In 2002 I attended the lying-in-state of the Queen Mother. I did it as part of the grand old British tradition of faintly annoying all your left-wing friends. I also thought it might be an interesting dollop of history-in-the-making.
How right I was. Along the South Bank, round midnight, I joined the queue – quite drunk, I admit, but I was hardly alone in this. For two hours the jolly, chatty queue: a BBC screenwriter’s ideal mix of creeds, ethnicities, ages, jobs, disabilities, achievements, motivations, politics. A surprising number were definitely socialists. We swapped jokes, advice, stories; we shared sweet royal anecdotes, filthy royal gossip, pleasant ham sandwiches. And a couple of hot toddies.
Then, at about 2am, we finally reached the much-trodden threshold of venerable Westminster Hall, and we were allowed inside, and all jollity and chattiness fell instantly away. Because there she was. The Queen Mum, the nation’s granny.
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