Down in the village, the dragon of democracy has been unleashed. I decided to take a stroll through the leafy streets and watch the sideshows.
There are plastic elephants sprouting all over Westminster's parks and gardens, no doubt queuing up to get into the smoke-free rooms where the deals are fragmenting. The floors of those grandiose buildings must be bowing under their weight right now.
In the alleyways and passages, the permanent residents are tidying up for the new tenants, whoever they may be.
Meanwhile, the old tenants carry on with their business, a weary look dominating their faces.
The reptiles are feeling hurt: we didn't do what they told us to do, and they're not used to that. Some try to cover up the fact that we still have a government,
while others (like the Yellow Bellied Turncoat) chatter to each other in a meaningless way about subjects on which they have as much information as a passing pigeon.
Everywhere on College Green hair is combed,
buttons are fastened, jackets are pulled straight: the lunchtime news slot is approaching.
While one chats, surprisingly, about the knowledge he can bring to Wembley over the relaying of pitches, round the corner they are enacting old Who songs.
"Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."
It's all so-o-o tiring...
