And to see country living at its finest, I’ve decided to head to Chipping Norton. Home to some rather well-known individuals (including David & Sam Cameron, Matthew Freud and Jeremy Clarkson) I figure I’ve got to check it out and since it’s just 10 kms away (although local transport is scarce, with just a few buses a day) off I head…
As I mosey along the main drag, I see cottages - the kind of cottages that wouldn't look out of place on chocolate box tins - and almost all of them are built from stone quarried from the area. It’s honey-coloured (dating back to the Jurassic area) and when the sun falls on it, the hue is simply glorious!
Who didn’t love Bet Lynch, the busty blonde barmaid, whose presence in the Rovers Return pub who first made an appearance in the much-loved (and much-mocked) British soap opera ‘Coronation Street. Graduating from barmaid to landlady, she was a real character, dressed in her trademark leopard print and sporting a beehive hairstyle.Walking around the pub with a cigarette perpetually hanging from her mouth, she was probably one of tv’s most well-known stars in that period.,,
Ooooh, these look good too. They’re a selection of biscuits in a beautiful keepsake tin which I’m informed plays ‘God Save the King’ as it spins! What’s inside. Well apparently, sweet treats that invoke the memories of the Commonwealth (of which the late Queen Elizabeth II was particularly fond). These include Canadian cranberry, Fijian ginger, South African macadamia nut and British clotted cream delights…
Piccadilly is awash with red, white and blue union jack flags, fluttering gaily in the breeze. The lovely Burlington Arcade (which runs parallel to Bond Street and is a marvelous example of Regency architecture) has rolled out the red carpet (well, it’s actually more red/pink) and hung flags with ‘CR’ (‘Charles Regina’) all along its enclosure, and with the light streaming in from the glass windows above, it looks heavenly.
After the public outpouring of grief, the ten days of national mourning and the knowledge that a glorious and golden Elizabethan era was over, plans were put in motion for a Coronation. It’s now twenty four hours before the ‘Big Day’ and I decide to head into central London, to try and capture some of the atmosphere with my camera. I decide to wander around aimlessly, and begin in Covent Garden…
We’re tired, for sure, and our feet are aching but as we pass Westminster, there’s a surge of enthusiasm from all eight of us - because we know that we can finally turn right at Lambeth Bridge, towards the Houses of Parliament! And then I stare at the next line of zigzags, which goes on as far as the eye can see. This is ‘soft security’ apparently and although I don’t realise it, it’s going to take us almost two hours to get through. ..
My fellow queuers have come from Ipswich, Cheltenham and Gloucester - they all awoke in the middle of the night and either drove or caught National Express buses to London. I am truly in awe of their dedication to this cause. But then, as we discuss, the Queen was dedicated to her job for seventy years and so what’s a day out of all of our lives, if it means showing some respect…
Fluorescent wristbands are being handed out in a range of colours (quite randomly). Mine is pink and a kindly volunteer attaches it for me. It will be the proof I need to remain in the queue, all the way to the Palace of Westminster - about 8kms. I may be asked to present it at various informal checkpoints along the way, although I can hardly imagine anyone would try do anything as un-British as trying to push in! After all, this is what we live for, isn’t it? Queuing. And, by any standards, this is the Queue to End All Queues.
by the evening, to my astonishment, Radio 4 is reporting that the queue to pay one’s respects is already 5 hours long, and stretching across Lambeth Bridge, back to the National Film Theatre on the South Bank, where wristbands to join it are being handed out. By 8am the following morning it has grown enormously and is now stretching back to Tower Bridge…
It’s hard to put into words how many flowers, drawings, cards, flags and letters I saw in London’s Green Park on the Monday following Queen Elizabeth’s death. Of course, sometimes a picture really does speak a thousand words. Here are some of the hundreds of tributes upon which I gazed, that sunny September afternoon…
As I walk into the grounds of Green Park, I am caught entirely off guard. I knew there would be floral tributes. But this? The park is awash, and I really do mean awash, with flowers.It is a veritable sea of gorgeous tributes…I walk from mound to mound, reading many of the childrens’ cards and staring at their drawings. I am incredibly touched at the words they have written.
In front of the gates, people are stopping, both to place flowers and also read some of the tributes that are there - cards and drawings - which will regularly be removed and taken next door to Green Park. There’s a copy of a newspaper stuck within the railings, a picture of the Queen on the front and a huge caption stating ‘Godspeed, Ma’am’. It seems very poignant and fitting.
There’s a sober mood on the streets of London. People are noticeably more quiet, more ‘withdrawn’ as I walk the streets of Whitechapel and Spitafields. Digital adverts at the London bus stops have been replaced with Elizabeth II’s image. There are notices in shop windows, edged in black, offering commiserations. Last night, at Piccadilly Circus, the famous electronic board that usually advertises big brands was illuminated with her image.
But this feels very different. This feels ‘personal’ and - in the days that follow - I will learn that millions of people around the country (and the world) feel as I do - that we really did like the Queen, admire the Queen, and have great respect for the Queen. The fact is that the most famous woman in the world (a brand bigger than Nike or Coca Cola), instantly recognisable with her smile and trademark handbag, diplomatic, discerning and also dazzling, is gone…
I then climb into bed and sleep, but only for a few hours. This will become the pattern for the coming weeks - when I do manage to sleep, it is brief, fitful, constantly interrupted. Despite my physical exhaustion, I’m waking almost every morning in the wee small hours with a start. For a split second, all is well with my world but then the horror of my situation hits me like a freight train.
And then - in the blink of an eye - it happens. Silence. I stare at his face, disbelieving, willing him to breathe just one more time. But the gasping has stopped. I reach over to take his pulse but can feel nothing. I call a nurse. She stands over him and does the same thing. “He’s gone, my love.” I cannot take the words in; I am not prepared for this moment. I stare at my father, whose eyes are closed but whose mouth has fallen open. He looks peaceful. Another one of the angels returns with a single red rose, which she places next to his pillow…
To my disbelief, she tells me that he’s deteriorating very fast and he may well die in the next hours or the following day. I look at her, incredulous. This fast? She reassures me that he’s definitely not in pain then breaks the news to me that he’s not sleeping - in fact, in the last hour he has actually slipped into unconsciousness. “It’s very likely now that he won’t open his eyes again, or respond to your hand squeezes.” I don’t believe her. I am convinced he will open his eyes one more time. There cannot be this little time left. There cannot be.
