The Queen

I have to say I felt a little sorry for the Queen having to suffer those celebrations as she did.
The four hour journey down the Thames with the rain coming down in bucketfuls and the
piercing cold of a winter’s day to bear. That and then the evening concert: another three hours or so of pop music, of Elton John, of Cliff Richard - God help us all! Enough to make anyone throw up.
But she bore it gallantly and may have even enjoyed some of it. But I bet she was glad to
get back to the palace warmth and to bed with a gin and whatever she has with it.


It must be a strange feeling being a queen in this age when the word queen and the word
royalty seem anachronisms. She has no power. Only the power to order an egg for breakfast
or a glass of what she fancies when she is alone or within the confines of her private quarters.

So what is she when she’s not an ordinary human being? A figurehead. A representative of a
nation who is presented to the world as.... As what? A centre of regard of a patriotic nation?
Except that the nation is not so patriotic as it may seem at times of celebration.

And what has been celebrated? A length of time. Sixty years of being a figurehead.
A celebration of someone who has done her duty perhaps. Her duty? What is that exactly?
Her duty in being a figurehead of course.