I slept through the alarm, I had intended to get up at 5.30 to write but I was a bit under par last night so I chose to stay under the duvet with the old git, well it was our wedding anniversary.
22 years of married Blitz.
We’re off out in 20 minutes to have a curry in Battersea Square. The Rickshaw, fabbo, they cook my vegetables without ghee, so its a guilt free celebration.
I decided to walk in this morning. My back is nearly 100%, my colon is nearly 100% and my energy levels are ridiculous. SO
I set off just before 9.30. The temperature was perfect for a fast walk. Only a little bag and my Nike Free3 trainers which feel like I’m walking on air.
Got to Pimlico and went into Daylesford Organics and bought myself breakfast as I’d made breakfast in the flat and forgotten to eat it. So I treated myself to a really expensive cucumber and tomato. The tomato was ok but the cucumber was utterly delectable. Fresh, crisp and tasty.
I walked past The Chelsea Flower Show. Mobs of gardening granny’s and grandpas. Hoards of young women in flowery dresses and straw hats. A casserole of coppers keeping them in place.
Turned left into Victoria and down Buckingham Palace Road. Opposite the Rubens Hotel the crowds had started to build up. Two coaches with men in red livery stood their ground whilst teams of perfectly trained, groomed, well behaved horses trotted towards The Park.
I walked fast enough to catch them up. I was elated as I had never, being a staunch anti-monarchist, ever been anywhere near the Pomp and Circumstance of Great Britain. Got to St. James Park entrance and the crowds, three deep, and iron fences, made it impossible to get through.
I had forgotten it was The State Opening of Parliament. I hadn’t forgotten, actually I don’t believe I ever really remembered, that the centre of London was going to be closed off.
My feeling of elation turned to a mild panic. I had to get to LBC Towers in twenty minutes. I asked a copper which way to go and he pointed to two plump Chinese tourists and told me to follow my colleagues.
‘They are not my colleagues’ I shrieked. ‘How do I get to Trafalgar Square, I’m going to be late for work.’
‘That’s not my fault love.’ said the policeman belligerantly.
‘I’m not blaming you’ I said petulantly ‘But I do need to get to work before nightfall.’
The peeler pointed to the left and told me to walk down Birdcage Walk. A very unhelpful man with a back-pack and anorak, white beard and camera told me that it would be okay and to take a chill pill.
‘I have a live radio programme to do’ I said through thin lips.
‘Oh!’ he said eating his words.
I flew down Birdcage Walk, only to be told by a WPC that I had to go under the underpass to get to the other side of the road so that I could get into Trafalgar Square.
From elation to mild panic and now intense irritation. The six deep crowd were not at all interested in this mad woman trying to get to work. How to say ‘excuse me’ in French, German, Swedish and Japanese. How do you not sound like you want to give a Glasgow Kiss to all the tourists that come to London to help our economy. How do you ask an Arabian family with a pram and the speed of a camel to get a piggin’ move on. How do you deal with a French kid who innocently shot his arm up in the air and smacked me in the mouth. I could feel my bottom lip grow..
My irritation was now at boiling point when the two coaches, which had obviously done a complete circuit, were coming towards me.
The Sergeant Major shouted orders to the soldiers lining Whitehall. As men on horseback and the two carriages carrying distinguished men, I think one was Black Rod, saluted the Senotaph. My irritation turned to awe. I had never seen such orchestration, stage management, history, tradition that had gone back hundreds of years, that was playing out before my very eyes.
I fought my way through to Nelson, marched past the National Gallery and arrived only fifteen minutes late. But it felt like I had travelled through time.
At one point I needed the time, thinking I really was going to be late. I looked for a clock, idiot being, there was Big Ben staring at me. I thought even the short-sighted amongst us would be able to read that clock face.
It was an extraordinary experience.
No I don’t like the Monarchy getting so much money, or not paying enough into the country, no I don’t like the perpetuation of the class system, equally I don’t like the way Fergie is being demonised, but I have to say when Kevin Mcguire asked me on the show what did I count as my Britishness I could honestly say that the redcoats and horsemen, the rituals of Parliament and Her Maj. were an extremely stirring sight.
I’ll probably feel completely different tomorrow when the hullabaloo has died down. But it was worth being late for.
Jim and I have just come in from a delicious anniversary meal.
They practically gave us the meal for free as an anniversary gift. Two glasses of champagne were presented to us to honour 700 years together.
The ‘oosbind had to drink my bubbly and he knocked back a bottle of Cobra beer all by himself, needless to say he has collapsed into bed whilst I’m watching Jules Holland.
Thats how to make a marriage last, eat together then spend the rest of the evening doing your own thing.
Would I have preferred if he had spent the evening making romantic gestures? Of course I would but I’ve lived with the old git long enough to know what he’s like.
Still you cant have everything had I been married to George Clooney for 22 years I would have had to fight Lisa Snowdon for his affections and I wouldn’t want to do that Lisa is a doll.
That’s it Jules is on after the news, which I will watch to see if I can see myself in the crowds oohing and aahing at our Queen. My father would be turning in his grave.
One last thing I went to have a bra fitting after work. Okay guys turn away, I have dropped two sizes. Not from the front bits but the back. Now thats what cutting the crap can do. Before the next State Opening I will look like Olive Oil
Bring on the spinach….