I recently had cause to visit the Home Office. I did so for reasons I'm not at liberty to discuss, my questionable understanding of some complex issues usefully masked by several layers of secrecy which may, for all I know, exist mainly to feed a smug sense of corporate exclusivity.
Having dragged myself in from the provinces using one of Mr Branson's 'Pendulino' trains - by far the most comfortable alternative to the motorcycle 'wall of death' - and enjoyed the welcoming embrace of London life that only the Underground can deliver - intimacy with reeking strangers, tooth-rattling inertia, the parched and ionised breath of Hades, the prospect of your sweating neighbour toting a bag crammed with semtex or sarin - I pitch up at the heart, or perhaps a less vital but still well-intentioned and noteworthy organ, of government.
A thickly chlorinated water feature, lustrous films of water wrapping themselves around obsidian blocks, guards the doorway to an airy structure of burnished steel and glass that is clean, frosted or infused with colour. This isn't the creaking, beleaguered facade of law and order I've seen in provincial magistrates' courts and market-town punch-ups. This high-concept vision of strength and openness wouldn't look out of place in an investment banker's loft-space being discussed over absinthe and quail nipples, assuming said banker has tasted those tasty, green shoots of recovery rather than drowning in his own mortgage and wishing he worked in the public sector.
Inside, sharp-suited automata, their mouths glued into adequately polite half-smiles, check my bona fides, scan me for knives and RPG's, issue me with temporary ID, which would probably explode if I left the building without handing it back, and wave me towards a set of man-size test-tubes. I show a machine the ID, enter the unique and secure code shouted my way by one of the automata, and the test tube whisks itself open to admit me. I step inside, to embrace what turns out to be a disappointing future. I'm not transported to the Soho basement HQ of UNCLE, to the transporter room of the USS Enterprise or to the Batcave. Instead, I stand on a target, am sniffed for explosives - or celery, for all I know - and ushered into a bright and open atrium, a basement floor of tropical plants, demi-lattes, panninis and Yogo classes opening on to five floors of hushed office space, water coolers and signage in soothing colours directing the visitor to a bewildering variety of acronyms and - protect and survive - the bomb shelter.
I have my meeting - the contents of which I cannot disclose, but rest assured a small corner of Guantanamo will be preserved for abuse'rs' of apostroph'es - and find my provincial wits somewhat taxed by a charming apparatchik of the new order, bright enough to go far enough, his path unimpeded by cynicism, his high-minded readiness to serve making my withering world-view feel more than a little juvenile, his ten years of bureaucratic insight trumping my two months of long lunches and skimpy research.
A chorus of whooping and laughter floods in from the street below, ignoring the tetchy clacking of keyboards and the hushing whisper of the air conditioning. Zimbabwean emigres are staging a demonstration on the street below in support of imprisoned pro-democracy activists. They grin at anyone who comes to a window, brandish their banners politely, wave and tease the security automata, before moving on without a glimpse of the old bill, perhaps having realised that the Home Office has little influence on Mugabe's penal policy, or having already discovered that the same can be said of the FCO, the UN or any other acronym you'd care to mention.
I return to Euston, join the expectant mass at the departure board, become part of a frenzied hive-mind when my platform is announced, have a one hour fever-dream of tilting crazily northward at huge speeds while chubby men with floppy fringes shout at their phones about slim margins and enhanced resilience, then find myself back in the provinces and compelled to type a meandering and pointless blog about my unusual day rather than concentrating on my civil service project management exams.
If you think this is dull, you should see the textbook I'm avoiding.