Larry, The Downing Street Cat - The Famous Black door

Things are unusually peaceful here at Number 10 as we await the arrival of the self-styled King of the North, or, as I prefer to remember him, "Bambi" Burnham. That was the nickname bestowed upon him in his younger political days, thanks to an abundance of fluttering eyelashes and the sort of innocent expression that suggested he might apologise to a lamppost for walking into it. With the removals van yet to disgorge its boxes into my hallway, I thought I'd continue my occasional series on Britain's most over-photographed front door. Last time I explained why I spend so much time sitting on the steps. Today, let's talk about the famous black door itself. It's astonishing how much affection humans can develop for a piece of painted wood, or, more accurately these days, painted steel. The front door of Number 10 has stood as the symbolic entrance to British power since 1735. The original was fashioned from sturdy black oak, but after an IRA mortar attack in 1991, it was replaced with a reinforced, bulletproof steel replica. One of my favourite details is the number "10". If you look closely, and humans do seem remarkably willing to stand outside staring at doors, you'll notice the zero sits at a curious angle. That's deliberate. It honours the rather wonky original eighteenth-century numbering, where the zero was fixed crookedly. Apparently, it's tilted at exactly 37 degrees, which is the sort of fact that wins pub quizzes but loses dinner invitations. Below it sits the polished brass letterbox bearing the words "First Lord of the Treasury", which is the Prime Minister's official title. Humans insist on making everything sound much grander than it really is. "Prime Minister" is apparently too straightforward. One of the features is something most people never notice. There is no outside handle. The door cannot be opened from the street, which is sensible when you consider how many people spend their lives trying to get inside it. A guard releases the lock from within while CCTV keeps watch outside. It also serves the useful purpose of discouraging unexpected visitors, former prime ministers and the occasional television crew who believe shouting at a closed door constitutes journalism. Not that it always had to be black. Back in 1908, during Herbert Asquith's premiership, a gentleman whose greatest achievement may well be remaining largely forgotten, his wife Margot decided the black paint looked far too gloomy and had it painted green instead. It lasted for a while before Britain collectively remembered that government functions best when its front door resembles the entrance to an undertaker's. Incidentally, there are actually two Number 10 doors. They take turns every few years while one is quietly repainted and restored. It's rather like having identical twins, except one spends most of its life in storage. And yes, before anyone asks, the inside of the door is white. Humans are endlessly fascinated by it. Every day, tourists arrive hoping for a photograph beside the famous entrance. Sadly, these days they can't simply wander up to it. Security has become rather less trusting than it was in the days when the greatest threat was someone nicking the milk bottles. Instead, the pavement is occupied by journalists standing in carefully rehearsed poses, television correspondents talking earnestly into cameras, and social media enthusiasts who appear convinced that posting a photograph of themselves near a front door will somehow improve their lives. If all you really want is the photograph, I have some encouraging news. There is a remarkably convincing imitation just fifteen minutes away, or about two minutes at my pace, assuming I haven't stopped to inspect a pigeon. Tucked away just off the Strand, stands Number 10 Adam Street. Its Georgian doorway bears an uncanny resemblance to my own. It was built around the same period, which explains why so many visitors do a double-take. Of course, to a professional observer such as myself, the differences leap out immediately. The numerals are the wrong font. The knocker is disappointingly ordinary. There's an unattractive bollard outside. The letterbox is different. Five panes of fanlight glass instead of seven. No grand gas lamp overhead. No police officer is standing guard. And, perhaps most importantly, no statue of me. A glaring omission. The building now houses offices and was designed by the eighteenth-century architect Robert Adam, who thoughtfully named the street after himself, a level of confidence politicians can only dream of. So there you are. A little slice of London history from someone who has spent considerably more time studying the front door than most prime ministers have spent behind it. #pets #cats #cute #cutecat #larrythecat #larry