But one is reminded that one has spent one's whole life waiting.
And yet always with good results.
Camilla.
Vegetables.
And now the Crown.
But right now one would give
one's kingdom for the funeral procession to end so one could just sit down.
Nearly there.
Mother.
Poor Mother.
Soon she will be laid to rest with Father.
Him.
He had his good qualities, I suppose.
Oh God, when will this end?
Nearly there.
Mother.
Dear Mother.
The good thing about all this pomp and circumstance and very, very slow funeral procession is that it's a reminder that she was a god.
A god among mere mortals.
But it was good of these mere mortals to show up.
Andrew had to come too, of course.
It's the last we'll see of him for a while.
Oh thank God.
So nice to sit down.
King Charles III follows a gun carriage carrying the coffin of Queen Elizabeth II during her funeral service. Photo / APNow if only they would stop singing.
Just a little bit of silence and contemplation and blessed peace.
To be left alone with one's thoughts.
It's all one wants.
That, and a pen that doesn't leak every stinking time.
But one can't have everything.
Not even a king.
One has waited one's whole life – for what, exactly?
All one asks for is a little respect.
And a little craven worship.
Tell that to Henry.
"His name's Harry!" Diana used to say.
"He was born Henry," I used to say.
What does it matter?
Look at him.
All gloomy with a face like a smacked arse.
Put out that he was refused permission to wear Mother's gold ER insignia.
There'll be a chapter about it in his stinking book.
My Struggle, by Henry Windsor-Markle.
It's a must-not-read.
Oh God, all this singing.
A holy racket.
At least it's not Elton John.
Small mercies.
Is that the woman from New Zealand?
Seems like a good sort.
Better than ours.
You can't choose your family and you can't choose your Prime Minister.
Mother had Churchill but I have Truss.
Mother.
Queen of the British people and the Commonwealth.
But what no one realises is that she was my Queen, too.
Rest in peace, dearest Mama.
It has ended.
