The Queen Died

About Time?

How to feel?

Granny is dead.

Mother has gone.

The massed legions of the dead

Will welcome with warm

Cheers

Marm.

Bereft of her smile

Of the wave of her gloved hand

We line for mile after mile.

But the coffin is empty.

Our hearts are full.

I was surprised to feel no more than a twinge when I heard Lizzie was dead. She was a pocketful of privilege after all. A tiny recipient of vast formal and informal adulation, always beaming, wouldn’t you. The tradition of deferring to those who by accident of birth have inherited titles and land is deeply engrained – not just in the Brits, but worldwide. I am infuriated by the expectation that I should address some titled twit as ‘my lord.’ Nobody is my lord, nobody but myself.

And ‘sir’. When I became a teacher I was uncomfortable whenever addressed as sir. And as a karate instructor, the word ‘Sensei’ is a responsibility I have to bear. Often an onerous one. But listen here, chaps. I earned those titles. I wasn’t born to them.

A friend Iaian was recently awarded a Lordship- this chap had trained up to black belt in Karate with me, became General Secretary of the Labour Party, so I guess he earned some kind of recognition. But he can eff off if he thinks I will ever address him as my lord.

But I guess the twinge I experienced had nothing to do with Lillibeth as queen. But having lost my mother recently, in her nineties, I realise that Mrs Queen was also a widow, a mother, a grandmother. And I discovered those words ‘had a good life’ etc are empty. The loss remains a loss, whatever age someone dies at. So while I am somewhat amused, somewhat sickened, somewhat bored and somewhat impressed by the panoply of adoring ritual and pomp accompanying this corpse to its grave, I wish all those bereft a long life and some comfort.

Rest in peace