Cause Cerehre
I have, to my shame, very rarely sought access to the Strangers' Gallery of the House of Commons. Its benches— Comfortably padded but designed, with a fine sense of tradition, for an earlier flowering of our race, when we-were smaller and had shorter legs—were crowded for Tuesday's debate on Crichel Down. The Gallery itself presented an absorbing and exotic Spectacle. One admired the firm but far from pompous way in which the door-keepers discharged their duties, which are Similar to, though more complicated than, those performed by Usherettes in cinemas. One remarked the slightly more incisive tones in which they warned the people in the front row that it was an Ambassador that they had to make room for. One speculated whether, should sleep completely over- come the stout, youngish, effective-looking West African Potentate on one's right, his gay turban would go overboard. One noted with regret that, if it did, it would fail narrowly to score a direct hit on an elderly Labour member, already locked In the arms of Morpheus. One was distracted, rather than surprised, by. the sight of two Japanese ladies in national costume flitting up the Mappin Terraces which form a glacis in front of the Press Gallery.
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