State Funeral

 

I thought I would be more emotional during the Queen’s funeral. I was up at 2:00 a.m. to catch the start of the proceedings – mostly people arriving at the Abbey ahead of the service – and hung in there until 6:00 a.m., when the Queen’s motorcade crept out of London en route to Windsor. The procession from Westminster to Wellington Arch was gruelling – and I wasn’t even following on foot! Given the time between the funeral and the committal service, I figured I could grab a nap and be awake for the final stages at St George’s Chapel.

Nope. I slept past it; again, thank the gods for Youtube.

Ten days is a long time. At this point, I was more aggrieved for the royal family, especially the King and his siblings, for having to march in line behind the coffin once more. Of course it’s to honour their mother as much as the late monarch and I would have wanted to do the same, but oh, my, the miles they have trudged in Her Majesty’s wake. And, I dare say, at their ages. I can only imagine their relief that all is finally over. Closure has occurred, the second Elizabethan Era is ended and a new reign begins.

Shouldn’t something have changed? The world feels the same. The sun rose this morning, autumn is still scheduled for the end of this week, the war is still on in Ukraine. I imagined that her death would somehow mirror my own mother’s passing, when my surroundings took on a stunning new brilliance I hadn’t seen before. The royal Elizabeth was as important as mine, yet despite ten days of mourning, with four spent lying-in-state, now that it’s done, it’s done. There might be some global follow up in the next couple of days, but guaranteed the focus outside the UK will soon enough revert to the usual business of “suffering and greed, here today, forgot tomorrow”.

As for me, it’s back to walking my own path, being the best I can be in any given moment – but remembering Her Majesty’s example, which was really not dissimilar to what my mother taught me about treating others with kindness and respect. I’m grateful to have witnessed these massive moments in history. I have been touched through the connection that binds me to every living soul, uniting us in grief and sympathy for the loss of an exceptional person. Perhaps I can’t foresee a difference to my life in the aftermath ... yet there will be unexpected moments when I am reminded of the change in this country’s hierarchy. It may be a tiny thing, like a filing a chargeback from the King’s Printer when a month ago I was filing them from the Queen’s Printer, or something more poignant, like watching the King’s Christmas message when it used to be given by the Queen, but I will have those moments and then I’ll know.

Actually, I kind of know already. When someone passes on, whether famous or family, everything changes. We just don’t always recognize it.

With love,

God Save the King

 

I wonder how strange it must feel for the former Prince of Wales to sign himself “Charles R”.

Though it’s only been a few days since the Queen’s passing, the adjustment to having a King has been easier than I’d originally imagined, perhaps because yesterday was about the proclamation and accession of the new monarch rather than about Her late Majesty. The formal proceedings at St James’ Palace were fascinating to watch. I never thought I’d say this, but bless Youtube as a repository for such things. At the end of a busy day prepping for my return to work, Ter and I were able to catch up on this piece of living history hours after it had happened. Time zone issues, you know.

Maybe it’s as much because she and I are career public servants as we are Royalists that we observed with keen interest the reading, signing, and witnessing of the accession proclamation by the King and Privy Council members. Draft Orders-in-Council were approved regarding use of the existing royal seals pending creation and authorization of new ones, one of a million changes to be made when a king succeeds a queen. Even here in Canada, in BC, there are protocols regarding the Queen’s portrait (drape it in black), the state of legislation passed under the previous reign (they remain in effect), and the shift of lawyers named from Queen’s Council to King’s Council (it’s automatic and immediate).

Again, His Majesty gave a fine speech, this time to the assembly. There is no doubt he gets both the gravity of his new responsibilities and the weighty challenge of following his mother’s stellar example. I still think he’ll do well enough in his own right, in his own way.

I was particularly touched – and amused – when the motorcade departing Buckingham Palace at the end of the day yesterday suddenly stopped halfway along the Mall. The Rolls carrying the King veered off at an angle and came to a full halt. The back door opened and His newly proclaimed Majesty got out for a spontaneous walkabout with spectators along the road. The scramble of media cameras to seek and focus on him with the crowd was hilarious, as the car had stopped between established view points and no one was prepared for it. Yet it confirmed for me the suspicion that his private grief may be helped by sharing in the public’s, for the Queen was a beloved figure in many people’s lives as well as within her own family.

There’s the surreal thing again. In absorbing the protocols around naming a new sovereign, I am reminded that the sole reason for them is that Queen Elizabeth has died. The reminder came this morning, when I awoke to the news that her coffin had arrived at Holyrood House in Edinburgh, there to await tomorrow’s service at St Giles ahead of transport to London and a lying in state at Westminster until the funeral on the 19th. Charles is in a uniquely painful position, taking on his mother’s job while simultaneously mourning her loss. Surely no other member of his family can relate so acutely to the awful contradiction of ascending monarch with mourning son. On all counts, I truly wish His Majesty well.

God save the King.

HM Queen Elizabeth II

 

I am a Royalist. Have been for most of my lives. It feels strange to have a third King Charles on the throne when I had taken for granted that my Charles would be the last of his name. He and his father were Stuarts, and both of their reigns were fraught with tragedy and tumult as the country tore itself apart then experimented with having no monarch at all. One might suppose that they had it coming, believing that the divine right of kings set them apart from the common folk ... but doesn’t it? Each of us has a destiny determined before we are born. If the Stuarts had been more humble about it, the Commonwealth period may not have happened and Charles I could have kept his head but, as I say, the destiny of a person or a country, even of the world, is predetermined.

I digress.

This past summer saw the celebration of Queen Elizabeth II’s Platinum Jubilee. At ninety-six, she had been our queen for seventy years, the longest reigning sovereign in English history (and given the struggles of past monarchs to keep the throne, that’s quite the achievement). Talk about destiny. At the time of her birth, Princess Elizabeth of York was not expected to be Queen. If her uncle Edward VIII hadn’t abdicated, she likely would have lived a relatively private life, certainly one with less responsibility.

But her uncle did abdicate, and at the age of twenty-one she made a vow to serve the people of the realm for as long as she lived. Against all odds, through public and personal challenges, and the tenures of fourteen prime ministers, she kept her word. She was an exemplary public servant. She never quit, never gave up. She made the best of bad days and maintained her public face, a face that was calm, kind, and so similar to my own mother’s that I liked to claim the Queen actually was my mother, but there had been a mix up in the royal nursery and I ended up in the custody of a nice middle class Scottish family. When I was invited to reclaim my royal birthright as an adult, I refused. I loved my adopted family far more than I desired to be a princess of the blood. As any cherished daughter will tell you, being a princess isn’t exclusive to lineage.

I digress again.

It’s no longer news that the Queen passed away on September 8, 2022. Ter and I have been on vacation, so we’ve had the luxury of being glued to the TV as events unfold. Given Her Majesty’s advanced age, of course it’s no surprise that she’s gone, yet it came as a surprise when she went. Maybe because the end came so quickly—on September 6, she had welcomed Liz Truss as the next Prime Minister and forty-eight hours later, I woke up to reports that she was under medical supervision and the family had been summoned. I was stunned. Shortly afterward, the announcement came that Her Majesty had passed away, whereupon time assumed that odd elastic quality of being at once real and surreal. The expected becomes unexpected and we respond by running through a gamut of emotion that defies explanation.

It was almost like a death in the family. Shock, sadness, compassion for her immediate family and especially the new King, followed by a thirst for details about what happens next. I don’t know anyone who remembers when the Queen’s father died, so how is this going to work? Making a plan is not the same as implementing it. Even step by step instructions require physical action to manifest. I’m sure glad it’s not my job. All I have to do is get up at 3:00 a.m. PST on September 19 to watch the funeral. I can only imagine the stress running rampant at Buckingham Palace.

Am I digressing again? Maybe. I’m still running that gamut of emotion. I have been impressed with the King’s candour in his first speech as King. I’ve always considered him to be a gentle man, affable and kind with a genuine interest in the betterment of all people. I think he’ll do well enough. He’ll do best by following his mother’s example, which he has vowed to do though no one left on the planet can hope to meet the standard Queen Elizabeth II set during the course of her incredible lifetime.

She was quite simply the most valuable jewel in the Crown.

Mother of the Bride

The hoopla, hysteria, and controversy surrounding Prince Harry’s wedding to Meghan Markle this weekend has been exhausting. Whether or not you cared, you were inundated with information about her family and speculation about the gown, the guests, and the gospel choir—all parts of a ceremony that was touted to tip royal tradition on its ear, as if the bride being an American divorcee of biracial heritage wasn’t enough to raise both eyebrows and hackles among the British aristocracy (and beyond).

Naturally, Ter and I got up at crap o’clock to watch it on live TV. Neither of us wanted to risk stumbling onto reviews of the dress before we’d seen it ourselves, though I confess I was more curious to see what the groom was wearing. He’d looked so fine at William’s wedding in 2011 that I couldn’t imagine him outdoing himself on Saturday, but he was, in a word, dashing.

Anyway, the gown was surprisingly modest, the guests were a pageant of taste that inspired everything from applause to oh-my-gods, and the gospel choir was riveting. From start to finish, the event planners nailed it. Poor Harry looked about to faint more than once; if not for Meghan holding him tightly by the hand, I feared his knees might have gone on him. I suspect the bride is generally more confident than the groom in any wedding, given that he’s a supporting player while she is queen for a day.

Not so on this occasion, though. The Queen was the queen and the groom a royal prince. That’s competition for any bride, but this particular one handled it pretty well. Besides, as the broadcaster stated, “She entered the chapel as a commoner and left it as the Duchess of Sussex.” A pretty good trade-off for sharing the spotlight on her special day.

What can her mother think of it all? This ordinary woman, a social worker from California, journeyed alone to the UK for tea with Her Majesty, and sat by herself while her daughter married the world’s most eligible bachelor in front of a gazillion witnesses. What in the world must have crossed her mind during the ceremony? Love, naturally. Pride, obviously. Some consternation, I imagine. After all, her only child is now a member of the British Royal Family. That must be like losing your labour of love to a corporate giant, though with this merger, you have to wonder what’s in it for her. Meghan’s life will never be the same, but Meghan will be fine. Harry’s family will circle the wagons to keep her safe—but what of Meghan’s mother? What becomes of her now that her daughter is a duchess?

I thought she seemed a little sad at times during the ceremony. She held herself with dignity and maternal pride, and though tears are expected from the mother of the bride, I couldn’t say for sure that hers were all for joy. When she returns home, leaving her child behind, what happens to her? Can she resume a normal life, or will every move she makes be scrutinized and critiqued, reflected back on her daughter and vice versa, for the rest of her days?

She raised Meghan to make a difference, but I doubt Meghan’s mother saw this coming. Who would? And as the Duchess of Sussex rides into the future with Prince Harry at her side, I sincerely hope that her mother can live in peace, unmolested by the media and/or opportunistic friends. I hope that she finds comfort in her community and joy in her inevitable grandchildren. I hope that her daughter’s destiny gives her no cause for stress or sadness.

I wonder if Doria hopes the same.

Vive “Versailles”!

Speaking of Charles II (see Diana), his Bourbon cousins, Louis and Phillippe, figure prominently in the latest period drama to have taken over Chez Ru and Ter: a rollicking, racy, extravagantly produced series about life in the Sun King’s court, aptly titled “Versailles”.

I spied the title in the Movie Channel listings one night in July and realized it was episode three of a series in its second season. Second season?? How had we missed the first? And was it worth watching in any case? Rather than risk being completely lost by watching episode three live, we discovered the first two episodes available on demand and promptly fell under its spell. Alas, season one was not listed, neither could we order it from Amazon (it shows on the European sites, but won’t ship to Canada).

I have no idea which of the angels prompted me, but I suddenly remembered that the Greater Victoria Public Library loans DVDs of everything from popular TV series (like NCIS) to obscure European productions, all for the price of nothing! I immediately got online and to my ecstatic delight, “Versailles - Season One” was not only in the catalogue, copies were available! I renewed my library card the same morning (the central branch is across the street from my office) and Ter and I were set for marathon viewing over the next few weekends.

We’re caught up as of this writing, with two episodes to go in Season Two. I can’t gush enough about this series. Seventeenth century royalty is an obsession of mine, but honestly, this show is so well written, acted, directed and produced (they film in the palace itself, among other French locations) that it deserves to be gushed about. I did spend a good part of the first few episodes trying to place the guy who plays Louis—Ter finally Googled him and discovered he’s the same actor who played Athelstan on “Vikings” (a waste of his talent, if you ask me)—and the fellow who portrays his younger brother, Phillippe ... okay, even if he wasn’t stunningly gorgeous, he’s brought that character to life in a way that history has failed to do. By reputation, “Monsieur”, as he was called in the day, was a mean, vindictive, cretinous little man, but in this series, he comes across as vulnerable and sympathetic, if not a complete fool in love. His relationship with his brother is alternately painful and magical, as are his affair with his lover, the incorrigible Chevalier de Lorraine (brilliantly played as a baroque David Lee Roth), and his marriage of political convenience to a German princess.

The main focus is on these relationships, as well as the usual court intrigue brought about by Louis’ decree to have all the nobles in France reside where he can see them. Ninety percent of the story is allegedly based on historic record, but these days, alternate history is as prevalent as alternate fact. I’m willing to forgo some things in favour of artistic license, but really, if the outrageous antics of Louis XIV’s dissolute and devil-worshipping court is halfway accurate, I’m more than a little peeved that my beloved Charles was criticized for not keeping on top of his gang in England at the same time.

He makes an appearance at the end of the first season, by the way. The actor wasn’t tall enough, his eyes were blue, and the voice was all wrong. You can’t play fast and loose with the image of my king and come out unscathed—but that’s my only issue with this fabulous, opulent, fascinating show. Series for which I fall this hard are generally cancelled after the first year. Best news of all: Season Three began filming in April 2017!

Diana

On July 1, 1997, Diana, Princess of Wales, turned thirty-six. Three months later, I was about to do the same when she was killed in the car crash that changed the world.

The news reached Ter and me at a friend’s house, where we were having dinner to celebrate my imminent occasion. Everyone immediately left the table and pounded down to the rec room, where we spent the next two hours staring in horror at CNN. Halfway down the stairs, I had the most disturbing thought: They’ve done it. They’ve gotten rid of her.

Nowadays, there are people alive who have no idea of the effect Diana had on the world, but twenty years ago, you’d have been hard-pressed to find anyone who hadn’t heard of her. In some form, by some means, she was part of the global awareness, an incandescent light so powerful that she was almost combustible. Even now, two decades later, I almost believe she had to die young. Envisioning her at my current age is impossible and, as seems to be the case with every other intensely bright spirit, her private darkness was so overwhelming that a long life was hard to imagine. I took it for granted that she would age, of course, until that fateful night when her life was cut short.

I followed her public journey with the same interest as I follow anything royal—being one of Charlie’s girls apparently set me up with an eternal fascination for the monarchy—but Ter identified with the princess as she identifies with anyone in whom she senses a kindred spirit. Like Ter, Diana was a broken but ferocious spirit, as passionate as she was compassionate, and Ter was gutted when she died.

Astonishingly, so was I.

Of course, the circumstances played a part. The woman was truly hunted to her death, and without the protection of the Crown, she was easier if no less famous prey for the paparazzi. A crazy car chase, an allegedly impaired (however mildly and I still don’t believe it) driver, and suddenly the most famous woman in the world is tragically (prematurely?) dead. That in itself was horrifying and would have been so—is so—had anyone else been in that car. I don’t remember if or for how long Ter cried that night. I only know I didn’t start until the next day, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. I felt bereft in a way I had no right to feel about a literal stranger. I did not know the Princess of Wales. Knowing of her is not the same thing, yet I wept as if we’d been sisters. And all the while, part of me was mystified as to why.

If we are all connected, then it’s simple. The grief each person felt was transmitted and amplified until the bulk of the world’s population was affected. Diana shone so fiercely that her light going out was equal to the Japanese earthquake that rocked the earth on its axis. Whether they knew it or not, everyone felt it on some level, and it stayed with us until her funeral six days later.

Ter and I got up at 1:00 a.m. to watch the procession from start to finish. We sniffled and sobbed through most of it. Neither of us will ever forget it—where we were, what we thought, how grateful we were to be together at the time.

The mystery of Diana remains as intriguing today as it was during her life. She was without doubt a star in the universal tapestry, and a threat to anyone she opposed. I’m not saying there was a conspiracy to kill her (and if there was, the royals would not be my prime suspects; rather the robber barons who make money off things like pestilence and landmines would be top of the list), but while the majority of the population mourned her passing, it’s entirely possible that a nefarious few breathed a sigh of relief. She was talented and tormented, beloved yet felt unloved, she was charismatic and caring and outspoken in defense of those who could not defend themselves. Ironically, her legacy is almost as strong as her influence in life, as her two sons strive to follow her example in all the right ways. Though hampered by the political restrictions of their social station, Princes William and Harry are somehow managing to carry on their mother’s charitable work, increasing public awareness of the human issues yet in play around the world, and standing in defence of those whom she brought to collective consciousness when her boys were still boys. Despite her personal struggles, or perhaps because of them, through her caring and her children, Diana made the world a brighter place for the rest of us.

That’s a royal legacy indeed.

Royal Flush

Of course I’m a Royalist. I had an affair with Charles II, didn’t I?

During the recent visit of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to Victoria, almost everyone I know displayed some degree of giddiness at the city’s brush with royalty. A couple of people were aware but not following, and only one rolled her eyes with a dismissive flip of her hand.

Well, fine. Say what you like about Britain’s royals, but I have no problem with my tax dollars going to support a visit to my hometown, or anywhere else in Canada, for that matter. Our nation’s membership in the Commonwealth has helped our global reputation as a diverse people of wit, warmth and welcome. We are a part of something greater than ourselves, which I believe makes us more tolerant and less suspicious of other nations. It also gives us the benefit of representation by a truly great lady in Queen Elizabeth II. She is an inspiring example of loyalty, grace and commitment, and she’s ensured that subsequent generations of her family are similarly aware of the privileged life they lead.

A life of service,

A life of charity.

A life on a gruelling schedule in a relentlessly public eye.

Few celebrities can make any of these claims, let alone all three, plus the royals are excellent ambassadors for any number of causes. They use their super powers for the good of others and not themselves (are you listening, Kardashians?) Better yet, they do it with style and—yes—humility.

I watched Will and Kate’s progress through their week out west and was less impressed by their lineage than by their conduct. “They’re such good people,” Ter remarked during the news clip of the couple breaking formation for an impromptu walkabout in Vancouver.

“That’s because they were raised to have manners,” I replied.

These days, any petulant brat can be a princess; it’s no longer a title of distinction demanding decorum and social grace. In a world of spoiled industry heiresses and overpaid sports stars, it’s refreshing to see monied young people exhibiting genuine class.

Hear Me Roar!

There was never any doubt, just a little internal reluctance to commit myself entirely, but as of yesterday, I’ve thrown in completely with House Lannister.

A charming family, as you can see by the write up accompanying my latest acquisition. A Vancouver jeweler called Pyrrha got permission to create a line of sigil bling for the Game of Thrones houses and, well, I just had to scoop the Lannister lion.

Declaring for the Dark Side a) takes more courage than you’d think, and b) prompted me to ponder precisely what has attracted me to this particular family. It started with the Kingslayer, and in truth, after five books and three TV seasons, he and his literally little brother remain the sole objects of my, er, admiration. The rest of the family live by a code that directly opposes my own. If moral values count for anything, I should have signed with Team Stark—they’re the heroes of the piece, but the direwolf in their sigil just doesn’t do it for me. So after much thought, I’ve deduced that the Lannisters have called to me from a previous life. Or lives.

Seriously. It’s not a stretch for someone whose current clan sigil is also a lion, with a motto stating “Royal is My Race”, to accept that, some other place at some other time, I was, or was closely associated with, royalty. Ter razzes me about it all the time. For as long as I can remember, I’ve imagined that I was stolen from the royal nursery to be raised by a lovely middle-class Scottish family, which was to my benefit because I’d not have it any other way.

While wealth alone means little to me, the trappings of royalty seem distantly familiar—crimsons and golds, cavernous halls and luxurious coaches, rich food and fizzy wine, aimless socializing and a stream of servants fussing with hair and clothes and domestic maintenance. Some of these things I’ve replicated in this life, though I resent having to do some of the domestic maintenance myself, and I recognize now, from my middle-class point of view, that wealthy ruling families become wealthy ruling families by being ruthless rat bastards. That’s how kings were made. That’s why the MacGregors ruled the Scottish Highlands until Robert the Bruce listened to our arch rivals and made us into outlaws. Proof that being royal is not the same as being rich, sniff sniff.

I was not spoiled as a child, so my attitude of entitlement must have come from somewhere. And when I reclaim my former majesterial status, I will remember where I came from and try harder to alleviate the common man’s plight. In the meantime, I will wear my lion with pride.

Just don’t call me “princess”.

It's a Boy!!

 

 

I admit, I’m a Royalist, so I would be delighted about the newborn British prince anyway, but the added bonus to yesterday’s arrival of Will and Kate’s son is that it shoved all the bad news in the world aside for a while.

 

Isn’t it nice to hear something good on the news for a change? To have the anchors and reporters be smiling as they report it? There is already so much negativity in on the air: kill-or-be-killed cupcake wars, the Real Narcissistic Housewives of Whocares, scratching-and-clawing competitions to be the best of a bunch of losers, serial murderers outwitting the good guys – and that’s just prime time entertainment. I can’t speak about the news so much, not since The Newsroom has taught me how to watch the evening news. It’s the fall of the Roman Empire, man. Death, destruction, plague and flood and a host of other Biblical weather bombs … even the planet is trying to win ratings by outdoing itself in extremes.

 

Sure, the little prince is only one of three hundred thousand babies born on July 22, 2013. Every baby should be celebrated at birth. So many aren’t, and I feel for them because they get no press at all. There is so little happiness on the air these days. The networks rarely report random acts of kindness. I guess the focus groups indicate that they want to be paranoid and fearful about everything and everyone.

 

I don’t. I’m happy to hear about Kate’s little guy. I’m glad to know that one child in the world is loved by his parents, that he will have all that every child deserves (except the paparazzi hounding his every move, of course). I’m happy to watch people celebrating a royal birth rather than destroying a city over the loss of a sports trophy. Yes, there is tragedy and loss and illness and politics and all manner of reasons to slash your wrists if you let it get to you … I’m just saying that once in a while, some good news is welcome.

 

The Prince of Cambridge has a lot to live up to … but for now, he’s just a newborn babe who has managed to make the world (or most of it) pause to smile.

 

We now return you to our regularly scheduled chaos …