Why I queued to see the Queen

I went there with Rachel my best friend from childhood. We both wore black. Even our trainers were black. We took the train together from our homes in Sussex and joined the queue in London at 7 p.m., when day light was still strong, in the knowledge we might be part of this slow-moving mass of humanity for twelve hours or much more. Our backpacks were filled with sweaters, extra socks, bananas, energy bars, phone chargers and handkerchiefs. The journey, or what increasingly felt like a pilgrimage, was buzzing with chat, with introductions that followed a very Queen-like sort of conversation. 

‘Have you come far?’ ‘What do you do?’ as we made friends with those who formed our immediate little group: a carpenter, a schoolgirl, a nurse, a young American historian from Virginia now an Oxford postgraduate, three elegant women…a mother and her two daughters, all from Delhi, a second-hand car salesman from Plymouth who made us shake with laughter.