better to do either Sir Geoffrey?”

“I just like to keep my eye on things, you know that. The PM has the twin habits of telling me nothing and expecting me to know everything.”

“Silly man. That’s what a wife is for. Here, have a biscuit before fatty Pickles arrives. They’re the only reason I come early. Only reason I come at all some days.”

I took a piece of shortbread.

“They’re exceptional! Works of art really. £4.25 per biscuit they cost. Austerity ends at the biscuit tray. The chef who makes them used to work for the Sultan of Brunei. Here, try one of the fig rolls. They were Andrew Mitchell’s favourite during his short residence, Pleb Rolls I call them. A plateful of them costs the same as the weekly wage of a copper.”

I took a fig roll. Alun was right, it was a taste sensation. The flavours of fig and pastry fought for my attention, all other thoughts, sensations and sounds went out of my mind. “Who’d have thought the humble fig could achieve so much.”

“Marvellous guy that biscuit chef. Every minister should have one really, all this 'we're in this together' nonsense, a 10p cut in the state pension would cover it.”

“I see you’re on the agenda. ‘Transport Update’. What exciting new ideas do you have for us?”

“Oh bloody hell. That’s just the Chancellor’s revenge. I made reference to his fare-dodging during a tricky period of questioning by the Transport Committee. Just a little joke you know, to ease the tension, said how we’re all trying innovative ways to save money.”

“Yes, I seem to remember the papers rather enjoying your remark. Front page of the Times, Express, Guardian and Mail if I remember rightly.”

“Oh, terrible, I’ve never had so much attention. The Chancellor took a mile round trip from No. 11 to Horseferry Road, just so that he could blank me as arrived at work. I found a memo in my in-tray telling me I’ve got to find an additional £1.5 billion cut in the transport budget. Help him get out of the mess he created with his slash and burn nonsense.”

“So what are you announcing?”

“Toll roads. Ridiculous isn’t it? After the disaster of privatising the railways they want to sell off the roads. Now if I was really serious about saving money I’d propose buying back the railways and ending the bloody great subsidy we have to throw at them to keep them profitable. Can you imagine the faces round the table if I suggested it?”

I winced, which make Alun laugh loudly. Alun laughs easily, which is just as well, there isn’t much to laugh at these days.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck two. It meant nothing, the clocks in the room are notoriously inaccurate, kept purely for display and sentimental purposes. A bit like Ken Clarke really. I discreetly glanced at my watch – Christ we were really early.

“I hate this chair.”

“All the chairs are the same,” I said, “date back to Disraeli’s time. Good, Tory chairs, built to last.”

“Oh the chair itself is fine. It’s the position, back to the window, on the far edge of the coffin.” (the coffin-shape of the cabinet table allows the PM to view every minister at once, which has been the nail in the coffin of more than one whispering conspirator over the years). “It signifies the lowliness of my position. It’s near enough the door that I can be kicked out at a moment’s notice. Now that’s the chair I covet.” He pointed to the PM’s.

“Well you’re young enough,” I said, neutrally.

“I won’t even keep my seat the way it’s going. Have you seen the latest polls? I should’ve held on until a safe seat became available. A 5% swing and I’m out, it means I can never be a serious contender for leadership, the opposition would throw every activist they have at my constituency. No, I’m destined to spend my life here, at the nothing edge of the coffin, until I’m shown the door by the electorate.”

I said nothing. I pretended to admire the portrait of Robert Walpole, though there is little to admire in it.

“You know what, I’m going to sit on it.”

“Sit on it?” I asked confused. I conjured up visions of Davies on Walpole’s lap.

“The PM’s seat. Just this once, something to tell the grandkids.”

“I really don’t think…” I started to say, but it was too late. Davies had bounded out of his chair and was already running round the table towards the seat in front of the fireplace. With a glance round the room to check there were still just the two of us, he sat down, bouncing his bum up and down on the seat, showing off like a child.”

“Wow, you can really see the world from here. Not one minister could sneak a pick of a nose or an underhand confederacy in their neighbour’s ear. Ah yes, and you can reach your pick of four separate plates of biscuits.”

Davies was interrupted by the distant rumble of voices. He quickly leapt out of the PM’s chair and returned to his appointed seat.