Sitting in the House of Commons at 9am this morning, after this place voted to join the on-going bombing campaign in Syria, with a very heavy heart. My walk into work this morning was ponderous as my head was bursting with the events of last night. The protestors have gone, the riot police stood down and tourists clamour for photographs. The grand façade of the Palace of Westminster, more than ever, represents the imperial past hanging on grimly by its long boney fingers to the vestiges of power and influence. Conceit and arrogance in every brick.
I am sitting on the benches before business of the day starts and a trickle of Tories are wandering in to place their prayer cards. They are positively buzzing with their victory. They are upbeat and energised. I am deflated and troubled. However for people so full of their own sense of importance they can’t meet my stare, eye to eye. As more filter in and their numbers grow, their chatter gets louder and more upbeat. They find comfort as a gang, mob mentality succours their actions, they laugh and joke, the enormity of last nights decision to bomb Syria seems lost on them already. They even joke that their majority will go up.
First business is “oral questions: Culture media and sport” and immediately the mocking and jeering kicks in, the questions aren’t answered and its business as usual for the government.