An unreal time of death and things new born

I drove down on Friday night from the City to my partner’s place in Eton. My route takes me down the Mall and past Buckingham Palace. Though nearly dark, there were large numbers of press reporting and people milling in front of the palace gates. The queen and her family were in Windsor and as I type I look across the Thames towards the royal apartments. It is hard to understand private grief in the context of this huge edifice. But the loss of a loved one after so long is the same for queen or commoner.

The Royal Standard, which represents the sovereign and continuation of the monarchy, never flies at half-mast and will be flown at full-mast where the Queen is present.

I have been running around Windsor and got caught up in the crowds around the castle.

I found the scramble for the best camera positions a little unseemly. The gawp for weddings is one thing, but I hope next Sunday’s funeral will not be treated as a media circus.

Despite being told not to, many brought flowers to the castle.

You can run in a straight line from the point where the flowers lie to the statue of George III, I did.

I am 59 and have known nothing but Elizabeth as my queen and Philip as her consort. This great period of continuity is now partially broken.

And as this happens, we are trying to lift restrictions from the pandemic. It feels odd, unworldly. The winning words of Rachael Blackmore seem apposite.

About henry tapper

Founder of the Pension PlayPen,, partner of Stella, father of Olly . I am the Pension Plowman
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