The Bishop of Oxford

 I was invited to a lunch party one Sunday afternoon a while back to which the Bishop of Oxford was also a guest. (I do move in these exalted circles now and then you know). Now, unlike the Bishop of Norwich, the Bishop of Oxford turned out to be a real person, not a euphemism to pass the Port. 

I didn't get to speak to his purple-shirted reverence; he was otherwise engaged in conversation with more learned men than I. However, I did get to speak to his charming wife, who, during our idle conversation revealed that she was reading the new Ian McEwan, and it was 'absolutely marvellous'. 

Later, driving home through the Buckinghamshire countryside I saw a plump and perfectly formed green mound of a hill, and decided on the spur of the moment to stop there and go for a walk.

But about half way up a police helicopter suddenly buzzed round from behind the hill and flew so close I could just about see the white of the pilot's eyes. A police Land Rover had also appeared and was approaching two other walkers who were ahead of me nearer the top. Intrigued, I continued, and as I reached the top of the hill four armed police officers from the Land Rover were interviewing other walkers. 

“So you live round here then?” I overheard one of the police officers say.  

“Oh yes, we're locals,” was the reply. 

They were then dismissed and the focus of attention turned to me. 

“And what about you sir? Do you live locally?” 

“No, I live about thirty miles away,” I replied, which I thought was reasonably local. 

“Have you any idea where you are?” He asked. 

By this time I was wondering just what I'd walked into — perhaps there was a biological weapons testing plant nearby that had reported an escapee. 

“Well,” he said, turning a pointing. “Just down there the other side of those trees is Chequers.” 

The penny suddenly dropped. David Cameron had just become Prime Minister, and this very weekend he was choosing his new cabinet. Checkers would therefore be crawling with senior politicians coming too and fro to find out which departments they had been assigned. 

I said that I had crossed no fences and there were no keep out signs, or even gates.

They bluffed this one over by saying something like — yeah but you can't be too careful, and some thing about Fathers 4 Justice.

Another penny dropped. They obviously assumed that I was wearing a super hero costume concealed beneath my clothes and a banner rolled up in my underpants and that I was a potential embarrassment to the fledgling government, if not an outright threat to national security. 

One of the policemen radioed my name through to 'control' from the Land Rover. There was a crackle at the other end, the sound of tapping on a keyboard, and then a pause. 

Surely 'possession of marijuana' circa 1973 wouldn't still show up, I wondered...?

For some reason I didn't get to hear what 'control' had to say, and as my name wasn't on their list I was told I was free to go.

Well, it is a free country... isn't it?