Friday, April 21, 2006
Who's Queen?
So it's Liz's birthday today and I thought it might be time to reflect the occasions when our lives have crossed paths.
It was a very sunny summer's day in 1988 and I had in my hand a rather lovely invitation. It was embossed, crested and had a dress code. What was I to wear? I spent a frantic morning at Brent Cross, my trusty side-kick Mick in tow to ensure I didn't go too far down the taffeta bridesmaid look. Clutching several bags of purchases we found ourselves in the ladies toilets at Victoria Station, nowhere more glamourous I think you'll find. There I emerged chrysalis like out of the cubicle. Mick had told the bathroom attendant where I was off to. I felt like royalty myself. The gathered crowd murmured appreciatively, or at least that's what I hope they were doing and off we went.
I stood pretty in pink, well dusty pink for the style commentators amongst you, long white gloves and a white wide brimmed straw hat. I was thin and young. I even had white shoes on. I was thin and young and co-ordinated. I handed my invitation to the guard and stepped slowly into the courtyard. Yes dear reader, I had been invited to A Buckingham Palace Garden Party.
A rather marvellous time was had even if I knew no one, at least no one I hadn't seen in a magazine at any rate. I managed to dig my heels into the soil as a way of collecting a souvenir of dirt and grass and also drop my silver spoon along the way. My hat stayed firmly on, my gloves for not quite so long and the cucumber sandwiches went about their usual digestive business.
What a treat it was.
Until the next time.
1992. This time I managed to bring a girlfriend. Someone other than a complete stranger to pick up my dropped glove in this case. I am nothing if not consistently clumsy. We did a John Lewis Oxford Street shop if memory serves and I wore a wide brimmed black hat with, you guessed it, matching shoes. My dress however was royal (of course) blue with flowers on it. I managed to avoid Victoria Station for our preparations and instead found oursevles in our decidedly dodgy hotel room in Earls Court putting on our glad rags for tea with the BP massive.
Another couple of pleasant hours followed, spent stomping around the back gardens of Buckingham Palace and taking tea with the Queen. I say taking tea, I mean sitting and watching them take tea from a tea tent 20 metres away. I like to think my invite was lost in the post.
There have been several other spots of Her Maj over the years. Coming from a Land Down Under as I do, she did tend to visit often and as the crowds, over years, have become smaller, sightings became more frequent. You could be out shopping one day and wonder why a small crowd had gathered only to find a small woman in a big hat cutting a red ribbon. Back in the UK she even stalked me to Lords Cricket Ground. Though on that occassion we were decidedly more excited at seeing Elaine Paige arrive.
These days we keep a polite distance. The Queen and I, not Elaine and I (yoo hoo Elaine, cocktails at 5?).
She reigns from her many West London pads and rural boltholes; me my 200 square metres of finest East London ex-council housing. And no, never shall the twain meet. Unless it's Shania. (yoo hoo Shania, cocktails with Elaine at 5?)
I have just remembered at my sister's registry office wedding, my then 3 year old nephew pointed up to a painting on the wall and said 'Aunty, that's you". It was the Queen. I'll leave you the jokes. At least it was a young portrait and she did have a fabulous tiara on.
I am so rambling.
It was a very sunny summer's day in 1988 and I had in my hand a rather lovely invitation. It was embossed, crested and had a dress code. What was I to wear? I spent a frantic morning at Brent Cross, my trusty side-kick Mick in tow to ensure I didn't go too far down the taffeta bridesmaid look. Clutching several bags of purchases we found ourselves in the ladies toilets at Victoria Station, nowhere more glamourous I think you'll find. There I emerged chrysalis like out of the cubicle. Mick had told the bathroom attendant where I was off to. I felt like royalty myself. The gathered crowd murmured appreciatively, or at least that's what I hope they were doing and off we went.
I stood pretty in pink, well dusty pink for the style commentators amongst you, long white gloves and a white wide brimmed straw hat. I was thin and young. I even had white shoes on. I was thin and young and co-ordinated. I handed my invitation to the guard and stepped slowly into the courtyard. Yes dear reader, I had been invited to A Buckingham Palace Garden Party.
A rather marvellous time was had even if I knew no one, at least no one I hadn't seen in a magazine at any rate. I managed to dig my heels into the soil as a way of collecting a souvenir of dirt and grass and also drop my silver spoon along the way. My hat stayed firmly on, my gloves for not quite so long and the cucumber sandwiches went about their usual digestive business.
What a treat it was.
Until the next time.
1992. This time I managed to bring a girlfriend. Someone other than a complete stranger to pick up my dropped glove in this case. I am nothing if not consistently clumsy. We did a John Lewis Oxford Street shop if memory serves and I wore a wide brimmed black hat with, you guessed it, matching shoes. My dress however was royal (of course) blue with flowers on it. I managed to avoid Victoria Station for our preparations and instead found oursevles in our decidedly dodgy hotel room in Earls Court putting on our glad rags for tea with the BP massive.
Another couple of pleasant hours followed, spent stomping around the back gardens of Buckingham Palace and taking tea with the Queen. I say taking tea, I mean sitting and watching them take tea from a tea tent 20 metres away. I like to think my invite was lost in the post.
There have been several other spots of Her Maj over the years. Coming from a Land Down Under as I do, she did tend to visit often and as the crowds, over years, have become smaller, sightings became more frequent. You could be out shopping one day and wonder why a small crowd had gathered only to find a small woman in a big hat cutting a red ribbon. Back in the UK she even stalked me to Lords Cricket Ground. Though on that occassion we were decidedly more excited at seeing Elaine Paige arrive.
These days we keep a polite distance. The Queen and I, not Elaine and I (yoo hoo Elaine, cocktails at 5?).
She reigns from her many West London pads and rural boltholes; me my 200 square metres of finest East London ex-council housing. And no, never shall the twain meet. Unless it's Shania. (yoo hoo Shania, cocktails with Elaine at 5?)
I have just remembered at my sister's registry office wedding, my then 3 year old nephew pointed up to a painting on the wall and said 'Aunty, that's you". It was the Queen. I'll leave you the jokes. At least it was a young portrait and she did have a fabulous tiara on.
I am so rambling.
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